Tag Archive for: Susan McBride

My Deep Thoughts as I Wait On the AC Man

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by Susan McBride

We didn’t have our air conditioner checked before the summer, and it’s been a hot one.  So the thing has been running overtime (and, knock on wood, doing just fine). But I’ve been busy with deadlines so I put it off and put it off…until the Air Comfort people had called me twice to remind me that, per our contract, we get an AC exam and furnace exam annually.  And perhaps since August was fast approaching, we might want to do the AC check soon?  I finally said, “Okay, okay!  How about Wednesday?”
My favorite thing about waiting for a service call (whether it’s to repair something or not) is the, “They’ll be there between eight and noon” time frame.  So you can’t leave the house, and you can work, but not on something that requires intense concentration because you may very well be interrupted.  If you’re the spouse at home, you know how this goes.  Usually it’s closer to noon than to eight, but you never know.  So you’re too afraid to get deeply absorbed in anything, sure the doorbell will ring just as you’re writing that all-important final graph of a very critical chapter.
I’m not sure spouses or significant others who work outside the house understand how this throws off a day.  I did make Ed stay home once when the electricians showed up to rewire our electrical box, mostly because he has frequently reminded me that his undergrad degree was in electrical engineering.  So I told him, “Then you should be here to make sure they do things right.”  I think he enjoyed himself, hanging out with the guys in toolbelts, talking about wiring and amps and tripping switches.

I have to say that we have very nice plumbers, electricians, AC/furnace guys, and so on.  I’ve known most since 1996 when I bought my condo, and I’ve depended on them in this house that we purchased five years ago.  In fact, when they show up at the door, I’m tempted to hug them. I feel like they’re old pals as well as heroes who can rescue us from dripping pipes, electrical boxes that are fire hazards, and so much more. 

Take the AC/Furnance Dude, for example.  The last time he was here was November of 2010 to check the furnace. I was madly working on LITTLE BLACK DRESS with the deadline fast approaching.  His wife had just had a baby, and I had found out I was pregnant.  So we talked about books and babies before, during, and after he worked.  When he showed up today, he asked how things went, and I had to tell him that we’d lost the bambino at eight weeks.  He shared some stories with me about his and his wife’s road to having two kids, and then we yakked about scars and sun damage and books again.

Ed’s a lot more reserved than I am, so sometimes he’s surprised at my conversations with people outside the family (and online!).  I remember my grandfather saying once to my grandma, “You know people’s life stories from being on an elevator with them,” and Ed feels much the same way about me.  Only whomever I’m talking to probably learns a bit about me as well!  I think it’s the Internet Effect.  Once you have an online presence with web site, blogs, Facebook pages, and interviews scattered across the World Wide Web, sharing pieces of your life isn’t such a big deal.

Granted, I have a line I wouldn’t cross.  There are portions of my life that aren’t for public consumption.  But I figure that if I’m comfortable enough to talk about certain aspects of my health, for example, in a presentation to 800 women at the Susan G. Komen Survivors’ Luncheon, I’d better not be shy when I get questions like, “How’s the boob?”  Or, “How did that Moh’s surgery go?” 

That’s what this morning’s visit with our lovely AC/Furnance Dude made me think about.  Well, that and the fact that I hate waiting on anyone (especially when I’m given a four-hour window).  But then I’m not sure anybody likes that.  😉

I’ve Got the My-New-Book’s-Out-in-Two-Months Jitters

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by Susan McBride

Yeah, it starts early.  Like, long before your book hits the shelves in any brick-and-mortar stores.  When it’s available for pre-order online, only usually your cover art’s not even up yet and there’s no description.  Just your title and your name, and a lonely box that says, “Cover Unavailable.”

Even if you’ve got another book to write that’s supposed to be keeping you busy, you’re thinking about it.  You can’t help it. People keep sending you things, like copy edits, galleys to proof, and other stuff involved in the production process that always requires your immediate attention.  Although you try to put it out of your head, they won’t let you.  It’s like pine needles from your Christmas tree.  You think you’ve got them all swept up and yet, when you vacuum in July, there they are. 

