Tag Archive for: Susan McBride

Into the Wild

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by Susan McBride

Today I’m filling in for the Northern half of Evelyn David, and it’s my honor to do so. I decided to tell y’all the story of the cardinals who live in our yard, and I do mean the actual birds. If we had a pair of Cardinal ball players nesting in our pear tree, I have a feeling even animal-lover Tony LaRussa would not be too happy about it.

Let me start at the very beginning. When Ed and I bought our house three years ago, the yard had been neglected for quite awhile. The bad kind of honeysuckle had grown rampant in our backyard, and Ed practically had to go out wielding a machete to chop it back (and we still have more chopping to do–that stuff doesn’t die easily, does it?). I unearthed lots of brick garden surrounds and added more so I could plant like a maniac. We cut back ivy from the patio and found the loveliest stone border. The side yard, which we labeled “The Wasteland,” was regraded with help from a landscaping crew. A flagstone path was added with liriope on either side. Our rose bushes came back to life, and things started looking healthy and happy again.

The front yard was no better than the back. We hired Ray’s Tree Service to tear out a HUGE forsythia bush that had morphed into a 6′ x 6′ blob. Half of it grew over the driveway, which made it hard for Ed to put his car in on that side until he’d hacked it back to the grass. We managed to trim down another forsythia, and we demolished weeds that had grown over the gas meter and a downspout. Six other overgrown shrubs sat in the second tier of a “garden” directly in front of the house. We pruned them as much as we could, but still the tallest stood about 8′ or 9′ and even the flatter bushes went half-way up the frames of our nearly floor-to-ceiling windows. We finally decided to have those torn out as well after finding damage to the wood window frames and realizing rain-water was leaking into the basement down that outside wall.

I’m glad I was home the day Ray’s crew showed up to cut those suckers down. Just before they hauled the 8′ or 9′ shrub to their truck, I noticed a nest within and two baby birds practically falling out. I removed it, worried the babies were dead already beacuse they were SO tiny and pink. It was cold that day, sunny but with a blustery wind. I had no clue what to do with them. I stuck the nest in the only remaining bush nearby: the saved forysthia. Then I ran inside and called my mom.

Thank goodness, Mom remembered there was the Wild Bird Sanctuary in Overland, which wasn’t too far from where we live. I called the place first, asking what to do, and they basically advised I leave the nest in the forsythia bush so the mother could find her kids. Well, I sat behind the storm door for an hour or more, watching Mama Cardinal frantically hop around, chirping, looking for her babies. She flew all around the front of the house, but the wee cardinals obviously weren’t making a sound. So she couldn’t find them.

I felt awful, like a baby bird killer. Plus, here in St. Louis where the baseball Cardinals rule, it would have been sacrilegious to let newborn cardinals die. So I called the Wild Bird Sanctuary again (okay, and again and again), until they finally said, “Just bring ’em down here!” I was advised to fill a baggie with warm water, put it in a shoebox, then set the nest on top of it. I covered the whole thing with a soft piece of T-shirt. And I drove to Overland to get the babies into caring hands tout suite.

I was told the babies were a day-old at most, and I worried about them all night. I had promised my mom and my husband that I wouldn’t call and check on them. So, the next day, I started to dial a few times but made myself hang up. Until I couldn’t stand it anymore and rang the Sanctuary once more, asking as soon as they picked up, “How are the babies? Did they live through the night?” I realized the first 24-hours were the most crucial so when I was told, “They made it, and they’re keeping us busy today!” I breathed a huge sigh of relief. And, no, I didn’t call again. That was enough for me. I firmly believed they would live.

With the overgrown shrubs gone, (thankfully) the Mama Cardinal and her red hubby moved into the backyard. We put out a feeder for them filled with wild bird seed (which Squirrelly Squirrel likes to hang by his toes and enjoy way too often–he’s already pulled it down twice). Best of all, I saw Mama Cardinal gobble at the feeder and then fly into the pear tree. Soon after, I heard chirping and could just barely see her feeding a wee cardinal. Ed and I witnessed several more tiny bird-lings hopping from branch to branch inside the pear tree not long after. It warmed my heart to think that Mama and Papa Cardinal had another batch of babies after the two lost to them (but saved from the tree shredder). Yeah, I’m a sucker for a story with a happy ending.

