Tag Archive for: Physical Education

A Town Called Malice

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This past weekend, I had the pleasure of traveling down the
New Jersey Turnpike into Maryland with the lovely and talented Laura Bradford
to the annual Malice Domestic convention. 
(And for any of you ‘80s-music devotees out there, does anyone else
think of The Jam song, “A Town Called Malice”? 
I do.)  As always, it was a
wonderful time, filled with the nicest mystery writers and the most wonderful
readers, people who are so devoted to the genre as to have encyclopedic
knowledge of every book every written, it would seem.
Laura and I couldn’t be more compatible as roommates:  she likes the room cold like I do, goes to
bed early like I do, and is always willing to listen to my latest hare-brained
idea concerning a new book or plot twist. 
Oh, and she loves pretzels, just like I do!  I couldn’t have asked for a better person to
share the experience with, right down to our delightful Burger King meal at a
rest stop on the Turnpike, which she managed to make enjoyable.
Sara J. Henry, a debut novelist who won the Mary Higgins
Clark Award—an award for which I was a judge—at the Edgars prior to the
convention for her novel LEARNING TO SWIM, also won the Agatha for Best First
Novel.  If you haven’t read this book,
get it.  It’s fantastic.  It begins with a woman on a ferry who sees a
little boy being thrown overboard and it takes off from there.  A fantastic read.
I was on a panel that was geared toward sports-related
mysteries, a result of my last book—PHYSICAL EDUCATION—being set in the world
of women’s college basketball.  Alan
Orloff made a fine moderator—or shall we say “referee”—for the panel which
included Beth Groundwater, Sasscer Hill, and Laura DiSilverio.  Although I didn’t have much to say about my
less-than-illustrious CYO basketball career, I was able to relive the moment
that I hit a walk-off grand slam in our town’s softball playoffs.  Good times.
Laura crafted a panel moderated by Aimee Hix that exposed
the “dirty little secrets” that writers have including who they model their murder
victims on, what the eat when they are on deadline, and how they come up with
their ideas.  For the record, my
answers:  1) no one you know (not that I
would ever tell); 2) pretzels; 3) while driving.
If you’ve heard it once, you’ve heard it a thousand
times:  writing is a solitary, sometimes
lonely profession.  To be around five
hundred people who all love the same thing—mystery—is exhilarating and
fulfilling.  I leave Malice every year
energized to finish that first draft or start something new and to everyone who
attended and contributed to that feeling, I say “thank you.”
Maggie Barbieri

If I don’t need it, why do I have it?

