Tag Archive for: Maggie Barbieri

Some Thoughts on Space

/in /by

And I’m not talking the NASA kind of space…sorry, Rachel.

Here at Chez Barbieri, we are fans of two shows that air on our beloved HGTV: House Hunters International and House Hunters, the domestic version. They air, conveniently, every night after dinner, and we hunker down together to see different houses and their inhabitants.

The concept of each show is deceptively simple but fascinating: a person or couple is interested in moving, buying for the first time, or investing in a vacation property and are shown three possibilities. We, the viewers, are given a tour of each house just like the person or people on the show and are told what it costs. We then make a decision based on the information we’re given, and in this family, turn it into a game where we guess what the prospective buyer(s) will end up with. Ultimately, we are voyeurs, looking into the lives of the people who own the property and the prospective new owners. At the end of the show, the choice of the buyer(s) is revealed and we see what decorating touches are put on the new abode.

I am happy to say that I am almost always right in my guess as to which house or apartment will be picked. Patrick comes in at a close second, leading me to believe that the kid has a knack for real estate.

House Hunters International airs first. In this edition of the show, buyers are usually looking abroad: a British couple looking for a pied-a-terre in Paris, say, or an ex-pat American looking for a home in Scotland due to a transfer. What is astounding to me about the international version is how little people want or expect from their home. They are more interested in the particular appointments or fittings in the abode, like a beautifully tiled, river-rocked shower, or a gorgeous bay window overlooking the Seine, or maybe a lovely “garden” (aka back yard) where the children can frolic in the Provencale sun. There is no talk of “stainless steel applicances” or “three-car garages” or “square footage” like there is on the American version of the show. People are concerned with “granite countertops” or the size of the master bedroom suite. They are certainly not concerned with Jacuzzi tubs that spray water at you from all angles or the pool or the hot tub that may or may not fit in the back yard. All they are really concerned about is basic comfort and beauty, not the size of anything.

It’s interesting to watch the two shows back to back because they truly contrast the way we look at how we live here and abroad. It’s evident from watching the two shows that many Americans are concerned with size and lavishness with basic creature comforts taking a back seat. Perhaps many people think that size and comfort go hand in hand, but after watching people in Europe search for the perfect living situation, it appears to me that they do not. I’ve watched as European couples stand for several minutes eyeing beautiful and delectable olives that hang outside a rustic kitchen window, whereas in the domestic version of the show, you might see this very same tree removed to make room for a larger patio or a “water feature” beside the in-ground pool. The large garage, with space to store items that probably will go unused until the next move as well as several cars, is essential to many of the home buyers. And each child needs their own room, obviously, whereas in the overseas version, we see people sharing small spaces in order to live in great, picturesque neighborhoods or bucolic idylls.

I always say that my own house would be perfect if we had one detached garage space, another shower, and an office for me that had a door (and wasn’t housed in a cramped attic space that has become the repository for all unwanted family items). Four of us live in fifteen hundred square feet and share one shower and two toilets. Whenever the kids complain about waiting their turn to get into the bathroom, I remind them that we’re living the “European way” and to quit their belly aching. We’re close to the village, we can walk everywhere, and our neighbors always know if something suspicious is going on. There’s something to be said for that, right? Who needs a Jacuzzi when you have all that?

I’m interested to hear from our Stiletto faithful—how do you live and do you think you need more space? Could you do with less? What are the most important aspects of your home, those that make you feel great about your space? Let us know.

Maggie Barbieri

In Defense of the Busy Signal

/in /by

I miss the busy signal.

Remember the busy signal? The steady, annoying beeping sound that signified that the person you were calling on the phone was on the line with another person? Quick—without thinking—tell me the last time you actually heard the busy signal. It has probably been a long time, right? Well, if you miss it, you can call us here at Chez Barbieri. I’m convinced—as are my technology-starved children who share a dsl connection with their mother—that we’re the only family in America who doesn’t have call waiting.

As much as I miss the busy signal, I hate call waiting even more. Here’s my experience with call waiting: if I’m on the phone with a friend and someone else beeps in, invariably, the friend I’m talking to says they have another call and they’ll have to call me back later. However, if I beep in on a conversation that the same friend is having with someone else, their response is always to tell me that they’re on another call and they’ll have to call me back later.

Huh?

Ellen DeGeneres once called call waiting “a mini People’s Choice Awards” and I have to agree. There is nothing to make you feel less worthy than someone a) jettisoning you from a conversation in progress or b) cutting you off to return to another conversation in progress—i.e. not taking your call—albeit at different times. Besides that, it’s rude.

I do think there are times that letting someone go from the original conversation is okay – someone else beeps in, say, your son or daughter is calling from a tank in Afghanistan. Or, your doctor is calling with results of your pregnancy test. Or, Fresh Direct is on its way to your house but doesn’t know your street number. Or, someone has forgotten their lunch and needs a nourishment, tout de suite. But if someone of equal or lesser value to you calls, it is the owner of call waiting’s responsibility to stay on the line with you because what you have to say is just as—if not more—important.

The worst offender is the person who calls YOU and then takes another call during your conversation. Oh, we’re done? I often think. There’s also the person who just sees the number on caller ID and makes an instantaneous judgment that the person calling them is more deserving of their time than you are. You can tell all of that based on a phone number?

I have changed phone carriers many times in order to get a better deal. They always offer me all sorts of free services just shy of the one where a Verizon technician will come by every day and walk my dog. (When they give me that one, I’m switching back!) Call waiting is always on the menu and I always say “no thanks” which mystifies the sales representative. If I’m on the phone with someone, we will decide mutually when the conversation is over. We will not be subjected to a beeping sound that indicates someone else wants our attention. We will behave like civilized, polite human beings.

Besides, I probably wouldn’t be able to figure out to use it.

But that’s a post for another time.