P.S. We’re on our second feeder (a “squirrel-proof” one this time) after Squirrely Squirrel knocked the first one down for the third time and broke it for good. Muhaha, we humans aren’t as stupid as we look, Squirrely Squirrel!

Stink You Very Much

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by Susan McBride

Last week, I read about an office in Texas where 34 people were taken to the hospital after a co-worker spritzed herself with perfume. I wondered what that perfume was–Eau de Skunk, perhaps?–and I started having flashbacks.

Years ago, I worked with a very nice woman in the transcription department at a medical practice. She loved Dollar Store perfume. Bear in mind that the “transcription department” was the two of us stuck in a walk-in closet with our computers and no ventilation. The moment she showed up for work and I inhaled the extremely sweet fragrance, I got an instant pounding headache. I tried to breathe through my mouth until I couldn’t stand it anymore. One day I finally broke down and said, “I’m begging you, please, keep the cap on that perfume and use some Ivory soap instead!” She ran crying to everyone else in the place, and I was branded the Mean Girl.

Fortunately for me, she actually listened. She stopped wearing the offending scent. And I stopped getting those pounding headaches.

I recall a year or so back when another Susan McBride sued the City of Detroit after a co-worker’s perfume and perchant for plug-in air fresheners caused illness in the scent-sensitive Detroit Susan. The lawsuit came after Detroit Susan requested that her fellow employee cease and desist with the stink. Although the co-worker said she could do without the air fresheners, she couldn’t live without her perfume. I’m not sure what happened in this case (must Google), but I actually sympathize with Detroit Susan. Being forced to routinely breathe a powerful smell that makes you nauseous isn’t pleasant.

One of my former high school beaus has a lovely mother who regularly doused herself in White Linen. If y’all know what White Linen smells like, you also realize it’s a very strong scent. During car rides with that old boyfriend’s family, I breathed through my mouth and didn’t say a word. I never had the heart to tell Mom o’ Beau that I couldn’t stand to be in a tight space with her because the fumes near to killed me.

I used to wear White Shoulders to every junior high school dance, and I doubt there was a day during high school that didn’t begin with my rubbing Ralph Lauren onto the backs of my wrists. But sometime around college I stopped enjoying perfumes and colognes, and I looked for really softly-scented soaps and body gels instead. That’s when I began experiencing the joy of seasonal allergies, too, so I don’t doubt there’s a connection.

Have you ever gotten in an elevator with someone whose scent made your eyes water? Or run away from an overzealous perfume-squirting sales lady in a department store, screaming, “No, thank you!” Surely I’m not the only one with a sensitivity to smells (okay, me and my Doppelganger in Detroit).

My husband teases me, saying whenever we go out–especially to a sports venue–I’ll always remark, “It smells funny in here.” But then again, places like ice rinks where men play hockey for hours in stinky gear they’ve stuffed in bags in their car trunks (and refuse to wash until the end of the season) does make for a very special odor. Eau de Hockey Gear. Not exactly something the French will decide to bottle in lieu of Chanel No. 5.

Believe it or not, there are scents I adore: fresh strawberries, my mom’s kitchen on Thanksgiving, a crisp fall day, sheets just out of the dryer, cookies hot out of the oven, baby powder, lily-of-the-valley, and newly-cut grass (even if it makes me sneeze!).

