Susan Strecker's Blog

I like to tell on myself. It clears my conscience and I don’t have to sneak around trying to cover up whatever sin I may have committed. Now that NOWHERE GIRL is out in the big, wide world of bookstores, I am crazy busy with events, readings, TV appearances and newspaper interviews. Lord knows those are perfect places to rack up saying and doing stupid things.

Here they go…

My first event was to be on a TV show called CONNECTICUT STYLE. Oh- the irony. For someone whose office is her couch and work clothes consist of feetie pajamas, I was the odd man out. This was my second time on the show, so it was going considerably better than the first. Right up until the host asked me a question I didn’t have a good answer for. I explained myself the best I could, but apparently she wanted more. I didn’t have anything brilliant to say about how I wrote about twins even though I am not one (I don’t even have a sister). I started to sweat (literally, and I’m a smelly sweat-er), and blurted out something I really hadn’t planned on telling the world. Good news- it stunned poor Jocelyn into silence. Bad news, it was an awkward silence.

After the segment was over, I asked someone to take my picture with the still-mortified Jocelyn. Unaware that the studio was almost silent and people were talking in whispers, I very loudly said, “WOULD YOU PLEASE TAKE OUR PICTURE?” only to hear someone yell, “Cut!” and then have fifteen grumpy people glare at me. Oops- they were on air.

After slinking out of WTNH’s station, I got myself together to do my first bookstore appearance in Madison, the town I grew up in. My dear friend, Paulette, offered to provide drinks and desserts for the event. She laid out a beautiful set up of fruit, chocolate, eclairs & waters. She constructed gift bags with her realty company’s (WILLIAM PITT/SOTHEYBY’S INTERNATIONAL REALTY) logo on them. You see, Paulette is the best realtor around and also a lovely person. In defense of me and my stupidity, speaking at RJ Julia is a little like playing Woodstock. It doesn’t get any better. I was so star struck that I was weepy when I got behind the podium. Everything I wanted to say, including thanking Paulette for providing the goodies flew right out of my mind. But, don’t worry, I thanked her profusely at the launch party… about twenty minutes after she had left.

Next came an interview for THE DAY NEWSPAPER with the very funny and talented Rick Koster. Rick and I spent some time together on the phone when my last book was released, and he made me feel like I was talking to an old friend. My kids are pretty awesome and I’m very comfortable with Rick, so I didn’t think twice about multi-tasking and speaking with him while I was driving the little people to the barn. Settle down- it was hands-free blue tooth. My kids now know who offed poor Savannah in NOWHERE GIRL as they were sitting in the backseat getting an earful. We pulled into the barn and I told the kids to go in and I’d come in when I got off the phone. Rick and I were having a lovely conversation about books and music, lots and lots of music, when Ainsley came running out yelling that Cooper smashed his face and was crying. I asked Rick to hang on a second, ran inside, and with him still on the line, discovered that Cooper, who never cries when he’s hurt, was sobbing and had broken his tooth. Uh Rick? I gotta go. Click. An emergency phone call to the dentist, photographic proof of the accident and forty-five minutes later, I did call Rick back. Despite our fragmented conversations and several emails that had everything to do with music and very little to do with the book, Rick still managed to write a fabulous article. I don’t know where he got his information- I was of very little help to him.

Okay, moving on. What was my next flub? Oh yes- the launch party. Taking place at a hip and funky art gallery and with nearly two-hundred people coming out to celebrate, it was a smashing success. We sold a ton of books, stayed at the gallery an hour longer than we were supposed to (and magically did not overstay our welcome), and then walked down the street to the fabled Gris and closed the bar. They actually herded us out the door with mops in hand. And before that, I stood in front of all the revelers and made an impromptu speech about how fortunate I am to do what I love and then I thanked everyone for coming (some from as far away as Florida). I made sure to thank the lovely and talented Suzanne Kingsbury for being the world’s best editor. I forgot to thank her at the last launch party. So, I made sure I got it in this time… after she left. I think she might have gone splitsville with Paulette. So, I thanked two people who weren’t there any longer, but I forgot my parents, Kurt’s parents, Sue the bookseller and my amazing friend Cathy whose company donated an entire living room set among many other pieces of furniture so people would have a place to take a load off. CRAP! I have a whole new respect for those NASCAR drivers. They never miss a beat every weekend when they say how well the “KFC, Coca-Cola, Tide Detergent, Black and Decker, Tampax, Skittles, Summer’s Eve, Preparation H number 99 car” did. I need to take notes.