Weigh in, Stiletto faithful: what modern “conveniences” do you eschew? (I’m looking at you, Polito!)

Maggie Barbieri

I’m Scared!

/in /by

A recent New York Times article discussed how the typical American parent is more concerned by threats to their children that are unlikely, e.g. terrorism, than threats to their children that are more dangerous and likely, e.g. obesity. That got me thinking: what are the things that I worry about when it comes to my children?

1. I worry that the cleats that I just bought child #2 will not fit in two weeks. Why? Because this has happened repeatedly. Every time a new pair of footwear is purchased—and tween footwear is not inexpensive—it is only a matter of weeks before said tween is crying, “These are too tight!” I didn’t marry Paul Bunyan and no, child #2 does not have some kind of accelerated growing disease. But boy, are his feet going to be huge. I worry about that. Or maybe I shouldn’t. Some women love a man with big feet.

2. I worry that my children will get scurvy. As much as they hate broccoli, brussel sprouts, and every other cancer-fighting vegetable that I serve nightly, they hate citrus fruits even more. As a result, I don’t even bother buying oranges. Every year for the holidays, however, some kind parent of one of hubby’s students will send a great, giant gift basket full of Florida grapefruits and oranges and I will hold them aloft, touting their restorative and scurvy-fighting powers. I will even employ a pirate accent to make my point and note how many pirates died on the high seas as a result of this nearly-eradicated disease. The kids hide until I stop speaking like Blackbeard. And then, with great sadness, I will parcel out the grapefruits and oranges to neighbors and friends who all proclaim that their kids “eat them up!” which makes me feel even worse.

3. I worry that their rooms are not clean enough so that after they have recovered from scurvy, they will get black lung disease. I made a conscious decision years ago that the kids were responsible for the cleanliness of their rooms. That should give you a mental picture of what their rooms look like. Granted, child #1 is a little better than child #2 in keeping things neat and tidy, but let’s face it: how many kids are going to pull their beds, dressers, and desks away from the wall to check to see how much dust has accumulated back there? Not too many, I suspect. Therefore, every few months or so, I take it upon myself to do just that. And what I find is not pretty. I have the pediatrician on speed dial just in case black lung becomes an issue because what I find behind the furniture looks very similar to what is found in coal mines, and that, my friends, is something that keeps me up at night. It doesn’t spur me to clean any more than I do; let’s be realistic here.

4. I worry that the rats will return and when they do, they’ll travel through the heating ducts and end up in their bedrooms. You remember the Great Rat Infestation of 2010? Well, I spend our good, hard-earned money every month on Tom, the Rat Whisperer, making sure that they don’t come back. But having done a little research on the habits of our furry, rodent friends, I have learned that they are intrepid. That is, they can scurry willy-nilly throughout your house, generally behind the walls; all they need is a few inches and something to tempt them, like the remnants of half-eaten granola bars that are often found when I move the furniture from the wall in one or another child’s room. I’ve decided that rather than scare the children about wearing clean underwear in the event of getting hit by a bus (this was a favorite of my mother and grandmother), I’d rather scar them for life by telling tales of rats who entered a child’s room through a heat duct and spent the night foraging for food underneath the child’s bed. That oughta learn them, right?

I’ll end there, if only to give you a chance to call Child Protective Services on me.

What are some of your concerns, Stiletto friends?

Maggie Barbieri

Cleaning Out the Closet

/in /by

My husband remarked at dinner last night that my posts for the past several weeks have been more “serious.” Serious? You can’t be serious! So in an attempt to lighten things up a bit, I will return to what I know best: absurdity. Absurdity in the form of cleaning out one’s closet.

I get a hankering every now and again for complete and total order in the house. Yes, there is some deep psychological underpinning here but I have neither the time nor the financial resources to figure out what that underpinning might be. Heck, I have enough trouble struggling into my own personal underpinning—aka my bra—every day, so why delve into the psyche? Too much time, too much trouble, not enough money.

OK, where was I? Oh, right, back at the closet. Child #1 and I share a closet. As those of you who live in an old house know, closet space is at a premium. In this three-bedroom, nearly one-hundred-year old house, we have but three closets, and one of them is in the dining room. The other two are in the kids’ bedrooms, and are shared by the liked-gendered members of the family: Patrick/Jim, Dea/me. It is a struggle to keep our clothes unwrinkled and in some kind of orderly semblance when they are interspersed with those of the other inhabitants of the house. Suffice it to say, I have worn more than one un-ironed dress shirt to a business meeting that definitely has the smell of Eau de Field Hockey about it.

This past weekend, I pulled everything out the closet, which resides under the stairs to the attic. I found seventeen tote bags, three mismatched shoes, countless unpaired socks, two flower girl dried-flower wreaths, a box of beads, and a third-grade math workbook. Then, I set about pulling out every garment that I own and store in the closet. This unearthed one vintage mink jacket that my mother gave me (and believe me, I’m going to wear it the first chance I get; sorry, PETA), a size eight skirt (I must have had that since the sixth grade because I haven’t been a size eight since around 1975), and countless white dress shirts, the origin of which is unknown to me (I mostly wear pullovers and turtlenecks as I loathe looking down and seeing buttons stretched across my ample bosom).

Cleaning out your closet reveals all of the fashion errors that you have made and reminds you of what not to do in the future. I’m more Ethel Kennedy than Jackie Kennedy, albeit with fewer children, less money, and no hint of scandal surrounding me. As a result, I was surprised to find a pair of black pumps with a retro sixties’ feel and little bows on the toes. Was I channeling my inner Jackie when I bought those? What of the polka-dotted bolero jacket? Or the blazer with the Nehru collar? Or the gold silk chantung blouse that I wore once and didn’t even remember that I had?