Something else that doesn’t stink: my editor loved my revision of THE COUGAR CLUB. Hooray! I’ve got a sneak peek of my new cover, too (see the sidebar for a glimpse). Though the first attempt at cover art definitely had me pinching my nose, this one looks delish! 😉

Little Things Mean A Lot

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by Susan McBride

I find myself avoiding the evening news these days. I mostly tune in just to see the weather and hear any updates on off-season Blues hockey (hey, they just got a really good defenseman from Sweden who’s about 19 and cute as a button!). I’m not even very keen on reading online news. It’s like everywhere I look something awful’s happening: economies are collapsing, wars are going on, a military coup’s taken place, another celebrity has passed away, or a fat-cat financier’s going to jail (okay, that last one isn’t depressing at all really).

If anything good comes out of our own country’s current mess, I hope it’s people taking a look at their lives and realizing that little things mean a lot. I remember being in high school when Ralph Lauren was taking off, and we all begged our parents for anything with a tiny Polo man on it. “Greed is good,” Gordon Gekko declared, and everyone bought it. Pretty soon, too many folks were living on credit, buying houses, cars, electronics, and other bling they couldn’t afford. Right out of college, my sister had five major credit cards all charged to their limits. Meanwhile, post-university, I paid for everything in cash and had a heckuva time getting a Visa until I’d established a credit history. Then again, maybe that was a good thing as I don’t rely on credit cards much now.

Don’t get me wrong. I like nice things as much as the next gal. But once I was living off my own earnings, it was amazing how much I realized I could do without. What I couldn’t pay for with cash, I didn’t need. My grandfather had lived by that credo, and I see how right he was. I feel fortunate to have married a man who doesn’t need a lot of “stuff” to be happy.

Unfortunately, these days everything that’s affordable seems to be made in China. I’m sure tons of folks like me would rather buy “Made in the USA,” only it’s hard to find. Honestly, I’ve had enough T-shirts that fall apart at the seams after one wearing to be willing to pay more for something that’s domestically produced by skillful adults, not by children in sweat shops. Wouldn’t it be lovely if more companies returned from overseas and got the manufacturing biz humming in this country again?

As kids, we didn’t care about labels or impressing anyone with status symbols. The simplest things were the most fun, like catching fireflies on a warm summer night; running through the sprinkler in our bathing suits; finding clover and weaving it into a necklace; baking cookies in grandma’s kitchen. I’m not sure when the “gotta have it” syndrome sets in or what causes it. Too bad there’s not a vaccine to inoculate us against it.

I still think the best things in life are free, like taking walks in the park, chillin’ on the porch swing, going to art festivals, holding hands with your honey, or singing your lungs out to Def Leppard. Oh, and how cool is the sound of thunder and rain from a good old-fashioned summer storm (but not the kind that spawns tornadoes or knocks down power lines!)?

I’d like to hear some of the simple things in your lives that you love to do. And, whatever they are, I hope you get to do them plenty over this extended holiday weekend. Happy Fourth of July to everyone!

P.S. Speaking of fun free things: The Book Belles are giving away a tote bag full of signed books. Contest ends July 15 so there’s still time!

Ah, the Joys of Home Work

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by Susan McBride

My husband thinks I’m so lucky. As a full-time writer, I work at home, which means I don’t have to fight rush-hour traffic in the morning or change out of my pajamas until noon. He’s jealous, too, that the cats can hang out in my office, their furry lengths draped across my lap or my desk. Only there are drawbacks to being a work-at-homer, kind of along the lines of “anything too good to be true usually is.”

Like when you realize your home is your office so there’s no leaving work at work. I’m envious that Ed gets to put being a software engineering team manager out of his head once he drives out of the company lot. Once he’s kicking back on the sofa in front of the widescreen, he’s ready to chill (unless it’s the weekend, and the list of chores on the fridge is making him cross-eyed).

When I’m on deadline for a first draft, revisions, copy-edits, whatever, my work is constantly calling to me, 24/7. I don’t get to turn it off, shift “job” to another part of my brain, and relax. I know that everytime I walk upstairs past my office, there’s more to be done. So I frequently find myself saying, “I just need to write for a bit,” and I’ll disappear for hours. It’s no wonder I sometimes forget what day of the week it is since I’m often at the keyboard pounding away even on weekends.