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If I don’t need it, why do I have it?
If you checked this blog two weeks ago and I wasn’t there, I have a very good excuse. 
I forgot.
Because I was having my gall bladder out the next day.
See?  A reasonable excuse, but an excuse nonetheless.
Back in December, I started noticing that certain foods were becoming problematic for me:  short ribs, butter, peanut butter, dairy in general, to name a few.  (The gall bladder is responsible for digesting fats, so from that list, you would guess that I needed to stay away from those particular foods.)  I would have what are termed “gall bladder attacks” which amounted to a very dull, but very persistent back pain that I couldn’t get rid of by walking, laying down, marching up stairs, or anything else that you would think might move whatever it was to wherever it needed to go.  I knew, from frequent CT scans that I endure as part of my long-ago cancer diagnosis, that my gall bladder was “sludgy,” a term that means “nice and ripe to house numerous gall stones”.  Although I knew at some point my gall bladder would erupt in furious objection to the housing of the gall stones, I figured I would wait until that happened until I actually did something about it.
It happened on December 20, 2011.
I came back from a lovely walk, this being the most mild winter we had seen in the Northeast in memory, and decided that what sounded good was a big glass of water followed by two pieces of toast slathered with peanut butter.  (I know.  Stupid.)  Within minutes, I was prone on the bed, crying, screaming for hubby to take me to the Emergency Room.  I had two kids without drugs, had a major cancer surgery seven years ago that left me held together by one hundred staples, and now I was screaming for him to take me to the ER?  He knew that this had to be bad.
I called my oncologist, the lovely Dr. P., and cried to her that I was dying.
“It’s your gall bladder!” she screamed into the phone, trying desperately to talk me off the proverbial ledge. 
“It’s much worse!” I cried.  “It’s like I’m dying! Or having a heart attack!”
She got a nurse walking by to join in the chorus.  “It’s your gall bladder! Get to the ER!”
So off I went. 
You know how you hear a noise in your car and take it to the mechanic, only for the mechanic to say, “I don’t hear it”?  Well, that’s what happened.  By the time I got to the ER, all was well, I was not in pain, and I was starving.  The gall stone had passed, although I had never seen it come out.  But you go to the ER, you don’t get to eat and you get tests—a lot of tests.  And the tests came back with a positive diagnosis. I was having my gall bladder out.  When was the sixty-four thousand dollar question.
I guess this is the point in the story where I tell you how much I hate surgery.  (Does anyone like it outside of the women in the Real Housewives’ franchises on Bravo?)  I told the doctor that I needed to wrap my brain around this—which in Maggie-speak means “I’m going to put this off as long as I can”—and left the ER.  I started polling people who had had their gall bladders out, who knew someone who had their gall bladder out, who knew surgeons who performed gall bladder surgery.  All returned with the same conclusion:  gall bladder surgery was a “piece of cake.” They all actually used the exact same cliché to describe a procedure in which four holes are punched in your stomach, with a camera and a long pair of scissors being inserted into two of the holes, and the gall bladder being pulled out the third.  (I’m still not sure what the fourth hole is for.  All I know is the belly button I went in with doesn’t look like the belly button I came out with.)  Everyone assured me that you don’t really need your gall bladder; it’s vestigial.  I went into the surgery thinking “piece of cake,” “vestigial,” “don’t need it…”
And woke up to excruciating pain.  This was the “piece of cake” that everyone referred to?  Liars, one and all.  I awoke to a recovery room nurse screaming in my ear so loudly that I thought maybe she had mistaken me for a patient who had just received cochlear ear implants.
“MRS. BARBIERI!!!  WHERE ARE YOU???”
Where am I, I wanted to ask?  Where are you?  Because that’s where I am.  I wisely bit my sore tongue (the one that had just minutes earlier had an endoscope atop it) and said, “NYU.”
“AND WHAT YEAR IS IT???”
“Why are you yelling at me?” was the reasonable question, but I responded with “2012.” Satisfied, she went back to writing notes in my chart, probably to the tune of “patient doesn’t do a good job shaving her legs” or something like that.  It was ten o’clock in the morning.  I was sent home at three.  This is what is called “ambulatory” or “outpatient surgery.”  I was neither ambulatory nor well enough to be an outpatient but home I went where I spent the next several days in a painkiller haze, watching episode after episode of “Curb Appeal: The Block” and dreaming about what Chez Barbieri might look like if I actually had the inclination to go outside and plant anything.
So, I’m rambling.  Those are the aftereffects of general anesthesia.  (Just ask my extended family.  They showed up for Easter dinner—the one I invited them to— only to have me ask them why they were there.) But let’s put it this way:  any thoughts of having my tummy tucked, my chin fat sucked out, or my eyes lifted are now gone the way of the wonky gall bladder, never to be seen or thought of again.  Because the piece of cake that is supposedly laparoscopic surgery is anything but.  As a friend who once had it said to me, “Mags, they poke holes in your stomach.  Trust me. That’s not pain free.”  I guess I’m glad I was lied to, though, as it saved me months of agitation over something that is now safely in the rearview mirror.
I’ll just have to remember this next time I think about having a facelift.
Maggie Barbieri