This morning I was at FOX 61’s TV station waiting to go on air with the beautiful Erika Arias of GOOD DAY CONNECTICUT. This was my second go around with her and she’s so lovely that I wasn’t nervous at all. I met a dog named Cutie Patootie, learned a little something about the Irish sport of hurling and read the extremely flattering article Rick Koster had written. I emailed him to say thank you and told him what I was doing, adding that I hoped I wouldn’t be an oaf this time. He graciously responded saying I’d be great and gave me simple yet powerful advice. “Don’t be an oaf.”

I never was good at following directions.

The interview actually went well. I didn’t stumble with my answers and I mentioned Keanu Reeves- any day I get to talk about him is a good one. My friend, Sarah, who is a Fox journalist watched the interview and immediately texted when it was over saying I was funny and relaxed. All was good. A super nice crew member unhooked my mic and said that he respects what I do. I humbly replied that my job is easy compared to his. I could never keep it together long enough to work under the pressure of being on live TV every day. Everything was great. I was having a good hair day, my outfit was cute, I didn’t barf on anyone. And then…

And then I turned to say goodbye to Erika and there she was, exactly in the spot she’d interviewed me- beautiful, long dark hair, skinny and wearing a black dress. As the words, “Thank you so much for having me, Erika” were coming out of my mouth, my brain was screaming at me to stop. Abort! Abort! Something’s not right! But, I couldn’t stop myself. Would you believe me if I told you there were two beautiful, skinny women with long dark hair in black dresses in the studio? And I thanked the wrong one.
I was so close to taking Rick’s advice. But I just had to be an oaf.

Tomorrow is a new day. I’ll be at Mohegan Sun Casino with one of my favorite bookstores ever, Bank Square Books and the wonderful Otis Library to do a luncheon, reading and discussion. I really like Annie, Kate and Elissa, the women who run these events and I don’t want to screw up in front of them. But given my track record… I wonder what kind of oafery I will commit. Who knows- maybe this will turn into a weekly installment of all the stupid things I say and do.

On the bright side, it’ll give me something to blog about. I’ve been quiet far too long.

My grandmother was known as Grammie. Didn’t matter if you were related to her or not, almost everyone called her Grammie. And the few people who didn’t, thought of her as Aunt Ruth. Because that’s who she was. She was the matriarch of the Boyd family, the high priestess of the Woodland/Roxmor clan and everyone’s grandmother.

Grammie celebrated her 100th birthday last summer, surrounded by all of her kids, most of her grandchildren and almost all of her great grandchildren. People flew in from Seattle and Germany and even Papua New Guinea. Surrounded by more than fifty family members, we celebrated a life that spanned a century, crossed a millennium and went from a time of horse-drawn carriages and staticky radios to facetiming with her family in Europe.

We took turns at that party sharing what having Grammie in our lives meant to us. I only had a few moments to think about it before a video camera appeared in my face and I had to speak. Having Grammie in my life meant growing up with someone I could talk to when I didn’t feel like I had anyone else. My friend Kristin and I were among the youngest of the group of kids at our vacation cabins in upstate New York, a place I still affectionately call Woodland. We were probably ten or eleven years old and some of the teenagers were talking about leaving the council that night to go to the inn and make out. We had no idea what they were talking about, so we promptly went home to a house named Boulder Camp and asked Grammie to please explain what making out meant. Without a trace of hesitation or embarrassment, she told us the best she could. I understood what she was saying, I just had no idea why anyone would want to do that. There were many other times I turned to Grammie when I had questions I didn’t think could be answered. Why didn’t my parents live together anymore? Why were friendships so complicated? What in the world was wrong with boys? Grammie never turned me away and she always held my hand and looked me in the eye, even when she had to say the hard stuff.