You can run but you can’t hide.  You can fight, but it’s a lost cause.  You can pull yourself up by your bootstraps, shake off the dust, and get right back up on that horse…well, you know what I’m getting at. It’s called the My-New-Book’s-Coming-Out-Jitters. And there are obvious symptoms, and I’ll describe a few in case you think you’ve got jitter fever coming on.

For starters, you can’t help looking at your online numbers.  I know, I know.  You’ve told yourself you wouldn’t do that any more.  But it’s a new book, one you’ve poured your heart into.  Surely someone’s ordered it by now?  So you take a peek, certain you’ll be amazed by the digits.  And, yes…yes, you definitely are.  Because isn’t it not a good thing to be at one million?  Should you call your mom and ask her to order?  Should you pretend you didn’t see?

Then there are the bad dreams.  Nightmares to be specific.  You’re at a writer’s conference and one of your best friends approaches, telling you she’s talked with your publisher and your new book only has a 2% sell-through.  That, for sure, is a very bad thing.  You wake up in a cold sweat, gasping for breath.  Then you look at the calendar and realize the book hasn’t come out yet.  You’re safe.  For now.

You start Googling, looking for early reviews.  Only you keep coming across ad copy for the book that isn’t your favorite.  It’s everywhere.  Along with your old bio that you wrote specifically for the last book that had to do with things this new book has nothing to do with.  Do you:  (a) panic and whine to anyone who will listen (always my first choice); (b) suck it up and ignore it; or, (c) stop spending so much time online looking at stuff that makes you crazy and FOCUS ON THE BOOK THAT’S DUE IN A FEW MONTHS.  Hmm, now that’s a tough choice.

I’m not sure this disease appears in any medical textbook or if it’s acknowledged by the CDC.  Still, it exists.  And the most frightening thing about it:  there’s no cure.  None that I’m aware of anyway. Sure, some authors say a couple drinks ease the pain. But as Maggie knows, I’m no drinker. Others suggest a long vacation, but I’ve got two deadlines this year.  So that’s a no-go.  A lobotomy could be the answer only, yeah, I think I’d miss those two deadlines for sure if I went that route.

Did I mention that Little Black Dress is out two months from today?  (Well, it’s officially a September 1 book, but it releases on August 23.)  So I expect my jitter fever to go sky high in the ensuing weeks.  You might want to keep your distance.  I’ve heard it’s not catching but you can never be too sure.

Are You Ready to Rock? I Mean, Write!