Oh, yeah, and there’s that lovely side effect of home-as-office which awards the lucky work-at-homer the opportunity to wait on and (for lack of a better word) supervise every repairman and delivery. So, let’s say, when it’s time for an AC check and the dude “will arrive sometime between eight and noon” or the new dishwasher is coming “anytime next Thursday,” yep, yours truly gets to meet-and-greet. It’s hard to write when someone’s installing an appliance, which entails a good amount of banging noises and switching off of electrical circuits. I can’t seem to get deeply into a scene when a stranger in my house keeps calling, “Ma’am?” from downstairs. Even on no-repairman days, there are always loads of laundry, vacuuming, mopping, trips to the grocery store and bank, and other miscellaneous chores that fall to me. I do try to squeeze in the treadmill occassionally, too, even if it’s the middle of the afternoon. More often than not, the doorbell rings right after I’ve stepped out of the shower, and it’s the UPS guy. I’ve actually signed for packages with a towel wrapped around my middle and one hastily wound around my dripping head. (Well, like that old Wells Fargo Wagon song from “Music Man,” it might be somethin’ special just for me! Most recently, it was hot-off-the-press copies of LOVE, LIES, AND TEXAS DIPS…Oooo!!!)

As for our cats sweetly purring in my lap as I type…ha! That’s only in my husband’s wild imagination. Usually, they’re chasing each other around the house, howling and spitting as they fling themselves atop my desk and swat at each other, knocking papers to the floor and often stepping on various keys on my keyboard. Once Munch plopped down on the “Enter” key and suddenly a 10-page chapter turned into hundreds of blank pages. This weekend, Max hopped up and clicked the mouse with his paw, sending an email I was writing in reply to a blogger doing a contest for one of my books…before I’d half-finished it. Thanks, Maxwell.

It’s a wonder anything ever gets done. Speaking of which, excuse me a minute while I dump another load in the washing machine, throw some clothes in the dryer, and let the plumber in. I have a feeling Munch and Max will attempt some very interesting revisions for me while I’m gone.

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EXCITING NEWS: My second Debs novel, LOVE, LIES, AND TEXAS DIPS, will be released on June 9. I’m giving away five copies on my web site so drop by and enter!

Feelin’ Brain Dead

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by Susan McBride

I’ve got two weeks left to finish up THE COUGAR CLUB, and I’m feeling just a tad freaked out. I’ve been trying hard to say “no” more and travel less so I have more time to write, particularly with back-to-back deadlines these past two or three years. But despite the best intentions, I never end up with as much work time as I’d like. Something’s gotta give, and it’s usually sleep. That leads to brain fog, which leads to “oops” moments. Take this morning, for example. I had two hours’ worth of errands to run before the writing could commence, and I realized as I hit the vet’s office to pick up a prescription for a cat that I’d forgotten to enclose a check with a bill I mailed off at the P.O. this morning. Sigh.

For some reason, my tired mind keeps singing, “feelin’ brain dead” to the tune of “feelin’ groovy” from Sesame Street. That’s when you know you’re sleep-deprived. At least it’s stopped thinking of that stupid FreeCreditReport.com song!

Still it’s hard to regret taking time off work to do things like fly to Houston in early April for the Texas Library Association convention (even though I had laryngitis–oy! Can you say “stress much”?). I loved being back in my old hometown, seeing friends, doing a drive-thru of my former neighborhood which is where THE DEBS series is set, taping a TV interview, signing stock at the lovely Blue Willow Bookshop, and doing an event at Murder by the Book. If I sounded like a croaking frog, oh, well. There wasn’t much I could do about it, and everyone was awfully nice though it sure made it hard to schmooze! (Pictured left: Sara Zarr, author of SWEETHEARTS, and Justin Somper, author of the VAMPIRATES series.)

Neither do I regret playing emcee at Lisa Scottoline’s appearance on April 21 at the St. Louis County Library headquarters. I’d never met Lisa before, and she’s terrific. Just a bundle of energy and a hilarious speaker.