I made some hard decisions regarding items that I had forgotten I had, crammed as they were in the back of the closet, but that I knew I wouldn’t wear again. I loaded up a bunch of items—four bags in all along with countless other things on hangars—and took them to Good Will, where the woman at the donation center eyed my cache with glee. It makes me happy to think that many of the things that I consider cast-offs—despite some being new and never used—would be sold at a fraction of their original price to someone who might get use and pleasure out of them.

Cleaning out the closet is a daunting task, but ultimately, a cathartic one. It’s interesting to take a trip down Fashion Memory Lane, but for me—someone who considers cleaning an extreme sport—it’s even more satisfying to see room where there used to be none.

Stiletto Faithful, does cleaning out the closet—either literally or figuratively—give you the joy it gives me? What treasures have you unearthed in your cleaning expeditions? Do tell! (P.S.–Pictures of me in the vintage mink jacket to come. Stay tuned.)

Maggie Barbieri

College Talk

/in /by

Maggie Barbieri

I went to a dinner party the other night to not celebrate my friend’s daughter’s sixteenth birthday. The daughter was so opposed to celebrating this birthday—we’re not sure why—but we went against her wishes and brought her presents and sang “Happy Birthday” while cutting a big, giant ice cream cake. All in all, it was the best non-celebration I’ve been to in a while. It was refreshing to have a retro birthday party, complete with ice cream cake, candles, family, and friends.

This birthday is significant because her birthday represents the last of my friend’s children to turn sixteen. They are now in their junior year of high school and with that come PSATs, college essay writing courses, SAT prep courses, Advanced Placement courses (AP), and a lot of stress. My daughter and her friends—no slouches when it comes to studying and doing well in school—are hearing a lot about what it takes to get into college and how they might fall short of their personal goals with just one random misstep. I have spent the better part of the summer convincing my child, as well as her friends (when I can get them all together and hold them hostage), that they are very bright and not to sell themselves short when it comes to applying to schools.

But what is even more troubling than kids thinking they can’t achieve even their most realistic goals is how early all of this talk of college—and careers—is starting. It seems like this conversation, at parties and on ball fields alike, has been going on since the girls first entered high school. This may be a function of their having played on varsity sports and being surrounded by older girls who were making these decisions, or maybe not. Maybe we, as a group, are starting the conversation too early. Instead of using high school as a way station to college—a means to an end—we should just shut up and let the kids enjoy the experience that four years of high school can bring. Maybe I should take my own advice and “shut my dang pie hole.”

I’m just as guilty as other parents, I suspect, and that is why I’m going to keep college talk to a minimum around here until absolutely necessary. Heck, all this talk is starting to stress me out! I keep thinking back to my own college search which involved me visiting two colleges, applying to both, getting into one, and going there. There was no talk of the “common app” or the “safety school” or applying to ten or more schools, even though you would probably only choose between two, three, at most. When I was applying, college applications cost upwards of $150 to send in, and back in the recession-riddled late seventies and early eighties, you picked wisely so as not to have to take a college loan to pay off the cost of applying to college in the first place.

At the birthday party, there was talk of SAT tutors who charge in the neighborhood of four thousand dollars to help your kid ace the test and “college coaches” who can help you and your child navigate the process of applying. There was a discussion over the value of taking the Advanced Placement courses versus doing well in non-AP courses. A conversation centered around going to state university as opposed to private university. It’s enough to make your head spin.

The varsity football team had their home opener this past Saturday, which was a gorgeous late summer day in the low 70s. Girls’ field hockey commences this week. Mums are on sale at the local nursery, and soon, I’ll be making the first of many apple pies with delicious New York State apples. Homecoming is the second weekend in October. I need to remind my daughter that these are the things we should be talking about and doing and forget about test-taking skills, scores, and financial aid forms. There’s plenty of time until we need to get knee-deep in all of that.

What do you think, Stiletto faithful? Live in the present and enjoy high school or focus on the future?

Maggie Barbieri

The Ninth Anniversary of 9/11

/in /by

We are approaching the ninth anniversary of September 11th, when close to 3000 people in New York City, Pennsylvania, and the District of Columbia died. After nine years, not much has changed at “Ground Zero”—we still have a gaping hole in the ground and people arguing about what should and should not be there and in the surrounding area. Not much has changed in the world, either. We still have men and women going overseas to fight, defend, and protect, many of them losing life and limb to do so. Regardless of our personal political leanings, I think we can all agree on those statements.

I went to visit my sister in Savannah a few weeks ago. She lives in a suburb which is populated mostly by military personnel and their families. She has told me that many of their friends serve in the Armed Forces, but I didn’t give it much thought until my mom, child #1, and I headed to the Savannah airport for our trip home, not a care in the world as we wended our way through the airport. (A post for another time: why is it that my gate is always the farthest from the entrance of the airport?) We passed many men and women in military garb and when we got to our gate, sat beside a family—a dad in camo, a young mother, a little girl, and a teeny-tiny baby who we came to learn was a week old. Very soon, it dawned on us that they weren’t waiting for someone to arrive, they were waiting for him to leave. As he held the baby in his hands, staring at her face, seemingly imprinting her image on his brain, we turned to face the other way, not wanting to intrude on what was a very private moment between a man, his wife, and their two children. I don’t know how long he’ll be away, but I do know that he left a very sad family behind. I also know that he will, most likely, miss the second child’s infancy. How old will she be when he returns? Will she be walking? Talking? I don’t know, but I pray that his time overseas will be short as well as safe.

He was just one of many who were departing that day. Another young girl—and I swear, these young mothers look to be barely out of their teens, but I think that’s a function of seeing them through my middle-aged lens—held a nine-month old who was rambunctious and active as they stood by the window waiting until her husband’s plane was completely out of sight before leaving the airport. Another man left behind five children and a sobbing wife. I consider myself to be pretty sensitive but realized I hadn’t given too much thought to the sacrifices that are made every day in the name of freedom. Seeing these families drove the point home.