Grammie and Pa founded a colony of old, charming cabins in Shandaken, New York. No, you don’t know where that is. One of my favorite books growing up was The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe. I was so fascinated by that story, by the way those children slipped through the closet into a magical world. That was Woodland for me. When I was little, we’d pack up the wood-paneled station wagon and head to Woodland for the entire summer. This was well before cell phones and cable, but it wouldn’t have mattered. We were so far removed from civilization that TVs didn’t get a signal, pipes froze in the winter time and there were no electronic gadgets of any kind. There were seven or eight other families who spent most of their summer vacation in Woodland, as well as many of my cousins. Our days were spent making leather belts, stamping intricate and unique designs into each one, swimming in an always freezing stream, digging up clay from the banks of the stream, swinging on a knotted rope and my favorite, rolling down the hill at the Inn. Our nights were filled with playing flashlight tag, catching lightning bugs and participating in the council where we’d have talkfests, one-legged chicken fights and sing slightly disturbing songs about using an axe to kill a fly. Years later I’d sing those same songs to my children when they were babies when I was trying to get them to sleep. We also spent hours square dancing, sitting on the porch at the inn, telling ghost stories and eventually drinking beer and making out with boys. Don’t tell my mom.

We even went to Woodland during the winter to go skiing. There were two mountains nearby and I learned to ski as soon as I could walk. I still remember my favorite trail was called Long John. Being about a hundred years old, the cabins were not winterized and, as I said, the pipes would freeze in the winter making showering impossible. We’d get metal buckets full of snow and put them on the wood-burning stove to melt. Then we’d use that water to flush the toilets. All this was done after we’d park our cars at the bottom of a steep and long hill and carry our suitcases, sleds and food up to the house. It was exhausting and we were always cold, but we begged our parents to take us up every weekend.

Woodland was my very own Narnia. A magical place where I spent almost all of my free time doing things that are unheard of today. I still contend that square dancing is one of the most fun things you can do with your clothes on, and strangely, no one I know outside of Woodland knows how to do it. I can tie sheepshank, clove hitch, bowline, figure eight, granny and square knots. I can tie knots I’ve never heard of and have no idea what they do. My best memories of childhood are of Woodland. And all of them happened because of Grammie.

Grammie had five children, ten grandchildren, sixteen great grandchildren and countless others who thought of her as their surrogate mother or grandmother. She was one of those people who everyone knew and loved. Sometimes I would watch her interact with people I didn’t know and I’d wonder what it felt like to be loved the way she was.

Grammie was more than a hundred years old when she started to decline. The week before she left us, I called Kurt crying at the imminent thought of losing her. I said to him that it was hard to imagine a world without Grammie. He responded that it’d been a long time since there was a world without Grammie. I thought about that statement. How the world, the universe had been graced with a century of Grammie. Generations of families grew up being served Grammie’s lemonade and baked beans at the annual 4th of July parade. Countless kids led more charmed lives for having been loved by her.

Minutes after Grammie left us, I heard my aunt Ruth on the phone with her brother, Jim. She was telling him that long ago Grammie told her that all she wanted was for her children to be happy and love each other. Simple but powerful words.

I have made mistakes and spent years missing some of the people I love the most. Grammie’s 100th birthday party was the first time I’d seen them in far too long. Although we were supposed to be giving Grammie presents that day, she gave me the opportunity for the greatest gift of all- forgiveness. I was welcomed back. I don’t know that that ever would have happened if Grammie’s party hadn’t brought me back together with them.

That was Grammie. The sun of our universe. Making our lives better and brighter. She illuminated our world. For the one hundred years that she was with us and for all the time to come. Grammie was and always will be our sun. We love you now and forever.

I Ate My Dinner In The Tub
Here’s the problem with talking a friend into riding your bikes together for one hundred miles in Killington, Vermont. Six years later when she asks you to ride a measly thirty miles with her, you pretty much have to do it.