Your “Signature” Look

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I was fortunate enough to be visiting my family this weekend and one sibling was bemoaning the fact that her daughter, my adorable niece, was exhibiting some very strong opinions about fashion, particularly with regard to what she’d like to wear.  Apparently, there are stores that cater to the under-ten set yet the items that they offer are really not acceptable to a lot of parents, their tendency to sell more mature-looking items the bane of many mother or father’s existence.  Of course, at seven, like my niece, you want to wear what everyone else is wearing and if everyone is wearing sweatshirts that hint at a Flashdance flashback, all the better.  But some of us feel that our children exposing too much skin may not be the best idea, so we argue and cajole and yes, sometimes all out fight to get them to wear what we feel is age appropriate.
It is times like these that I look back fondly at the twelve years I wore a uniform.  No muss, no fuss.  Everyone looked the same, save for some personalization that manifested itself in shorter skirts or sweaters tied around necks, but really, when all was said and done, there was not a lot you could do to “mix it up” with the school uniform.
I tried talking some sense into my niece but she wasn’t having any of it.  My advice to her, which may have been about ten years too soon was “develop your signature look and stick with it.”  She responded by staring blankly at me and asking if there were any more cupcakes, an entirely suitable response for someone who is a long way away from seeing the value in adopting her aunt’s style, which is comprised of the following:
Winter:  Black turtleneck/Jeans
Summer:  Colorful tunic/Jeans
It’s foolproof.
I cannot follow the fashions.  First, I’m almost fifty.  (Almost.)  Second, I’m tall.  And third, I am what one might call “zaftig” but which I call “athletically built”—that is, if athletes had slight paunches, flabby arms, and big busts.  So, skinny jeans, tight tee shirts, and anything midriff-bearing is out.  So are mini skirts, sleeveless shirts, and anything with a v-neck.  (Remember, when you stare down into the depths of your cleavage, it looks much worse than in reality.  But who among us can’t resist looking down into our cleavage?)  I have found that sticking to my adult version of a uniform works much better and helps me avoid fashion mistakes that are almost certainly, inevitably caught on film, posted on Facebook and there for all eternity.
Subjecting my niece to my thoughts about fashion got me thinking, though:  do you follow the trends, getting new items of clothing or new pairs of shoes based on what is going on in the world of fashion, or like me, stick to a “signature” look? 
Maggie Barbieri

Save the Snark, Please the Writer

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I much prefer watching the Red Carpet coverage to watching the Oscars, which to me, are comprised of a bunch of self-congratulatory, long-winded speeches about “craft” and “the work” intermingled with some songs, some dancing, and a few movie clips. All of the talk about how hard acting is makes it seem like going to a far-off land and pretending to be someone else is really taxing. (In case I didn’t make it clear, I don’t think it is.) But I do love the red carpet and watching bone-thin actresses step from giant, gas-guzzling limousines and try to navigate their way down a carpet in shoes that are too high for any human to walk successfully in. Watching this year, however, I was struck by how much parading the red carpet is like writing.

I can imagine a young actress spending months before the show meeting with stylists, thinking about how her hair should look, dealing with the age-old debate of smoky eye versus dewy glow, and finally arriving at the big day where dress, hair, and make-up come together in a flawless combination of sophistication and age appropriateness. Then, she walks the red carpet, not knowing that behind the scenes, away from the place where someone asks her “who are you wearing?” there are a gaggle of D-listers sitting high atop the venue watching her every move and critiquing every decision she and her stylist have made. “Really, Vera Wang? She’s far too young for that!” or “I would have gone with the smoky eye” or “Her hair is flawless but much more appropriate for someone like Helen Mirren or Cate Blanchett.” It is something that happens to all of us at some point: we think we look great, but come to find out that maybe…not so much.

Fortunately for those of us outside of the business of show, we don’t have perennial harpy Joan Rivers (love her comedy, hate her fashion commentary) or cotton-candy-haired Kelly Osbourne dedicating an entire hour to our fashion missteps on a cable television show. Many times, they love an actress’ dress, proclaiming it a “red carpet favorite” but other times, they hate it, pointing out where she zigged when she should have zagged. I find myself either nodding along, agreeing with what they have to say, or disagreeing vociferously. After all, beauty is in the eye of the beholder. It is subjective. My “red carpet favorite” is someone else’s giant dud.