And, my gosh, it would’ve killed me to say “no” to the St. Louis Komen for the Cure co-chairs, Dede and Kris, who invited me to be guest speaker at the 11th Annual Survivors Luncheon at the Ritz-Carlton on April 26. As a breast cancer survivor, I felt honored that they’d asked me to share my experience with 800 fellow survivors and their friends and family. My husband, my mom, and my mom-in-law accompanied me, and I ran into several pals and met lots of other amazing women. I’d been warned not to make my speech sad, something I wasn’t sure how to do anyway. I got through the worst of my boobal trauma by relying on my sense of humor. If you can’t laugh through the tears, I don’t know how you make it.

I’d never been so nervous before a talk, however, and I picked at my food during lunch (which was a shame because it was delish!). But once I was up on the stage and the lights were glaring in my face–I mean, those suckers were bright!–the words began to flow and the laughter rang out through the ballroom. By the time I finished, I realized people were on their feet, clapping. It took a minute to grasp the fact that I’d gotten my first standing-O! Wow. I signed books for at least an hour after, and I probably took longer signing than I should have. But I couldn’t help chatting with each woman who approached. It’s astounding the connection between strangers when you share a bond like surviving breast cancer. I felt like I’d been embraced by some of the nicest people in the world. For all the luncheon ladies who said I inspired them, let me tell you, they inspired me, too.

No more outside events until next Friday when I speak at the Young Authors Conference downtown to St. Louis Public School students. No matter the interruptions, I keep telling myself to FOCUS and get THE COUGAR CLUB done by May 15. (I think I can, I think I can!) And if that fails, I remind myself that I finished TOO PRETTY TO DIE and wrote THE DEBS entirely while going through my surgery and radiation therapy in late 2006 and early 2007. Geez, Louise! If I can do that, I can surely complete the last chunk of COUGAR in two weeks, right? Even with a soggy brain.

Are We Done Yet?

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by Susan McBride

Before I met Ed and we bought a house together, I didn’t have cable. I never watched TV much so I didn’t feel like I was missing anything. Once we put our names on a mortgage and combined our worldly goods (okay, mostly my worldly goods and a few of his that went into his basement Man Cave), I realized the addiction that is HGTV. I think the first weekend after Charter turned on our cable, I watched 12 hours of a “Design Star” marathon. Needless to say, I was totally hooked. When I went through my breast cancer stuff and was forced to take mandatory bed rest, I probably watched every HGTV show ever produced.

And it’s like the “Harry Potter” movies for me: I can watch the same shows over and over and over. Scary, isn’t it? I love to see ugly rooms transformed in under $2,000 (“Designed to Sell”) or even under $500 (“Design Cents,” although sometimes I think the folks who had the cheap re-do should ask for the money back). Never a fan of clutter, I adore when Tabitha on “Get It Sold” instructs hapless housesellers to pack up their crap. “Look, you can see the gorgeous hardwood floors!” she’ll gleefully exclaim after boxes of plastic kids’ toys and endless wedding photographs are sent to storage.

The bad thing is that all these shows keep inspiring me to whip our house a little closer to perfection. It’s almost there, really. I’m just figuring out what to do about the large bedroom window now that we’ve gotten rid of a huge old armoire (and an equally huge old TV), moving a few things around so our room seems twice as big. Do I go for the $692 custom lined drapes with walnut rod and rings? Or do I go thrifty and order the $79 per panel silk dupioni drapes from Pottery Barn? (Honestly, I’m having trouble deciding! I keep telling myself the $692 would be helping the economy, right?)

Then there are the shrubs in front of the house that were overgrown when we moved in (I swear, the doctor who owned our house before us didn’t trim a shrub or prune a tree in three years). I had Dave from Ray’s come out last week and give us an estimate to cut the bushes off at their ankles and dig out the roots. Once they’re out of here, we can repair the window frames and screens that have been smothered by evergreen boughs before the grinder comes and runs over my tulips and daffodils.