We are close to a family who have a very personal connection to 9/11. Recently, their youngest son—just a toddler when our families became friends—enlisted in the Marine Corps on his eighteenth birthday. We were all stunned, to say the least. In our groovy village, populated by the last-remaining hippies and a new generation of artistic types, this type of action is virtually unheard of. He leaves next year for basic training and after that, deployment. To me, he still looks like the little tow-headed toddler I met when my oldest was just weeks old but he’s a man by the military’s standards and old enough to make his own decisions as to what to do with his life.

It’s naïve to think that we will ever live in a world where an armed force won’t be necessary so until that time, I think the best we can do is support our troops and pray that they come home sooner rather than later to see the children they left behind and kiss the husbands, wives, and partners who kept down the home front in their absence.

And please take a moment this weekend to remember our fellow citizens who perished on that awful, awful day.

Maggie Barbieri

Walking Naked Through the Mall

/in /by

by Susan McBride

My good buddy Maggie Barbieri emailed the other day to say she’d had a dream about walking naked through the mall, and her husband had very astutely remarked, “You must be feeling vulnerable.” Which got me to thinking that as a writer in today’s instantly-connected society, I feel like I’m walking naked through the mall just about everyday!

I often say to my husband, “Someday, I just want to write and not worry about the other stuff.” Because I do worry, way too much. But that’s how it goes these days when you’re still building a career and haven’t quite reached the New York Times bestsellers list (and, perhaps, even after you have). When I daydream, I imagine doing nothing but composing more novels and enjoying my real-life without so many other frantic items on my to-do list. And the only instance when I’d feel especially vulnerable would be the release date for my latest opus, when I wonder how my readers will react.

In days of yore (okay, like ten years ago), everyone seemed to be reading their daily newspapers and most people depended on those for book reviews. Not today. The new daily paper is the Internet, for me and for a lot of other people around the planet. So turning on the computer, booting up, and getting online is what slapping open newsprint with our cereal used to be.

There are tons of web sites and blogs offering information and opinions. It’s almost scary how quickly “news” appears. Folks can pick up a book and review it within minutes after they’ve turned the last page. Interviews and articles can pop up within 24-hours and can remain cached for years and years and years.

So what makes me even more nervous than having to speak in front of 300 people at a fundraiser or appear on a local TV segment is my presence everyday on the Web. And it’s not just about seeing negative reviews (although that’s never pretty, and I’d love to tell the mean reviewers who ruin things for everyone by spilling plot points to go to–well, you get my drift).

I’m one of those “foot in mouth” people who speaks from the hip (and the heart). I don’t work from a script. What you see is what you get, and I know that–in the past–my bluntness has upset a few people. I tend toward sarcasm, and not everyone likes or gets that kind of humor. So every time I post on Facebook or write a blog entry (like this!), I hold my breath and hope that no one sends me hate mail.

I even debate whether or not to comment on posts at the various blogs I like to visit throughout the day. I’ve seen name-calling and flame wars in some comment sections that scorched my eyebrows. It’s gotten nasty out there, and often I decide to keep my opinion to myself, if only for my own peace of mind. I don’t think they make flak vests yet to wear when you’re online, ones that deflect angry rhetoric rather than bullets. Until they do, I’m going to try to stay out of conflict. I do love words, but I want to use them to tell stories, not to argue with someone I’ve never met face to face.

Even emails can make me nervous, especially the ones that come through my web site and seem to be waiting in my in-box every morning. Opening these are like tearing through wrapping paper on Christmas gifts. What will I get? Pearls? Or coal? A lovely note from a mystery fan who wonders if I’ll be writing any more Debutante Dropout books? (Sadly, no, I won’t be, not in the near future anyway.) Or a newly-divorced woman over-forty who discovered The Cougar Club and wants to say “thank you” because it hit the right spot? (Man, I love those!) Or an invitation to speak, a message from a childhood friend, an inquiry about foreign rights? (Thank heavens for web sites! Lots of wonderful gigs, friendships, and even business connections come to pass because of it.)

Or will it be a list of typos from my backlist mysteries (how I wish I could correct those after my books are in print, but I can’t)? Or might the message be like a finger shaken at me, describing something that made someone mad (say, a reader didn’t appreciate the opinion of a character so I emailed back to explain, “I’m sorry this struck you wrong, but I can’t control everything the characters in my books say or do. Sometimes, despite my best intentions, they act in a way I don’t expect. But the way they feel doesn’t necessarily reflect how everyone feels in the book, or how I feel for that matter. Please remember that”). Sigh.

Whatever I do online, I always get a little pang in my heart as I hit “comment” or “send.” I hope I said the right thing, what I meant to say, and I worry that maybe someone will take something the wrong way. Oy. Much as I appreciate the Internet for the ease with which I can grab information and/or communicate, it still makes me a wee bit uneasy. I often feel like I’m walking naked through the mall when I’m on the Web, just as I do when a new book I’ve written is out in bookstores (and on e-readers!), completely out of my hands.

So I’m wondering, what makes you feel most vulnerable? I’d love to hear some of your “walking naked through the mall” moments, if you’re willing to share!

The Other Guys

/in /by

I had been anxiously awaiting the opening of the movie “The Other Guys” and when it did open on August 6, Jim and I were the first on line for the first show. The movie had everything I enjoy in a film experience: things that blow up, a storyline that is being held together by CrazyGlue and duct tape, bathroom jokes, cops, and Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson (who I would love to have play Fred Wyatt in the film version of any one of the Murder 101 books). Oh, and Will Ferrell. And did I mention bathroom humor?

So basically, the story surrounds a precinct in Manhattan where there are the cool cops and the “other guys”—or those guys who do the paperwork, or take on cases that none of the other cops really want to get involved with. Hilarity ensues.