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I am fiercely right-brained and numbers-challenged enough not to have balanced my checkbook in twenty years, if ever.  There’s something about math that makes my mind go blank.  How I was ever a card-carrying member of Mu Alpha Theta—the honors math club—is a freakin’ mystery, right up there with Black Holes and Donald Trump’s hair.
Not surprisingly, I’ve always gravitated toward the arts, though my attempts at expressing myself with anything other than words were less than spectacular.  As an artist-wannabe, I drew hands well but never faces, dabbled in acrylics, and produced a metal sculpture that my sister incredibly assumed was made by our very talented architect uncle.  She dug it out of a box in Mom’s basement and admired it so much that she put it on display in her apartment only to have me exclaim, “Oh, God, that’s ‘diving boy’!  I did that in seventh grade!”  I was far more excited than she.
Despite my artistic failures, I’m still a huge fan of visual arts and often attend art fairs and festivals in St. Louis. When I’m not crazed on deadlines, I love to visit the Art Museum to see the latest exhibits and pine over their permanent collection (I heart Impressionists!). 
My right brain also adores the Symphony, as there’s nothing as glorious to the ears as a Mozart piano concerto or Yo-Yo Ma on the cello.  But my biggest love is ‘80s rock.  Despite my preference for clothes that actually cover my boobs and my butt, I am a closet rock ‘n’ roll chick. 
Before I met Ed, I would have dropped everything to be Def Leppard’s roadie.  Their music feeds something inside me like nothing else does.  A few notes of “Photograph” or “Promises” pushes all the right buttons and conjures up so many moments from my past, good and bad, falling in love, breaking-up, sad times, glory days.  I will never again hear “Pour Some Sugar On Me” without thinking of a trip to Nashville with the Deadly Divas where I cracked up Letha Albright by singing aloud in an elevator filled with musicians clutching guitar cases (and staring at me, agape, presumably horrified).
My iPod is full of my favorite ‘80s tunes, and I wear it religiously on the treadmill so I can hear Van Halen belt out “Dance the Night Away” or Night Ranger harmoniously “Sing Me Away.” Whenever Kansas’s “Point of No Return” or Rush’s “Fly By Night” comes up in the shuffle, I’m in heaven, if only for three and a half minutes at a time.
The first concert I ever attended was Billy Joel and a succession of my favorites followed (no, you’re not allowed to laugh):  The Cars, Journey, Styx, Rick Springfield, Tom Petty, Night Ranger, Kansas, Prince, Clapton, Bon Jovi, Jefferson Starship, and, of course, the Leps.  I have newer stuff on my iPod, too, (I love The Script, The Fray, Gavin DeGraw, and even some Katie Perry and Lady Gaga); but I always go back to my true love.  
It might surprise you to know that I don’t listen to music as I write.  It’s too distracting, and I’m too easily distracted already.  I have a rhythm in my head when I’m putting words on the page, so I keep the music off; though if you read my books you’ll always find music in them. When I’m not writing, there’s nothing I like more than turning on iTunes and singing at the top of my lungs. Okay, yes, and I dance, too, which freaks out the cats.
So what music do you listen to?  Do you play tunes while you write?  Has any piece of music ever influenced a storyline?  Inquiring minds want to know!

P.S.  Just for fun, my Little Black Dress video, which has very cool music (reminds me of the theme from Harry Potter!).  Take a peek!

 

Trust the Gut

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I’ve been thinking a lot lately about instinct.  The kind of gut feeling that helps us with self-preservation.  The older I get, the more I’ve learned to trust my gut, even if someone else is telling me I’m wrong.  Because that little voice inside my head has proved right too many times to doubt it. 
When I was diagnosed with breast cancer back in late 2006, a mammogram had shown that a cyst my doctor felt was nothing.  I got a letter stating that I was fine.  “See you next year,” it said. If I hadn’t listened to my gut—and my body—in the weeks after and insisted on an ultrasound three months later, I hate to think where I’d be now. 
More recently, I went to my dermatologist for a pink spot on my upper chest.  I didn’t think much about it until it got dry-looking and bled a bit when I nicked it with my fingernail.  That spot ended up being early stage skin cancer.  There was a second pink spot, even tinier, but I had a bad feeling about it.  I asked my dermo to check that one out, too, before I went to the surgeon to have a procedure called Mohs to clear out all the cancerous cells.  She smiled and remarked that the second spot looked benign then she sent it off for biopsy.  I found out the morning of my outpatient surgery for Spot #1 that Spot #2 was also early stage skin cancer. 
“I’m glad I’m so paranoid,” I told people.  But, truly, I’m glad I’m so unafraid of looking stupid that I dare to speak up when my gut tells me something.
Not only did these experiences teach me to be pro-active when it comes to my health (as with so many things in life), but they reminded me to pay attention to my instincts.  Trusting those gut feelings can sometimes mean the difference between life or death.  I know it sounds dramatic, but it’s true. And I think so many of us have been trained to depend on others to tell us what’s what—doctors, lawyers, financial advisers, whomever—that we stop listening to ourselves. Or maybe we never start.
That’s bad news if you’re a writer, particularly one who writes from her gut, as I do. It’s pretty impossible to know for sure when I’m writing a first draft if what I’m putting down on paper is good or bad, if my agents and editors will love it or loathe it. “Does this sound right?” I wonder.  “Does it move too slowly?  Is this character interesting?  Likable?”
Unless we constantly have someone else looking over our shoulder, telling us what to do (which would be paralyzing, I think!), we need to trust our instincts to know if what we’re writing is worthy or not.  When I read a book that’s well-done, I feel it inside.  Something “clicks” within me, and soon I’m absorbed in the story, along for the ride.  When I find a book lacking, I end up dissecting it rather than enjoying it (or I just stop reading it altogether). 
I find it’s like that when I’m working on a first draft.  If I don’t feel a “click” when I write a scene or chapter—or if I feel stuck—I know my gut is saying, “You might want to rethink this, Bubba.”
All writers work so differently.  Some outline. Some fly by the seat of their pants.  Some do a bit of both.  But in order to become better and stronger at what we do, we have to trust ourselves—trust our gut—and listen to that little voice that guides us. 
I’m trying very hard to stop second-guessing myself.  I’m not always right, that’s for sure.  But when that little voice inside my head speaks up, you can bet that I listen.