When Sarah and I did the JDRF Century Ride, we trained for six months. We went out on our bikes on Sunday mornings with the intent to ride twenty miles, got horribly lost, took a ferry to get back on the correct side of the Connecticut River, and ended up going fifty-five miles. But, we were fit. And training. So it wasn’t a big deal.

The morning of our Vermont journey, it was forty-degrees and with wrath-of-God rain. We put our feet in plastic baggies to keep them dry. Then rode fifteen miles to the first rest area with frozen toes sloshing around rain water, realizing that Ziplocks are great for PB & Js, but aren’t waterproof.

Riding a hundred miles up and down ski-mountains was surprising not terrible. Yes, there were killer hills. But who knew there are flat parts of Vermont. We rode with a huge group from Essex, collectively raising more $60,000 and we crossed an impressive feat off our bucket lists.

Fast forward to 2013 when my friend Alicia told me she was doing the sixty-five mile leg of the Closer To Free bike ride for Smilow Cancer Center. She had trained with me years before for JDRF even though she wasn’t doing it. Solely because she is kind, she logged many miles with me and stood patiently on the other side of the road while I got off my bike and walked it across busy streets because I was too afraid to cross traffic. She also took frequent breaks so I could stop and drink water because I was too much of a weenie to let go of the handlebars to pull my bottle from its holder. I hadn’t been on a bike since my pink Schwinn with glittery ribbons and a banana seat.

When Alicia told me why she was doing the Closer To Free ride, I immediately volunteered to ride with her. I only had four months to train, but I logged many hours on my bike that summer. We rode the event with another friend and had a great day. The weather was perfect, the ride was challenging, but not overwhelming and there were thousands of people riding in honor or in memory of loved ones. I drove home that night feeling good about myself- for raising money for Smilow, supporting a friend and conquering a tough course.

That brings us to present day. Well, more like three months ago. Sarah (remember Sarah from the century ride?) said she was doing a measly thirty mile ride for The Hole In The Wall Gang Camp for kids with life-threatening illnesses. She asked if I wanted to ride with her. I will fess up and tell you that I kinda blew it off. Kurt had talked about sailing to Block Island that weekend and there was a horse show that I was thinking about going to. But most importantly, I’ve gotten lazier than usual. But, I was honest with myself and Sarah, I just didn’t see myself logging the miles to train over the summer.
Problem solved. I told her via text (because I’m a big, guilty, wuss) that I wasn’t going to ride with her. Honestly, I never thought about the event again until I met up with Sarah and some other friends on Labor Day. She hadn’t mentioned the ride all summer, so I thought maybe she’d bagged it. I made the mistake of asking her if she was still doing it. And in her typical cheery, lovely Sarah way, she said yes and she’d go it alone because she couldn’t get anyone to ride with her.

This is where I had flashbacks of pedaling up ski slopes and training in downpours and logging hundreds and hundreds of miles together as we prepared for and then rode the century ride. I couldn’t bail on her now. Five days before the event, I told her I’d do it. Our friend Richard heard us talking and said he’d join in the fun. Then he sandbagged us and said his bike was thirty-years old and he barely remembered how to ride. Remember Richard in a minute or two.
I only had four days to train, so I decided it was pointless. It was kinda like how I felt about cramming for exams. If I didn’t know the material twelve hours before the test, I didn’t think it would magically come to me no matter how late I stayed up studying.

On a side note, my husband Kurt is a serious athlete. He runs marathons and does Half-IronMan triathlons and doesn’t bother to train for most of it because after nineteen years together I’ve discovered that he’s a life-like robot. A cute humanoid built of muscle and will. A few years ago Kurt bought me a trainer (the thing you put your bike on in the garage so you can still ride it in the winter, not an actual fitness-minded person) and set my bike up on it with an amazing computer program that would automatically make it change gears as if I were climbing a big hill. Needless to say, I despised the trainer and I came to think of it as a fancy kickstand so I wouldn’t have to lean my bike against the garage wall.