That got me thinking about all of the other guys and girls that exist in the world and to whom no one pays attention. In every family, there is always someone who will cry “Mom always liked you better!” and some for whom that statement is true. Then there are the kids who Mom didn’t know even existed (especially in those huge Irish-Catholic families where everyone is named Mikey, Jimmy, Patty, Matty, Luke, and Meg, or some combination of shortened saint names). In the world today, and especially the world of entertainment, there exists a whole culture of “other guys” and this post is designed to pay homage to those forgotten people.

Who are these people? Let’s find out:

1) The two who aren’t Bono or the Edge: We all know that my favorite band, U2, has four members. I dare you to name the other two. (Answer: Larry Mullen and Adam Clayton) Good. Now what instruments do they play? (Here’s a hint: Bono doesn’t play anything and the Edge plays guitar. Figure it out.) I wonder how Larry and Adam feel, playing the shadows—literally! look at their videos—behind charismatic Bono and enigmatic The Edge. Must be hard. At least when they’re not cashing their paychecks.

2) The one who isn’t Harpo, Chico, or Groucho: My husband is a huge Marx Brothers’ fan and can probably answer this question. Like all families, there’s always a forgotten child, the one that Mom didn’t like best. So you’ve got the guy who won’t shut up and the guy who never opens his mouth, and the other one. There’s one beyond that. Who the heck is he and what role did he play? I can never remember.

3) The one who isn’t Zsa Zsa or Ava: I love the Gabor sisters. With wild abandon, they wear diamonds, marry princes, speak with indecipherable accents, and act badly in television shows and movies. They are famous for hardly anything, kind of like retro-Kardashians. There were three of them, but only two are remembered. Oh, poor Magda Gabor, the lost Gabor sister. Did she not wear enough diamonds? Did she bypass roles alongside Eddie Albert? Will we never know the talent and beauty that was Magda Gabor?

4) Jan Brady: And of course, no list of “other guys” would be complete without middle Brady sister, Jan. She’s the one who cried “Marcia, Marcia, Marcia!” at the thought of all of the attention her flat-ironed haired sister received. Jan was the original other guy. Everyone remembered popular Marcia and adorable Cindy, but Jan was often forgotten. Even George Glass—her imaginary boyfriend, had a tendency to forget Jan and the things that were important to her.

Who did I miss, Stiletto faithful? Are there “other guys” who you remember that I’ve forgotten? Weigh in, please.

Oh, and is it really September? How the heck did that happen?

Maggie Barbieri

More from “Third Degree”

/in /by

My head landed next to Trixie’s front paws. She immediately set up a howl, barking like she was rabid. In between barking, she licked my face. I must have looked pretty bad if she was that concerned. She started circling the parking meter and uttered a few low moans. I heard strains of Sly and the Family Stone’s “Everyday People” coming from inside Beans, Beans, a lot of cursing, and finally, a loud and booming, “Dudes!”

I’m going to have much bigger problems than wearing a bathing suit to a pool party, I thought, as I touched the welt growing under my eye. I struggled to my feet with a little help from Greg, who was wearing a tee shirt that said “Don’t Need a Permit for These Guns” with arrows pointing to either arm. Greg is big, but he’s not fit, and despite the pain I was in, I was feeling a little punchy. I burst out laughing, which turned to crying in mere seconds.

“Dude,” he said, taking my elbow. “Come inside. I’ve already called the police.” He took in the two men and shook his head sadly. Jesus, Greg’s homeboy, would not be pleased. The two men were still rolling around on the sidewalk, and nobody was trying to intervene now that they were out of Greg’s shop; the crowd obviously ascribed to the “don’t get involved” line of reasoning or else they just enjoyed watching a good donnybrook. I heard sirens as the police raced down Main Street and pulled to a stop in front of the store. The two men separated and I recognized one of the fighters: George Miller, the head of the Department of Public Works, who stood against the plate glass window of Beans, Beans, panting heavily and pointing at the other man. The only reason I knew him was that I handed him a fat envelope of cash every year for his crew because god knows, they had taken many a garbage collection from outside my house that wasn’t really on the Monday “approved” garbage list. Like a sleeper sofa. And a few paint cans that weren’t exactly clean. And more dog waste disguised as regular garbage than I could tally. I loved those guys and felt compelled to show my love once a year. I didn’t recognize the other guy and couldn’t imagine what had brought him to blows with the head of the DPW.

A group of people who had been in the coffee shop had come out onto the street and were clustered a few feet away, mumbling quietly about what had happened. A couple of other patrons were still inside the store, their noses pressed up against the other side of the glass window. Miller said nothing because he couldn’t catch his breath. He bent over at the waist and put his hands on his knees.

The other man, the one without the shoe and the tan that stopped at his ankle, rested against a parking meter. “You’ll be sorry, Miller,” he said, much too calmly for someone who had just engaged in such strenuous fisticuffs. He was in his mid-forties, with a crew cut and horn-rimmed glasses that sat askew on his face. Unlike Miller, who was a rough-hewn kind of guy with a ruddy complexion, he didn’t seem like the type who engaged in these kinds of shenanigans on any kind of regular basis. Having seen Miller around town, dealing with the townsfolk and his crew with a demeanor that could only be described as “impatient,” I was not entirely surprised to see him as one half of the brawling duo. The other guy, however, seemed like he would be more comfortable at the local country club—the one that cost a quarter of million dollars just to apply to—than rolling around Main Street with the head of the DPW.

Two policemen approached the men. Greg knew both of them. “Hi, Larry. Joe,” he said, his meaty hand still gripping my elbow. “I’ll be inside. These two are up to their usual b.s., but this time, they’ve hurt someone else,” he said, pointing to me. I’m hurt, I thought? That wasn’t good news. I kind of suspected it but I didn’t like getting confirmation from an outside source.
Larry, I presumed, motioned to me. “Do we need an ambulance, Greg?”