We don’t have Joan Rivers and Kelly Osbourne. What we do have as writers, however, are online reviews and the like, the ones that make us feel like an ingénue walking our first red carpet every time a book comes out, pointing out our flaws, writing missteps, and plot holes that we didn’t know even existed.

It got me thinking about the writing process–getting ready for the “read carpet” perhaps?–something not dissimilar to getting ready for the red carpet. Writers spend months, sometimes years, perfecting their novel, putting a stopper in plot holes that they see, developing characters with an eye to detail and verisimilitude. Our books are read by agents, then editors, then a production person, a copyeditor, and probably a proofreader just to make sure no one missed anything along the way, confirming that our prose hemline is the right length and that our double-stick tape is holding us in where we are supposed to be held in, and let out where we need to add more depth and volume. Yet there are still a niggling problem or two that might show up, despite everyone’s best efforts. Reviewers, like Joan Rivers, will point to those problems and expose them for all the world to see. Sometimes, someone just don’t like your book, the one you spent months working on and thinking about, losing sleep when you couldn’t resolve something in your head. Other times, someone will love it. It all depends.

Thinking about this made me reflect on my own thin-skinned nature and how reading one bad review can ruin my whole day. My venue is much smaller—no red carpet here when a book comes out—but I relate to the young woman getting out of a limo, putting herself and her fashion choices on display and getting a verbal knock out from someone high up in the stands, someone who has a little familiarity with the process but who is not subjected to the same kind of scrutiny. Thinking about it reminded me that I need to remember that the whole “subjectivity” rule in that one person’s favorite dress is another’s fashion mishap. We can’t all like the same things or share the same opinion. What fun would that be? But we all must remember that most of us take to a task wholeheartedly and with all good intentions so that if you don’t like something, save the snark. Who knows? Maybe it will be you up there on the red carpet one day—literally or figuratively—and wondering if the smoky eye (or the dead body in chapter 2) was really the right choice.

Maggie Barbieri

Real Things that Have Happened to Me (or that I’ve Done)

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In another attempt to avoid working last week, I reflected on a few real things that have happened to me or that I’ve done. I’ve decided that we’re going to call this blog, No Regrets Wednesday here at the Stiletto Gang.

In another attempt to stretch out the work avoidance for as long as possible, I then decided that I would sit down and list these real things that have happened to me or that I’ve done to see if anyone has had similar experiences and if you would like to share one or two similar things so that we could all have a good laugh.

Here goes:

1. I once got in a cab in New York City when I was in my twenties and after I told the cab drive where I wanted to go, he said, “Wow, you’re beautiful. After blushing from the tips of my toes to the top of my head, I confessed that no, I was not a model and thanked him for the wonderful compliment. He said, “It’s ok. I didn’t really mean it. I ask every woman who gets in my cab so I can get a big tip. You’re ok looking, though.”(He did not get a big tip.)

2. I once had to open up and then relinquish a foiled-wrapped sandwich in the security line at JFK because nothing says terrorist like chicken salad on a roll and an almost middle-aged textbook editor. They did not confiscate the sandwich, but I didn’t feel like eating once I got on the plane.

3. I once saw a woman walking in Times Square with her entire skirt tucked into the back of her underpants.(My mom can vouch for this.) I stopped her, made her stop talking on her cell phone, and told her that about three million Japanese tourists had just seen her bootie and many had taken pictures. She thanked me and went on her way, happy that there was a woman in the world who was brave enough to tell another that her behind had been displayed on the Jumbotron outside of the Good Morning, America, studios.

4. I once wore my husband’s boxer briefs to a job interview because I was too lazy to do my own laundry.

5. I once told my kids that I was getting my own apartment. (Actually, that happened more than once.)

6. I once laughed so hard that I wet my pants. And my husband’s pants.(In the interest of full disclosure, I was nine months pregnant with child #1, who turns 18 today!)