Oh, yeah, and I still want to remove the oven hood and spray it white with appliance paint (it’s the only thing in the kitchen that’s original and it doesn’t match anything), and I’d like to get all the windows washed, inside and out.

All the while, my husband keeps saying, “Are we done yet?” Which is kind of funny considering the list on the side of the fridge which is full of “future projects.” Do men really think a house is like a steak? Is it ever really done?

Perhaps I can blame my drive to decorate, landscape, and fix what needs fixing on HGTV (or, as likely, the joy of having anything to distract me from a fast-approaching deadline). Whatever the cause, I’ll promise this: when Clive and Tabitha and Lisa LaPorta finally beautify the last cluttered, paint-peeled, ill-landscaped house in America, I will take down the “to-do” list from the fridge. And we will be done. For real. Maybe.

P.S. I’m in Houston today at the Texas Library Association convention as you read this. I’m also signing stock at the Blue Willow Bookshop, shooting a segment for “Wild About Houston,” and signing at Murder by the Book tonight at 6. So any further home improvements will have to wait ’til I get back.

Writing by the Seat of my Pants

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by Susan McBride

If you didn’t guess by the title of this post, I’m one of those writers who usually flies by the seat of my pants. I never worked with outlines while composing 10 novels that never got published; nor did I use one for my two small press books or the five Debutante Dropout Mysteries I wrote for Avon.

All that changed when I signed with Random House to do THE DEBS young adult series. My contract required I turn in an outline before each book. A detailed outline. And it had to be approved by my editor, which meant turning it in and getting her feedback before I got the thumbs-up.

You can’t even imagine how bad my first outline was. I figure my editor at RH assumed I was drunk when I wrote it (and I don’t drink). Or possibly that I let my cats’ paws do the walking on my keyboard. It stunk because I had no clue what I was doing. Creating an outline before I could sit down and write felt foreign to me, almost like I was ruining all the fun. Somehow (thank God), it all worked out, and THE DEBS came out A-OK.

Over the course of two more YA books (LOVE, LIES, AND TEXAS DIPS and GLOVES OFF), I got better at outlining. Not great, mind you, just adequate enough that my editor could make some sense of the plotlines I suggested. I’m still not entirely comfortable with the idea; but it doesn’t freak me out anymore either.

Now, after turning in GLOVES OFF and doing the revisions lickety-split after getting notes back before January ended, I’ve gone into manic writing mode as I work on THE COUGAR CLUB for Avon. My deadline is May 1. Gulp. I’ve made fairly good progress, but I find myself hyperventilating now and then, realizing “I have no frickin’ outline!”

I got so used to them that now writing by my gut again feels a wee bit scary. Don’t get me wrong, I am enjoying the freedom of letting my crazy brain take me in all sorts of directions. I fall asleep at night thinking of what I’ve just written that day, and I wake up in the morning with new ideas that get my heart pumping.

But I’m nervous all the same. A part of me misses having that crutch of truly knowing what’s coming next…and then next after that. Then I remind myself that once I get COUGAR done and sent off to my editor at Avon, I’ll have an outline to write for Random House again.

So next time I’m at a panel and someone asks, “Which of you outline?” I’ll raise my hand. And then when they inquire, “And which of you flies by the seat of her pants?” I’ll raise my hand, too.

Now It’s My Turn to Prepare for a Conference

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I’ll be heading off to Las Vegas (actually Henderson) for the EpiCon tomorrow. Epic is the organization for electronically published writers. http://www.epicauthors.com

Our first stop though, will be to see my sister who lives in Las Vegas. I love going to Vegas for conferences as I can visit my sis and write the trip off. We don’t get to see each other often enough and we’re the only two left in our immediate family.

I’m going to be giving a presentation on writing mystery series–good topic for me since I write two, the Rocky Bluff PD series and the Deputy Tempe Crabtree series. I’m also on two panels that are going to be for young writers: one is about putting it all together and the other is on World Building or settings.

There will be lots of good presentations to go to also as this conference is really geared for e-publishing and promotion. The publisher of my Deputy Tempe Crabtree series, Dan Reitz of Mundania Press, will be there and it’s always good to be able to touch base with your publisher in person.