“Oh, good god, no!” I said, more forcefully than I intended. Larry gave me a curious look. The last thing I needed was to be taken away by ambulance. I’m kind of famous around these parts, and not for anything good, so I just wanted to go home and put a package of frozen peas to my face and forget that I ever ventured into town that morning.

“You might want to get that looked at,” Larry said, hitching up his pants while studying my face. He turned to George Miller, who was fidgeting by the window and looking like he was considering taking flight. “You’re not going anywhere, George, so stay put,” he said. Larry pointed at my face. “You know, you really might want to get that looked at,” he repeated.

I didn’t know what “that” was and I was afraid to find out. I put my fingers gingerly to the place next to my nose and felt a lump. However, when I pulled away, there was no blood and I took that as a good sign.

Greg spoke up. “I’ll be inside when you want to talk to me.” He let go of my elbow and untied Trixie from the parking meter. “Under these circumstances, Trixie can come inside. It’s hot. She probably needs some water.” Joe made a grunt of protest at the dog being inside a food establishment but Greg shot him a look. “You take care of these morons, Joe, and I’ll take care of Alison.”
We made our way into the shop and the crowd of gawkers parted to let us pass. Greg asked that anyone who was just rubber-necking to take it outside as he was going to close up shop to straighten what had been upended in the fight. I took in the usually tidy space: two tables were turned over, as were a few chairs. The fighters had also broken the glass that fronted the muffin case. I took Trixie’s leash from Greg and walked her around the damage and to the back of the coffee shop, where everything was just as it should be, tables and chairs completely upright with a few empty coffee cups left behind.

Greg tossed me a cold, wet rag from behind the counter. “Here. Put this on your eye.”

“How bad is it?” I asked.

“You have a welt. I saw the whole thing. If you hadn’t turned around to talk to Trixie, you would’ve lost an eye.”Jeez. Life with an eye patch. Or a glass eye. I had never considered that. “Thanks, Greg,” I said, holding up the wet rag. It wasn’t the cleanest first aid I had ever seen and it smelled like coffee, but beggars can’t be choosers. I put it on the welt and immediately felt better. “What’s going on with those two idiots?” I asked, hooking a thumb toward the sidewalk.

Greg grabbed a broom from behind the counter and began sweeping up the glass in front of the muffin case. “Miller has a real problem with Wilmott.”
“Wilmott?”

“The guy without the shoe.”

“Oh,” I said, and pulled Trixie closer to me as Greg bent down to pick up a few shards of glass from the floor. I now knew exactly who he was talking about. Carter Wilmott was from an old village family, independently wealthy, and considered himself something of a whistle-blower when it came to the village. I had never met him so didn’t realize it was him. But my assessment of the ankle tan was correct; the Wilmotts kept a huge yacht in the marina next to the train station and were known for being avid sailors. Carter had a lot of time on his hands, what with the independently wealthy part, so he spent his time posting on a blog dedicated to the village and its goings-on. The blog was called “Our Village Matters” and he was merciless in his criticism of local politicians, national figures (particularly Republican ones), and apparently, the DPW. I had been living on campus during the last few weeks of the spring semester and reading the blog—a guilty pleasure—was one of the ways I kept up on what was happening in the village. Apparently, I had missed the DPW screed. But knowing Wilmott’s M.O., I am sure it was yellow journalism at best. I think I even remember a sarcastic post about Greg and his novelty tee shirts; it was a wonder Greg still let him come into Beans, Beans. But then again, Greg was a peace-loving man and I could see him forgiving Wilmott his rants.

Greg finished cleaning up the glass and brought Trixie a bowl of ice cold water, just like he had promised. She dove in as if she had been in the desert and lapped up the water, spilling most of it over the sides with her enthusiastic slurping. He pulled up a chair. “Let me see,” he said, and held out his hand.

I handed him the towel. “I should go check this out in the bathroom,” I said and got up.
Greg gave me a look that indicated that that may not be such a good idea. But what was I going to do? Walk around avoiding mirrors? No time like the present. I went back to the unisex bathroom and turned on the forty-watt bare bulb that hung over the toilet and took a good look at myself in the ancient mirror.

“That’ll leave a mark,” I said to myself. I washed up and dried my face on some scratchy paper towels and returned to the coffee shop, where Greg was continuing to clean up the debris that was littered around the front counter. I offered to give him a hand but he declined.

“The place will be fine once I get it cleaned up,” he said. The bell on the door jingled and we turned to find Carter Wilmott making his way back into the shop. Greg shook his head. “You know what, Wilmott? You’re not welcome here anymore. You are banned from Beans, Beans,” he said, albeit in the kindest way one could communicate another’s persona non gratis status.

Wilmott swayed a bit on his feet, and grabbed his throat. He looked at me and I could see a thick sheen of sweat on his brow. “I just wanted to say…” he started, but began coughing violently. Even Greg, who was as mad as I had ever seen him, stopped what he was doing and leaned across the counter.

“Do you need some water, Carter?” Greg asked.

Before Wilmott could answer, George Miller burst through the door of the shop, his feet falling heavily on the broken glass, making a noise not unlike my cereal makes when I pour in the milk. Miller drew a fist back and with a forceful roundhouse punch, landed a blow to Wilmott’s head. I cried out just as the police followed Miller inside.

Wilmott went to his knees. I got up from my seat, in that weird position of feeling like I should do something yet not knowing what that might be. I made one step toward Wilmott as Greg made his way from around the counter, moving faster than I was.

Wilmott rocked from one side to the other, and caught my eye once more. “…to say that I am sorry,” he said, and fell face first into the pile of dirt and glass that Greg had swept into a tidy mound. I made a tiny sound while Trixie moved to behind the counter, terrified of what had just transpired.