7. I once got lost driving home from a grocery store in a neighboring town.
It took me ninety minutes to find my way back. Yes, the ice cream had melted.

8. I once told a client that he had to buy what I was selling because I was nine months pregnant (see #6) and ‘baby needs a new pair of shoes.’It worked.

9. I once wore pajama pants to class because I hadn’t washed any real pants. I know this is commonplace now but back in 1865, it was positively scandalous. Although I got a talking to from the dean of students, I also got a date with a really cute guy who I married five years later.

10. I once ate an entire bar of Velveeta cheese. I then proceeded to realize, almost immediately, that this was a really bad idea.

Ok, so it’s No Regrets Wednesday at Stiletto.

Fess up, Stiletto faithful.

Let me know one thing you’ve done that you’ve carried around in your heart for all these years, unable to reveal.

I’m counting on you.

Maggie Barbieri

Dieting and Writing: The Link

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Dieting and Writing:  The Link
I will lose fifteen pounds by spring.
I will write one thousand words a day—or more—so that I beat my deadline by three months.
Dieting and writing are two things I think about way too much.  Thinking about these two topics is probably a good thing.  I need to be conscious of what I eat and how much and I need to be conscious of what I write and how much.  I need to reflect daily on the quality of both what goes into my mouth and what goes onto the page.  Meeting these goals should be easy with this kind of conscientiousness, right?
Wrong.
In terms of dieting, I seem to gain and lose the same seventeen pounds every single year.  Last year was supposed to be different.  I was supposed to lose the weight and through conscious eating, diet, and exercise, I was supposed to keep it off.  The holidays approached.  I wouldn’t fall into the same traps.  But a trip to the emergency room where I received the somber news that my gall bladder needed to come out threw me off course.  I would have to eat differently until I lost the organ that processed fats and bile so that meant, in my mind, all bets were off.  What does one eat when they can’t eat fats?  CARBS!  And lots of them.  Carbopalooza began in earnest and slowly but surely, the weight started to creep back.  The good news is that I only allowed myself a three-pound gain over the month before I reined myself back in.  The bad news?  No more carbs for the foreseeable future and I need carbs.  Without them, I turn into a very bleak, very sad person.
As for the writing part, I also set goals.  A thousand words a day.  Every day.  No exceptions.  Unless of course I see a cobweb up in the rafters of my office.  Got to get the vacuum!  Got to vacuum that up!  And the cat litter…that needs to be changed.  Oh, there’s laundry?  I must do that, too.  While I’m at it, let’s eat a bag of pretzels…wait! I can’t have carbs.
See where I’m going with this? 
Dieting and writing are not all-or-nothing propositions.  Sure, it would be great if I could get the last ten pounds off while keeping the first seventeen off (and writing a thousand words a day) but that’s a long-term goal.  It won’t happen overnight, so the best course of action is to set a short-term goal for myself.  “This week, I’ll write down what I eat and exercise three days.  Next week, I’ll reassess.”  Same with writing.  If I wrote one thousand words per day, well, then it would only take me two and a half months to write a book which would give me lots of free time to vacuum up cobwebs.  And as we all know, it takes a heck of a lot longer to write a book than that.  It’s usually around a year because I owe my publisher one book a year.  I’ve never beaten a deadline but I sure as heck have almost blown one or five.
So while last year was the year of Zen Maggie—a spectacular failure if the stressed looks on my children’s faces are any indication—this year is the year of Attainable Goal Maggie. The year in which we finally figure out how to eat the elephant (hint:  one bite at a time) and never bite off more than we can chew or set goals that are unattainable and thus make us feel like constant failures.
Who’s with me?  And who hid the pretzels?