Writing with Your Pants on Fire

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In light of yet another memoir author being outed as an exaggerator (at the very least), I figured it was the perfect opportunity to chat with Dr. Lya Lya Pansonfiah, who is definitely a legend in her own mind. You’ve probably seen Lya out and about as she speaks at fundraisers for her Pansonfiah Foundation, gives workshops to aspiring authors, and gabs on talk shows re. her “expertise” in the fields of mental health, animal training, and cosmetology. Dr. Pansonfiah’s latest book is called A MILLION TINY CUPS OF TEA and purportedly details her (almost) real life experiences as a therapist who ran a rehab facility on the top of Mount Everest.  It makes for a fascinating conversation, as you’ll see.
Susan: Welcome, Dr. Pansonfiah, or may I call you Lya?  It’s a pleasure to have someone of your questionable caliber visit us.

Lya:  Oh, what I’ve got isn’t of questionable caliber, Suzie-Q. It’s a .38 Special. I keep it tucked inside my Louis Vuitton tote bag at all times, considering how crazy folks are these days.

Susan:  Crazy, indeed. As a fiction writer, I’m used to making up stories, which end up in things I call “novels.” But I’m not sure what to call what you do. Are you a nonfiction storyteller? A pseudo-expert? A mem-fic author? Or just a reality show wannabe?

Lya: What I am is a Renaissance Woman, pure and simple. Nothing is beyond my reach, and, if it is, I’ll just grab myself a ladder and climb on up. That’s how I am. Unfazed by obstacles.

Susan: Obstacles like the truth, you mean.

Lya: Truth schmooth! What is it anyway but one person’s perception of a moment in time!  It’s all an illusion or is that a delusion?

Susan: I’d say either works in your case. Might I ask about your educational background? On the CV you emailed, I can’t quite make out the name of your alma mater. It looks like, “FaçadeUniversity.com.” I’ve never heard of it.

Lya: That’s because it’s French. But what’s book learning anyway? I earned my credentials at the most difficult institution on the planet, even tougher than Harvard and Yale combined. It’s called the School of Hard Knocks. That’s where I got my doctorate.

Susan: Hmm, I’m not sure that it’s an accredited institution.

Lya: Forget degrees! I didn’t need one to become an elephant trainer, did I?  And if you’ve seen that flick, “Water for Elephants,” you can witness what a bang-up job I did.  Saved that tiny Reese Witherspoon from being trampled more than once.  Or how about my mastery of makeup?  Do you think Lady Gaga was truly born that way?  And how about my past domination of the beauty pageant scene. You do realize I was crowned Miss America, Miss Universe, and Miss Galaxy all in one fell swoop? It was the largest pageant ever, held at Trump’s casino in Vegas, and Oprah sang the National Anthem. I’ve never heard such a beautiful voice.