Greg knelt beside Wilmott, Larry the cop doing the same. The other cop grabbed Miller in a strangle hold, using his free hand to handcuff him. Greg moved to the side, worriedly knitting his hands together in front of the counter, while Larry the cop expertly flipped Carter’s body over and began CPR. He pounded on the man’s chest, sweat beginning to roll down his cheeks down his cheeks. He continued for two or three minutes and then checked Wilmott’s neck for a pulse.

He rocked back on his heels, his face a mask of sadness and incomprehension. For some reason, he looked at me and said, “He’s dead.”
Maggie Barbieri

An Excerpt from “Third Degree”

/in /by


Meeting your boyfriend’s parents for the first time shouldn’t involve wearing bathing suits.

Is it just me or should that be a hard and fast rule?

My best friend, Max, didn’t agree. Any time she gets to wear a bikini is a good day. But she’s a size two with six-pack abs. Me? I like to think that at five-ten I resemble one of those hard-bodied beach volleyball players, but in actuality, I’m less gazelle and more stork. With a pot belly.

I was headed to meet my boyfriend’s clan, the Crawfords. And frankly, I’m a little uncomfortable, at my age, with the “boyfriend” designation; sounds a little juvenile to me but I hadn’t come up with anything better. This soiree was being hosted by Bobby’s brother, Jimmy, who I had met under less-than-ideal circumstances—let’s just say that it was an “unfortunate incarceration” and he’s a really good lawyer—and his wife, Mary Pat, and I had been told that it would take place around the swimming pool. And that Mary Pat had a “banging body,” according to her husband, who was completely in her thrall. Hence, my dilemma.

Max said that I needed to get a sarong.

I spoke slowly. “But that would mean that I would have to go to Bali and I don’t have time for that. We need to be there by two.”

“They sell sarongs in America,” she reminded me.

“Yes, but that would mean I would have to go to a mall, and in case you didn’t hear me, we need to be there by two.” Anyway, I was still in bed, talking to Max on the phone.

“I wish you had told me sooner. I would have lent you one of mine.” I didn’t ask why she had a sarong—or more than one, for that matter—nor did I remind her that I outweighed her by fifty pounds and would look stupid with a sarong tied around one leg. “As fascinating as this problem is, I have to go. The Hooters waitresses are threatening to strike if I don’t give them a real case to work on.”

Max is the head of a cable network called “Crime TV” and is working on a reality show that combines Hooters waitresses and private investigation. (Don’t say it. I already know.) I had no idea how that was considered “entertainment” but Max had the golden touch and every reality show she produced was a ratings blockbuster. She was considered something akin to lightning in a bottle in the world of reality television combined with crime, so who was I to judge? I’m a college professor who teaches creative writing to disaffected college freshman, along with a few upper-level courses to juniors and seniors, and Max thinks that it’s a miracle I can stay awake while giving lectures to my classes, which I take as more of an insult to my teaching ability than to the attention span of my students. I like my job, even if when I use a three-syllable word, the students look at me with the same quizzical look my dog gives me when I say anything besides her name and the word “cocktails”.

I had described the show to Crawford, and his eyebrows raised. “You’ve got to admit,” he said, his cheeks turning slightly red at the thought, “there’s something to be said for women with big boobs in bikini tops following philandering husbands around.” And then, because he spent his formative years as an altar boy and knew that he was going to hell for saying “boobs” in mixed company, he wisely shut up. And probably did a silent Act of Contrition.

My eyes lighted on the cherry ring pop sitting on my nightstand that was ostensibly, my engagement ring. It had all happened so fast—we had just left City Hall after Max and her husband, Fred had gotten married—and Crawford sprung a proposal on me, shocking me with his spontaneity. Crawford’s not a spontaneous guy; everything he does is thought out and measured, wood burning in that gorgeous head of his. But this was completely out of the blue and I hadn’t really given him an answer. The pool party and the meeting of the entire family, though? That made me think that he assumed that I had said “yes.” I probably would at some point, but for right now, I was on the fence. Everything was great between us. But having been married to a serial philanderer, who was now six feet under, I was a little gun shy. It was going to take me a while to sort this whole thing out.

After staring at the ring pop for an inordinately long period of time, I went back to staring at my old bathing suit. I chided myself for not having done what most normal people would do in this situation: gone to the mall and tried on every bathing suit in the store. However, since it was August, I was sure that fall clothes were already on the racks, and I would be destined to wearing one of the last suits in the store, either a string bikini or a flowered mumu with matching leggings.

Crawford said that “everyone swims” at Jimmy’s parties; that was a direct quote. Apparently, Jimmy had spent a boatload of money on a pool and hot tub and the family was a bunch of waterlogged Irish-Americans who couldn’t be dragged out. And they loved to play “Marco Polo” according to Crawford. I lay back on my bed, considering my options. I could tell Crawford’s family that I had just had liposuction on my abdomen and I couldn’t get my stitches wet. Nobody would believe that. Even in a prone position, my stomach was visible over the waistband of my pants. I could tell them that I almost drowned as a kid and was afraid of the water, which was true. Or, I could just tell them the truth which is that I can’t swim and avoid water and all related sports. One thing I’ve found is that if you tell someone you can’t do math, they’re fine with it. Can’t read? No problem. We’ll teach you! Can’t swim? Admitting that is akin to admitting you’ve been in the pen. Nobody believes you and then, after they’ve stopped laughing, everybody eyes you suspiciously .

I have a lot of other admirable qualities but didn’t feel like I could share them with the Crawfords without sounding like a braggart. One of them is that I exaggerate everything to the point of paralysis at the thought of certain situations.

Like meeting your future in-laws. And revealing a character flaw like not being able to swim.

I got off the bed and looked at my bathing suit on the floor next to the bed. It was the same one I had had since my honeymoon with my late ex-husband. I had forgotten to pack a bathing suit for the trip (which gives you a little insight into my preoccupied, post-wedding state—paging Dr. Freud…) even though we were headed to Aruba, and had been forced to buy a two hundred dollar Speedo in the hotel gift shop that was now more than ten years old and missing some important expanses of elastic.