Maggie Barbieri

When Salsa and Writing Collide

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I have to learn to salsa dance.  By Saturday.  While wearing heels.
I can’t reveal the reason for this challenge but suffice it to say that the continuation of life as we know it depends on me being able to remain upright while dancing to Tito Puente.  Oh, and did I mention that fifty percent of the people there will already know how to do this?  It’s definitely a pride thing with me and it all goes back to the fact that no matter how hard I try, I still can’t figure out how to do the Electric Slide. Having stood silently against the wall while everyone slides around to the verses that talk about “it’s electric…boogiewoogiewoogie” is not the way I roll and I’m determined never to let it happen again. So salsa I will, even if it’s the last thing I do.
I’ve downloaded several salsa tunes and even accessed a video on YouTube where a lovely couple demonstrates exactly how to dance salsa like a pro.  Hey, even Victor Cruz of the New York Giants can bust out salsa moves after scoring a touchdown; just how hard can it be?  Very, apparently.  I’m still working on it and may even have some video to post next time I post, so stay tuned.  It may be a thing of beauty or so embarrassing that it becomes a YouTube sensation.  You know I’m not shy—I’m the first person to don a lampshade on my head if the situation calls for it—but this may even break my gregarious spirit.  We shall see.
But all of this talk about salsa dancing got me thinking about writing.  Really.  (Wait for it; I’ll get there.)  I’m a fairly good dancer—some would even say that I have good rhythm—but trying to stay true to traditional salsa has proven hard for me because I fancy myself more of an interpretative dancer, allowing the music to dictate where I go and how.  Following specific steps and not deviating from those steps, while staying true to the salsa tradition, would not allow me to stay true to myself as an “artist” (and yes, I mean that in a tongue-in-cheek way).
It’s kind of like writing.  I know some of the steps and can even put them together in a cohesive package that looks fairly attractive and has some rhythm.  (Based on some of my reader mail this week there are some who would beg to differ that point.)  But try to adhere to a formula? Well, the wheels fall off the bus for me.  Learning to salsa correctly, following the intricate steps, is the equivalent of starting a writing project with a complete and thorough outline, something that goes from point A to point Z in a straight line.  I can’t do it.  What I can do is jiggle to and fro to the music in time while salsa dancing, making a passable attempt at mimicking the steps and everyone who knows how to do salsa well.  In writing, I can do the same, going back and forth, to the future and back to the past, over something a thousand times to make sure the words say what I want them to say, and doing it all again the next day and the next with no pattern, no particular flow, no organization. 
I will probably never win a salsa dancing contest nor will I ever win the Pulitzer, at least until I stop writing about bumbling college professors, sly nuns, and people who kill in the heat of the moment, but for now, I’m content to sway to the music and let the words that I want to write come out in one interpretative jumble until I can put them in an order that makes some kind of sense.
Writers out there, how do you do it?  And can anyone come over and teach me to salsa before Saturday?
Maggie Barbieri

New Year’s Resolutions

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Some parents—like me—have this misguided notion that everything will always be the same and that the kids will always be there to celebrate holidays, good times, and everything in between.  But as my kids get older—almost 18 and 13—I’m finding that, just like they are supposed to, they are enjoying making their own connections and traditions and branching out on their own.
Every year, we get together with another family whose oldest is my oldest child’s best friend; they also have a son, who although more than three years older than mine, will always watch a game or play with Barbieri child #2.  This year, the girls had two different parties to attend, one right on the same street and another in town that they had to drive to.  My friend’s daughter was dressed to the nines in gorgeous ankle-strap black suede pumps while my daughter went for a more casual look.  One came home early, the other late, but both had reveled with their own friends and didn’t kiss their parents at the stroke of midnight.
I am working hard to adjust to this change.  I used to scoff at people who would coo over one of my adorable children, still a baby, and say, “Enjoy it now.  It goes really fast,” meaning that in the blink of an eye, your baby would be all grown up and ready to fly the coop. I would laugh.  What did these people know?
Everything, apparently.
I told my husband that I am now the person doing the cooing and telling people to enjoy their babies now because before they know it, they’ll be off on their own, living their own lives.  And the people I tell this to look at me like I’m crazy.
I once heard it said that when raising children, and particularly when caring for babies, “the days are long but the years fly by.”  A truer statement has never been uttered.  As you trod the floor at night with a screaming baby, it seems like that night will never end but just when you think you have this sleeping thing nailed down, the kid is up all night again, but for a different reason:  they are a teenager and teenagers like to stay up late.  Granted, there’s no crying anymore, hopefully, but you’re still up and you’re still worried, especially if they are not home.
I am loathe to make New Year’s resolutions but this year, with a daughter going to college in the fall—the longest stint of sleepaway camp known to parents—I’m going to try to remain focused on the present, enjoying every bit of the time we have together, not focused on what will happen in the future.  I know that once she leaves here and experiences the world beyond the doors of our little Village colonial, her eyes will be opened to all the great things she can accomplish.  And as Martha would say, “And that’s a good thing.”
Maggie Barbieri