Susan:  Wow, your experiences are certainly unbelievable. I noticed your press release also states that you served a prison stint at Folsom with Johnny Cash. What happened?

Lya: I shot a man, just to see him die. Everyone knows that! I also shot the sheriff, and narrowly escaped prosecution in Georgia when the lights went out and they hung an innocent man.

Susan: I can name those tunes in five notes.

Lya: Are you questioning my veracity, Ms. McMuffin? Are you calling me a fake?

Susan:  If the faux Jimmy Choo fits….

Lya:  Oh, ye of little faith!  You can’t even imagine how many people believe every word I say.

Susan:  I can, yep.

Lya: And those who know better, I call LIARS (all in caps), because it’s better to strike first, you know.

Susan: Good plan.

Lya: It’s something I developed while heading the Global War Tribunal at the Pentagon. It’s called Even If You Ask, I Won’t Tell the Truth.

Susan:  Perfect.

Lya: It trumps that 12-Step stuff every time. Which reminds me, did I tell you about my recovery from mainlining Hostess Cupcakes? Spent the better part of junior high drying out with some of Hollywood’s most notable bulimics.
Susan: We’ll save that for next-time.
Lya: Can’t wait.
(In the interest of journalistic integrity, it should be noted that Dr. Lya Lya Pansonfiah is not a real person, although there are plenty of Lyas who actually exist.  Their names are just not quite so, um, revealing.)

Happy April, Fools

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Yes, it’s April Fools’ Day so it’s fitting that I’m blogging.  I consider myself a certified (or is that certifiable?) goof by anyone’s standards.  My husband loves how I crack jokes–or make a really off-the-wall pun–and laugh myself silly.  I used to want to be such a stand-up woman, the kind who wore cardigan sets and pearls, whose hair and nails always looked perfect, and who had the perfect reply for any occasion.  I realized instead I’m more of a stand-up comic, who looks at the odd side of things and has a penchant for sarcasm (and, yes, puns).

So I take great pride in my four-year-old niece Audrey, who has a flair for the dramatic and a keen eye for jokes.  She likes to make them up herself, or steal a line from someone and turn it into a comedy routine.  Take Christmas a year ago when I made this joke to the grown-ups in the family:

Me:  “What did Santa say to Tiger Woods?”
Them:  “What?”

Me:  “Ho ho ho ho ho ho ho” (or however many “hos” Tiger actually had accounted for at the time).
Them:  “Where’d you hear that?”
Me:  “I made it up!”

From then on, Audrey would walk around saying, “You know why?  ‘Cause I made it up!”  Ed and I adopted that into our own lexicon.  Whenever one of us says, “Do you know why?”  The other replies, “‘Cause I made it up!”

I’m thinking, too, that Audrey had someone tell her she was a pain in the butt since that seems to be one of her recurring phrases, especially in her jokes.  Like this one, sprung on me at her little brother’s birthday party last weekend:

Audrey:  “Knock knock.”

Me:  “Who’s there?”
Audrey:  “You.”
Me:  “You who?”
Audrey:  “You’re a pain in the butt, Aunt Susan!” 
My family found that hilarious (and strangely apropos).  I’m not sure where she heard this one, or if she “made it up!”  But here goes:
Audrey:  “Why did the chicken cross the road?”
Me:  “Why?”

Audrey:  “So he could rule the world!”
Of course! 
The other day when Audrey asked my mother where she’d been that morning, and my mom told her, “I was at the doctor,” Audrey asked, “Was it a paleontologist?”  I wondered if she thought her grandmother was a fossil.  Then I found out she’d apparently been watching a kid show on PBS with a dinosaur “doctor” on it!
So I’d love to hear your silliest joke on this lovely April Fools’ Day.  Or make one up.  As you can tell by my favorite “Audrey jokes,” it doesn’t matter if they even make sense. 