I threw the bathing suit on the bed and decided that I wasn’t going to do anything I didn’t want to do. But I also decided that I needed a big ice coffee to steel my resolve. I put Trixie, my golden retriever, on her leash and started into town, a short walk from my house.

I live in a little village in tony Westchester County, where years before with a small inheritance from my parents, I was smart enough to buy a little, tiny house perfectly situated due to its close proximity to both my work and New York City. After my divorce from the aforementioned late ex-husband, it turned out the house was just the right size for me, my dog, and Crawford when he visited. Crawford lives in Manhattan and commutes to the Bronx to the detective squad at the Fiftieth Precinct, I wondered what would happen if we did marry. Would he move here? Would I move there? How would two people who had lived on their own for a while adjust to living with other people again? We had been dating a little over a year and Crawford was clearly perfect, but he also had two teenage daughters, an ex-wife who was getting remarried in a few months, a really intense job, and his own way of doing things after living alone for a long time. We had a lot to finagle if we were going to make this work.

Most importantly, how would Trixie feel?

I grabbed my coffee cup from the dish drainer before I left; my village was going green and I was going right along for the ride. Before leaving, I took a quick look at the calendar that hung on the side of the refrigerator. Yep, still August. I find August to be a tough time for me, something that never changes from year to year. My mother’s birthday had been in August. She had also died in August. Every year, I expect it to get better, but here we were, a decade later, and I still feel like I can’t catch my breath. Was that ever going to change? Was I being unrealistic to expect that it would?

I didn’t feel the same way about my father’s death, even though at the time, it had been just as difficult. The difference was that he hadn’t suffered like my mother had. He had just gone to work one day and dropped dead, too young, at the UPS office where he picked up his truck and deliveries every day. His friends said he was dead before he hit the ground, and for some reason, that gave me some measure of comfort. I was only a teenager when that had happened but still, I could deal with his absence in a way that I couldn’t when it came to my mother.

Maybe it was all those years we had together, just the two of us. Or maybe it was because of how much she had suffered. Every year, I tried to sort it out, and every year, I just marked the days down until it August was over and it was no longer an issue.

When I got outside, I was not surprised by the weather: hot and steamy, a typical August day in New York. The humidity would have me looking like Gene Wilder in no time. I reconsidered the jeans and tee shirt that I had put on before I left and decided that an ensemble a little less sweat-producing would be appropriate for the pool party. At which I decided I would definitely not be swimming. Trixie tugged at the leash, delighted that we were heading into town, even though she would be sitting outside the coffee shop while I had my iced coffee in the air-conditioned comfort of Beans, Beans. (I know—my mind goes there, too, but who am I to tell the hippie owner, Greg, that “beans, beans” is the start of a not-so-nice childhood rhyme of a scatological nature?) Greg is a lovely guy with a messy, gray, Afro who loves coffee and calls everyone “dude” regardless of their sex. He often has on a tee shirt that says “Jesus is my homeboy” and thinks that Beans, Beans is the most clever name for a coffee shop. Who was I to disabuse him of that notion? The store is decorated with thrift-store finds and has a funky, neighborhood vibe that I love. So what if the coffee isn’t great? Greg is a nice guy, he needs the business, and I need the coffee. It worked for me. Crawford, on the other hand, thinks it is overpriced and a little precious. He likes his coffee in a paper cup with a plastic lid and Greek writing on the side. And he likes his muffins like he liked his women—hard on the outside, soft on the inside, and without any adornment. I only fit that bill about sixty percent of the time, but he’s accepted that. That’s the way he’s been drinking his coffee and eating his muffins for years and nothing is going to change. And he really didn’t like being called “dude.”

I wrapped Trixie’s leash around a parking meter and gave her a kiss, thinking about my soon-to-be-consumed iced coffee and what I would wear once I peeled these jeans off. The bathing suit with the missing elastic was looking better and better.

The village was hopping on this Saturday morning and I took in the building traffic in the center of town. Almost every parking space was filled and people milled about, waiting until ten o’clock when the boutiques and other stores opened. I was glad that I had walked.

I thought about the impending party. I was friends with Crawford’s Aunt Bea and she had made a few comments about his mother being a “piece of work.” I had heard the expression before and knew that it connoted a lot of different things in different people’s minds. Was she an eccentric? A little bit loony? That I could handle. I came from a long line of French Canadian whackos. Or was she mean and nasty? I never could get Bea to commit and what was I going to do? Ask Crawford? “Hey, what’s the deal with your mother? Is she a bitch on wheels or just a little crazy?” That wasn’t going to work. I had myself kind of worked up about the whole thing. Meeting the parents was stressful enough but when you had a wild card in the mix—one Kathleen Crawford—it was enough to induce a seizure.

I was lost in thought as I approached Beans, Beans and put my hand on the handle to the outer door, not really paying attention , lost in the reverie of thinking about what items resided in my closet. I thought about a pink shirt that made me look thinner than I actually was but then remembered that it had a huge chocolate ice cream stain on the right breast area. Trixie made a sound and I turned to tell her that I would be right out and that I would probably bring her a treat. While my head was turned, the door to the coffee shop swung open, my hand still gripping the handle, the edge of the door catching the side of my nose and the right side of my face as I was pushed backward onto the sidewalk. Two men spilled past me, locked in some kind of pugilistic fox trot. They tumbled onto the sidewalk a few feet away from me, punching and kicking each other. As I hit the ground, I saw that one of them had a bloody nose, and that the other one was missing a shoe. I focused on the fact that his tan stopped at his ankle and I thought that was really weird. All I could think was “socks and boat shoes?” This floated through my mind in the seconds before the pain in my face flooded like a tsunami into my consciousness.

I hope you enjoyed this excerpt from Third Degree! To read more, return next week. To order,at Amazon click here.