A Tale of Christmas Eve (or how a seven-year-old picks out gifts at the last minute)

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By Maggie Barbieri

We celebrate Christmas Eve hard in my family.  The reason for this is that when I was young, my father was a New York City police officer who worked many a holiday but usually seemed to be around for some of Christmas Eve, making it easy for my mother to load gifts under the tree and have them ready for us to open at midnight (really, eight thirty…it was dark and we couldn’t tell time).  Usually, the day before Christmas Eve, or earlier in the actual day, my father would realize that while he had been busy keeping the citizens of New York City safe, he had forgotten to get my mother a gift and had to go into serious shopping mode if he was going to have something for her to open.  This particular year, I guess I was around seven, he grabbed me, dusk just about to fall as snow dropped from the sky, and dragged me to a neighboring town where a boutique was still open.  It was called The Pearl Shoppe and sold things like giant pairs of white underpants, enormous bras, girdles with lots of snaps and elastic and some fancy duds that the well-heeled women of Rockland County wore to holiday parties.  We wandered in, immediately assaulted by a woman covered in Jean Nate cologne, and given the hard sell.
Out of the corner of my eye I spotted the most gorgeous silver lame (and apologies that I don’t know how to put either an accent ague or accent grave over the e) gown, hanging close to the window on a hangar, clearly an item that was being highlighted as something every woman should have.  It was hanging alone, calling to me.  As a devoted Barbie aficionado, it seemed like something my leggy doll should wear.  From there, I made the leap that it was something that my mother—the parent of four children under the age of seven, two still in diapers—should have.  After all, she could wear it to all of the holiday parties that she and my father would go to, I thought, not taking into account that the parents of four little children rarely get invited anywhere.  I posited my theory to my father.  He had a wad of cash and little time. 
He was in.
The Jean Nate lady was more than happy to wrap it up in a big box with a giant silver bow, reminding my father that here at The Pearl Shoppe, there were no returns for cash, just store credit.  But we were both blinded by the silver lame gown—it even had a bolero jacket that you could wear when it got chilly—so it didn’t matter.  In our minds, my mother would never return such a glorious item.  Why would she? 
We were both trembling with anticipation when my father handed her the box. 
“Oh, The Pearl Shoppe,” she said, clearly not as excited as we thought she might be.  She undid the beautiful bow and riffled through the tissue paper covering the most exquisite silver gown this side of Garnerville.  While two of us fought over the bow, she let the baby play with the tissue paper.  She uncovered the silver gown, throwing my grandmother a look that said, “where in God’s name am I—the mother of four little kids—going to wear a silver ball gown?” but to my father she proclaimed it the most beautiful item of clothing she had ever seen and would ever own.
It may come as a surprise to you to find out that my mother never did wear the silver gown or that I was with her when she went to return it to The Pearl Shoppe.  The Jean Nate lady was not amused.  Nor was my mother when she found out that the only thing she could exchange it for were a dozen packets of giant white underpants and an enormous bra.
I learned a few things that year:

You can never have enough giant white underpants or enormous bras.

You should never take gift advice from a girl whose fashion icon is a twelve-inch doll with inordinately long legs and is made of plastic.