News of the Weird

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by Susan McBride

I remember when weird news was often tacked onto the end of a nightly broadcast, usually in the vein of “stupid criminals” clips where a bank robber wrote his stick-up note on the back of his own deposit slip or an “aw, shucks” tale with an orangutan adopting a baby tiger at the local zoo. You know what I mean.

Now every time I turn on the TV or click on an Internet newspaper, it doesn’t take much searching to find news of the absurd. It’s front page headlines. Journalism has turned into “Entertainment Tonight,” and that’s not a good thing.

So far this week, all I’ve seen is Charlie Sheen’s face everywhere, professing his fabulousness, when it’s pretty clear he’s got problems even bigger than his ego. I saw an article that said a lot of stars who got in trouble this past week owe Charlie a big favor for keeping them off the cover of People magazine. Like Christina Aguilera who ended up in the drunk tank with her boyfriend after a bender. And Galliano, the Dior designer (er, ex-Dior designer) who made more than a few anti-Semitic remarks caught on someone’s cell phone camera. I don’t even know what Mel Gibson’s up to lately because Charlie’s superseded his baby-mama drama by a mile.

Oh, yeah, and there are revolutions galore going on in the Middle East. And we’re still in a recession with all sides of the political aisle at war because everyone seems intent on helping themselves instead of fixing things.

But, oh, no, let’s hear more about Charlie and his “goddesses” aka the porn stars who live in his house with him and help him “take care” of his twin boys. Oops, nix that. His almost ex-wife (whom he was accused of threatening to kill) has gotten the kids back, thanks to a court order and the LAPD. Wow, I just can’t keep up with all the Sheen-anigans! It feels like an A&E “Intervention” marathon without an ending.

I just wish someone would please stop the madness. Why does the media keep having this guy on when it’s clear he needs serious help? I’m not sure how his delusions and obvious self-destruction constitute entertainment.

Then I think about the dystopian young adult best-seller THE HUNGER GAMES, which features teens killing each other all in the name of sport. I hope we never sink that low, but it does seem like we’re turning people’s misery into live entertainment, and it’s even worse than “Jersey Shore” and “The Bachelor” combined.

As a J-School major, I’m disappointed at what counts for news these days. Walter Cronkite must be turning over in his grave. Give me stories that matter: about regular hard-working people who are making a difference, small businesses that are thriving despite the financial mess, research scientists working on cures for disease, and explorers unearthing new species or stars. And not the kind of “stars” that seem to rule television and the Internet ad nauseum. Those I can live without.

Books from the Heart

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by Susan McBride

I’m kind of in a crunch this week with revisions for LITTLE BLACK DRESS due Friday (as you’re reading this!). So I’m going to make this easy on myself by rehashing a book talk segment I did for “Great Day St. Louis” on Valentine’s Day.

Since love is in the air this month, I discussed four “romantic reads,” all dealing with the topic of home and heart in different ways. Only one, ANGEL’S REST by Emily March, is considered a traditional romance while the other three are novels with romantic elements–THE GIRL WHO CHASED THE MOON by Sarah Addison Allen, THE OTHER LIFE by Ellen Meister, and THE BOYFRIEND OF THE MONTH CLUB by Stiletto Ganger Maria Geraci (yay!).

In ANGEL’S REST, Nic Sullivan is a small-town veterinarian with a broken heart. She’s divorced and semi-happily single until she rubs shoulders with hunky Gabe Callahan, a loner escaping past tragedy by hiding out in the mountains. Serious sparks fly between the two, only–sigh–their pasts and the things they don’t/can’t talk about, keep them apart. It takes a bit of angelic intervention to bring them together.

THE GIRL WHO CHASED THE MOON is Sarah Addison Allen’s third book after GARDEN SPELLS and THE SUGAR QUEEN (and her fourth, THE PEACH KEEPER, is out next month). If you haven’t read her Southern tales of home and heartache, you should. She writes beautiful prose that sucks you in, and in MOON, she gets us wrapped up in the life of a teenager, Emily Benedict, who goes back to her mother’s hometown of Mullaby, NC, to meet her grandfather and find out the dark secret that drove her mom away.