Like so many cons, I’ve gone to enough of them that I’ve made good friends that I’m eager to see again. Lee Emory, Treble Hear Books publisher, is a special friend and we’ve enjoyed each other at several Epicon. She bravely published my Christian horror novels. Of course there are many others I’m looking forward to seeing.

The conference is located at the Montelongo Resort and it looks like a fun place to explore. I’m not a gambler so that part of Las Vegas never appeals to me.

My books are already packed to the bookstore. Next, it’s deciding what clothes to pack–always a major decision. I’ll give my sis a call and find out what the weather’s like–it’ll surely be warmer than it is here.

The next conference for me after this one is Mayhem in the Midlands in May. I’ve already been contacted as to what kind of panels I’d like to be on. Mayhem is where I first met Susan McBride.

Now, back to packing.

Marilyn
http://fictionforyou.com

Social Networking

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My MySpace page never amounted to anything. I thought I’d be really cool and put a Beyoncé song on there so people would know how hip I was, but after a few days, I noticed an alert on my site that said: “Song removed by artist.” How did Beyoncé know that I had her song on there? I never could quite figure that out and I was terrified that I had broken some copyright law much less angered Beyoncé. So, I stayed off of MySpace and vowed never to join the social networking world again.

Until a friend turned me on to Facebook. This, to me, seems like a very user-friendly, very safe place to social network. Hey—even my Mom’s on there! I have reconnected with about a third of my high-school graduating class (hi, girls!), a bunch of people I used to work with (remember those crazy annual business plans? Good times…), my old neighbors (remember that time when…you don’t…well, ok). It’s a great way to advertise when your latest book comes out and a good way to stay in touch with people far and near.

There are just a few problems with the social networking idea, though: getting “friend” requests from people you don’t know, and never hearing back from people to whom you yourself have sent a “friend” request. Awkward on both accounts. I’m assuming that those people who send you friend requests—and whom you’ve never met—have found you on one of your other friend’s lists and thinks that because you have one common friend, the two of you will have stuff in common. And that you’ll be interested in reading their status updates. Or, that they are trying to amass as many friends as possible so that they have a robust list. I’m not sure. I only “friend” people I knew or know now, which is why I don’t understand when they don’t “friend” me back. Maybe they just don’t like? Hard to tell.

One thing’s for sure: this is the most like a high school student I’ve felt in about thirty years. That’s one problem. (Or two, technically, I suppose.) The second is that I’m a little obsessed with Facebook. I now have another time-wasting site to visit, going back to last week’s theme of procrastination. I have plenty of work to keep me busy and technically, I should be a little further along on book 5. But I find the status updates from friends scintillating and worthy of my time. Tell me, though: do I really need to check it so obsessively every day to find out who had a pastrami on rye for lunch? Or who has decided to leave work early? Or who is on their second gin and tonic (and it’s only three o’clock in the afternoon)? Probably not. I was living a full life before Facebook not knowing these little tidbits. Now I’m loathe to miss even one update.

The latest craze on Facebook is to post twenty-five things about yourself. These lists take many forms and have many different kinds of entries from the banal (“I don’t like onions”) to the poignant (“I wish I were a better friend to x or x”). I’ve been “tagged”—asked to contribute my own list of twenty-five things—but I feel like if I need to share that many things about myself, I’ll get my husband liquored up and make him listen to me drone on about the things I don’t think he knows about me. (And trust me—he knows everything there is to know, hence, the liquored up part.)

Thanks to fellow Stiletto Gang member Susan McBride, I no longer check my Amazon number, read reviews of my books online, or Google myself. Should we add Facebook to the list? Should I limit myself to one viewing in the morning and/or one at night? Or should I go off completely?