Always marry a man who thinks that despite the fact that you spend the better part of your day changing diapers and wiping up spilled milk, he always think you should look like a princess.

Happy holidays from all of us at The Stiletto Gang!
Maggie Barbieri

Why It’s Always a “Great Day” when I Talk About Books on TV

/in /by

by Susan McBride

I had the pleasure of appearing on “Great Day St. Louis” again yesterday, something I’ve been doing about every other month or so for a few years now.  Watching myself on TV today compared to when I was first published in 1999 is a hoot.  Back then, when I was nervous, I tended to do bug eyes (aka “deer in headlights”).  The longer I spoke, the bigger my eyes got.  Although, come to think of it, I did that when speaking in person to others, too.  I remember one conversation with Charlaine Harris eons back when she finally shouted at me, “Blink, dammit!”  Thank goodness, I got over that.

Back to “Great Day” and the Great Reads segment from yesterday.  I always look forward to going downtown to the KMOV Channel 4 studios.  It means getting to play hooky from my current work-in-progress (and those pesky looming deadlines), so I jump at the chance!  Ed loves going with me, so he usually takes the morning off.  I never protest, as I don’t mind a bit having a “driver” drop me off in front of the building while he goes to park the car in the appointed lot a few blocks up (it’s especially handy-dandy when the weather is ugly).

I even have fun pushing through the revolving doors to get into the KMOV lobby, where I sign in at the reception desk and then wait for Sammi, an assistant producer, to come get me (and any other guests hanging around).  We enter the newsroom where various reporters, meteorologists, and even anchor-people are working on stories in their cubbies. Then it’s back through a hallway and into the studio, approaching from behind a wall and emerging right beside the Weather Center (Ed loves the Weather Center most of all).

Since it’s the holiday season, the anchor desk has lots of poinsettias around it, which looks so pretty.  The chairs for guests of “Great Day” are right beside it.  Ed and I always like to poke around, take pictures, talk to Jenn and Brooke, the producers (who are adorable!), or Matt Chambers (one of the “Great Day” co-hosts and one of the station’s most beloved weather dudes!), and also with other guests (that’s how I met Lisa Bertrand, Wade Rouse, and a whole bunch of other cool people that I like to keep in touch with, or at least keep tabs on!).

Yesterday, the owner of a gold, silver, and coin shop was on-set for a segment, and I got his card (I really want to sell my old jewelry from high school that I will never wear again or pass down to anyone!).  He gave us newly-minted quarters and a newly-minted dollar.  So cool!  You never know what’s going to happen on “Great Day”–I once got a fabulous cookbook from a visiting chef!  But I digress!

Once Sammi gets me settled inside, she hands me a script.  I find out which co-host will do the segment with me (yesterday, it was Matt) and what Matt will see running across the teleprompter.  That way, I have a good idea of what to expect when I sit down with him on the set, the camera rolls (and my mike goes live), and we start talking about books. The script also notes the approximate time I’ll be on-air, so I know if I’m early in the show or later.  For Thursday, I was on at 10:34, so Ed and I got to sit and watch the cooking segment (turkey pot pie!), an interior designer discussing her family’s “Christmas auction” (which they do in lieu of buying lots of gifts), and a therapist explaining seasonal mood changes (my mood only gets better the colder and snowier it gets!).

And then it was my turn!  Sammi had me miked up the back of my sweater, and I followed her over the camera cables to the kitchen area, where I sat on a stool behind the counter with Matt.  I’m usually on the other side of the set behind a glass-topped table (or, occasionally, on the sofa).  So this was something new!

Once the previous segment finished (we got to watch it as it aired), Matt introduced me and the Great Reads segment…and off we went!  Here’s the bit so you can see it for yourself (I gush about three recent books I loved, including our very own Maggie Barbieri’s PHYSICAL EDUCATION and recent Stiletto guest blogger Marilyn Brant’s A SUMMER IN EUROPE).  It only takes about five minutes, and then I’m done!  As always whenever I leave the “Great Day” set, I can’t wait to go back again!  😉