Ellen Meister’s THE OTHER LIFE is a tale of two lives, both of them belonging to Quinn Braverman. In one, she’s a wife and mother in the Long Island suburbs, awaiting the birth of her second baby and missing her deceased mother. In the other life, she’s got a high profile career and a high profile beau, a shock jock like Howard Stern, and, most importantly to Quinn, her mom is still alive and kicking. She can go back and forth to each life through a portal in her basement wall. But once the portal begins to close, she has to make a choice or risk getting caught in a life she might not want after all. (Just optioned by HBO for a TV series!)

In Maria’s BOYFRIEND OF THE MONTH CLUB, a cheating boyfriend and a really awful first date lead Grace O’Bryan to forgo the book club and start a “Boyfriend of the Month Club” with her friends. Like most things in life that we start for fun and giggles, this club turns into more than Grace bargained for. She’s got her heart in the right place, and she finally finds a man worthy of it, too!

Here’s the video in case you want to hear each summary like I’m talking to you right from your computer:


I recently did an informal poll on my Facebook page, asking friends what their favorite romantic books of all-time are, and the top five results:

1. GONE WITH THE WIND
2. PRIDE AND PREJUDICE
3. WUTHERING HEIGHTS
4. THE THORN BIRDS
5. THE TIME TRAVELER’S WIFE

Do you agree? If not, what’s your fave? Inquiring minds want to know! (At least, this one does.) 🙂

Modern Romance

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by Susan McBride

Ah, February, the month of love! And not only because the 14th is Valentine’s Day–on which I’ll be talking about romantic reads on “Great Day St. Louis”–but Ed’s and my third anniversary is February 24. Seems like yesterday that we met though it was nearly six years ago. Funny how it happened, too. When I look back, I think of how many dominoes had to line up and fall before the moment we were introduced.

If I hadn’t been named a 2005 St. Louis Magazine “top single”…if Ed’s then co-worker, Jeremy, hadn’t been selected as well…if I hadn’t become friends with Jeremy at the photo shoot…if Ed hadn’t decided to show up at the magazine’s party at the Contemporary Art Museum…if I hadn’t been talking to Jeremy when Ed appeared…if he hadn’t contacted me through the magazine after I lost his card…if we hadn’t enjoyed each other’s company at a hockey game the next week…well, you get my drift.

I like to think that our grandmothers up in heaven plotted the whole thing. I can imagine mine saying, “For goodness’ sake, she’s over 40. If she doesn’t find someone soon, she’s going to be too danged independent to ever want to share her life with anyone but her cats.” And Ed’s grandma responding, “Well, he’s finally got his doctorate and has a job with a start-up company, but he needs to find someone who’s a bit pushy and who can convince him not to wear that dreadful Fred Flintstone T-shirt to work.”

Then there was the age factor, my being nine years older. Which didn’t really matter to me or to Ed (but I know it worried his mom in the beginning!). The most important concerns I had were these: could we communicate despite the fact that I’m Captain Kirk and he’s Spock; and is our sense of humor on the same plane, or maybe I should make that “planet”? Luckily, the answers were “yes” and “yes.”

I knew Ed was special very soon after we began dating. I’d never felt that “rightness” with anyone before. Never. I’d heard friends say, “You’ll know when you find him,” and I’d think, “But how?” It wasn’t long before I realized they were spot on. Within three months, I was sure Ed was The One. I knew it in my heart and in my gut. Indeed, it was on Valentine’s Day in 2006 that I decided I’d ask him point-blank if we were on the same page. I had to be certain we were going somewhere (and I don’t mean away for the weekend). Yep, I’d become very direct in my middle-age. I just couldn’t let myself go on believing “this is it,” if he wasn’t feeling it, too. When I told my mother what I’d done, basically giving Ed an ultimatum, she squawked, “Well, there goes that relationship! You probably just sent him running for the hills!”