I have a friend who just took the drastic step of going through her friend list and “un-friending” anyone with whom she was just not a true friend. This meant the guy who used to work in marketing at our old company, or the hair dresser she had when she lived across the country, and a few other people who my friend reflected on, coming to the conclusion that they just weren’t very nice to her when they lived/worked/or went to school together. I thought this was truly radical but not a step I’m willing to take right now.

So, for the foreseeable future, I will wait with baited breath to read whether or not you got your car’s oil changed, or got that promotion, or read the latest book in the “Twilight” series. I, in the interest of a reciprocal friendship, will let you know how I did on Weight Watchers this week, or what my favorite “King of Queens” episode is.

That’s what (virtual) friends are for, right?

Maggie

Cover Girl!

/in /by

by Susan McBride

It all started a few months back when I got an email from out of the blue. “We’d like to put you on the cover of St. Louis Woman Magazine,” it said, and the note was signed “Lynn Deane, associate publisher.”

Maybe it’s my mystery background that makes me suspicious, but I initially wondered if it was a hoax. Before I even told my husband about the message, I did some online sleuthing, double-checking Lynn’s email with the staff listing on the magazine’s web site. Yep, it seemed kosher. She’d given me her cell number and asked that I call with an answer soon. I figured that would tell the tale, too. If someone picked up, saying, “Bertie’s Dry Cleaners,” then I’d know it was a joke.

So I dialed and held my breath until the ringing stopped and a woman said, “Hello,” and identified herself as Lynn. Apparently, she was on vacation in Florida, and I felt like I was in La-La Land. Giddy that this was for real, I breathlessly told her, “Yes, yes, yes, I’d love to be a St. Louis Woman Magazine cover girl!” I mean, who in her right mind would turn down such an offer? We talked for several minutes though I can hardly remember a word I said. My head was still in the clouds. Though I do recall learning that the producer of “Great Day St. Louis” (a local morning show on which I’d appeared in September) had suggested me as a potential cover girl. Wow. It’s nice to know that all those manners my mom tried to teach me might have impressed someone (see “Excuse My Manners,” if you don’t know what I’m talking about).

Not long after, I was contacted by the managing editor of Indianapolis Woman and St. Louis Woman (the same company publishes both). She wanted to drive in from Indy to interview me at home. We set a time and date, and she showed up an hour early with her notebook in hand, ready to go (turns out, she was on Indy-time, not St. Louis time!). Five hours later, Ed had come home from work, and Rebecca was just getting ready to leave. I don’t know about y’all, but five hours of yakking had me worried about all the things I might’ve said that could get me in trouble.

Next, I heard from the art director who suggested doing the photo shoot at my house instead of the studio. I wasn’t sure how that would work, but was game. Not having to get out in the cold to drive anywhere–especially hauling several changes of clothes and all my books to use as props–sounded perfect! That way, Ed could drop in during the afternoon and be included in a shot. In fact, he showed up just after stylist to the stars, Darin Slyman, had finished with my hair and makeup. (Darin had some great stories about celebs he’d worked with–I told him he should write a book!) My mom even popped in to watch the goings-on. At one point, the living room was practically emptied of furniture and was filled instead with lights. Photographer Steve Truesdell and art director Michelle Thompson encouraged me to be expressive (which accounts for my very goofy look on the cover!). When I asked Michelle, “Why can’t I just smile and look pretty,” she responded, “too normal.” Okey-dokey.

Three changes of clothes and four hours later, I was pooped, and the crew packed up and took off. I think my face hurt from smiling and “being expressive.” Whew. I don’t know how those chicks on “America’s Top Model” do it. But I must confess that I had a ball.

As of this moment, I haven’t seen the actual magazine though I have peeked at some of the photos and the article on the web site. I’ll be handing out the issue from the St. Louis Woman Magazine booth at the Women’s Heart Health Fair in the Nordstrom courtyard of West County Center today and Saturday for an hour a pop. Can’t wait to hold a real-live copy in my hands!

P.S. Just heard from the managing editor who gave me this link to view the article on the Indianapolis Woman Magazine site. The St. Louis Woman cover story is only slightly different with a little less info about my early years in Indy. Nice!