But Ed showed up at my condo after work that night with a dozen red roses and said, “You are the one.”

We’ve been through a lot since (and before) our wedding, and I can’t imagine having lived even a minute of those days without Ed in my life. If anything, I love him more now than on the day we said, “I do.” I feel incredibly fortunate that all those dominoes fell into place at precisely the right moment. Chalk it up to fate or the Powers that Be or even two heavenly matchmaking grandmothers. Whoever’s responsible, thank you.

Anyone else want to share their tale of “How We Met?” I’d love to hear!
P.S. Welcome to Maria Geraci, the newest member of the Stiletto Gang! I recently read Maria’s latest, THE BOYFRIEND OF THE MONTH CLUB, and loved it. What a perfect Valentine’s Day book!

The Mother Lode

/in /by

by Susan McBride

Today is my mom’s birthday, although we won’t talk about her age (since she doesn’t act like it anyway). As you read this, I’m doubtless at the casino with her, playing the penny slots, since we make a pilgrimmage every year to celebrate. Usually, she wins, and I don’t. But I try to make up for it at the buffet (free coupon!).

I’ve always appreciated mothers, my own in particular, even more so recently (if that’s possible). I’m not sure where I’d be right now if not for my mom’s wholehearted endorsement of my doing this writing thing. I knew I wanted to be a novelist at 19, when I wrote my first grown-up novel in between transferring colleges. While my business-minded father bemoaned my even leaving college to write a book–and to figure out “who I am”–my mom was behind me all the way. “You have to do what makes you happy,” she told me on no uncertain terms. “And no one can decide what that is but you.”

When I knew what I wanted to do, she backed me up, and I watched her do the same with my brother and sister. My father clearly didn’t understand the need to be creative (well, he was an IBM guy, through and through), but my mom did. Even though she wasn’t any kind of artist, nor did she strive to be, she was one of the most creative people I’ve ever known. She made up songs as we drove to the grocery store or to the zoo (something I do to this day!). She helped me with school projects (never doing them for me, just assisting), and I had the best time creating Conestoga wagons out of shoeboxes and cutting up old encyclopedias to do a map of Big Cats Around the World.

You’ve probably even heard me mention her creative meals. I never knew what I was going to see when I opened my lunchbox. On holidays especially, it could get very interesting. I remember sandwiches cut in the shape of four-leaf clovers on St. Patrick’s Day (and, that night, green milk and green mashed potatoes with dinner). One day, she packed cookies shaped like dog biscuits, which I loved and which freaked out my friends.

Christmases and Easters were incredible. Mom was–and still is–a decorating fiend. And, oh, did we get gorgeous Easter baskets! Each one hidden somewhere in the house so we had to find them. She dyed eggs, too, every color imaginable, and she hid them outside. There was always something to look forward to.

As I got older and as we moved around, I realized what a grounding force she was. No matter where we lived–or what kind of troubles we had adjusting–she tried to make things better, or at least remind us that we wouldn’t be the new kids forever, that sometimes life sucked but that didn’t last. Even when we disagreed, I respected her point of view. I’m pretty sure she respected mine as well.

Just the other day, I mentioned the idea that we all have a gift, even if some of us might not realize what that is for a long time. To which, my mom remarked, “I still don’t know what mine is.” And I said, “It’s being a mother. You’re great at momming.” She laughed, but I meant it.

So much of what’s in the novels I write involves mothers and daughters. I didn’t do it consciously, but it’s there just the same. Maybe it’s because of the amazing complexity of mother-daughter relationships. They grow, they change, they evolve. They’re full of push and pull and compromise. And they have a life-long effect on us.

When my grandmother passed, I could only imagine how hard that was on my mom. I want to think my mother will live forever and see me through whatever else life throws at me. On today, her birthday, I want to thank my mom and moms like her everywhere, who’ve taken on the hardest job there is and who do it with such passion. May you all continue to blow out the candles on the cake for many more years to come.