The night before the Hole In The Wall Gang ride, I asked Kurt to disentangle my bike from the evil trainer and assemble it. After he did so, I checked the odometer and saw that its mileage read 65.45- the exact distance of the Closer To Free ride I’d done with Alicia. You know what that meant, right? I hadn’t sat on my bike in exactly two years. Crap! Had it been that long? What had I been doing with myself? Oh, that’s right. Nothing. I’d embraced that other than riding horses, I have zero athletic ability and even more so, I’m just so lazy. I love my couch and I loathe things that are difficult and make me work hard. That pretty much crosses exercise of my to-do list.

This ride was only thirty miles and I would never be able to shake the memories of Sarah giving up an entire summer to train with me and then ride one-hundred miles in the place where people pay a lot of money to go up high mountains.
Saturday morning Sarah picked up Richard and me, and off we went. During the drive to the camp, we couldn’t help but notice how hilly the terrain had become. I’m not talking a black diamond trail on Killington Mountain steep, it was more like Mt. Everest. On the way up. I choked back my fear and told myself that it was only thirty miles. I pushed out of my mind that it’d been TWO YEARS since I’d sat on pretty, pink Ruby (I name everything. I have a suitcase named Kermit) and perhaps riding and practicing was an import part of you know, surviving.

The Hole In The Wall Camp was stunningly beautiful and it was clear that the kids it serves love it and the people who work there. There was a huge spread for breakfast (of which I could eat nothing, but that’s a different blog) and hundreds of excited riders ready to get a move on. We made friends with the woman who’d parked next to us. Not having a super-model’s body has made me very aware of those who do. I have no shame in staring at beautiful women and their fit, toned bodies. First thing I noticed about our new friend was that she had serious cyclist legs. Believe me, after almost two decades with my very own triathlete robot husband, I can spy them anywhere. While I was admiring her calves, she told us it’s one of the most challenging courses she’s ever ridden. I was about to bash my head on the side of Sarah’s car because I’m pretty sure they don’t let you ride with a concussion, when I remembered that there was also a 62.5 mile ride offered. I commented that we were only doing the thirty-miles and I wished her good luck with the longer course. She smiled wryly and said that she wouldn’t dare do the longer ride. Not here. Not with these hills. As she walked away, I saw the 140.6 sticker on her car’s back window. That’s the mileage of an IronMan.

Oh man, I thought as I put on my helmet, I’m screwed.
A route and elevation map was in our packets. The first two miles were flat. Sweet! Two down, twenty-eight to go. Then the next four miles took us on a slow climb for two thousand feet. Say what now? Did I read that right? Four miles straight up hill? As my dad used to say- you’ve got to be shitting me.

I don’t know much about physics or maps or even geography, but logic told me that if we went up almost half a mile, we had to come down, right? Isn’t that one of Newton’s Laws? What goes up must come down? Or was I thinking of Fig Newtons? Throw a cookie in the air, it lands in my mouth? So, I kept looking for the downhill portions. And looking. What I did see was that miles twenty-six through twenty-nine took us on another climb straight up hill before leveling off for the homestretch.

Like the map said, the first two miles were relatively flat. I clipped into the pedals, which I not so fondly refer to as the bindings of death, remembered which gears were which and off we went. I’ve always been a pretty strong cyclist on flat terrain (you know me and one-legged chimps. It’s just not that hard to ride in a straight line on zero elevation). We took off and I could see Richard slightly behind me. Maybe he was telling the truth when he said his only goal was to finish on his antique bike.

Well, we got to the base of the first monster climb and I downshifted into a low gear and took a breath. Then I watched Richard and Sarah and virtually everyone else ride by me like I was nailed to a tree. I wouldn’t see Richard again until the first rest stop. By the time Sarah and I pulled in there, he’d filled up both water bottles, gone to the bathroom, gotten a snack and meditated for half an hour. Somehow I wasn’t buying his humble, I’m-just-here-to-raise-money-for-a-good-cause spiel.

Sarah and I pulled into the rest stop, chatted with Richard, hydrated ourselves, and I checked my messages only to discover that Kurt had texted me a photo of Ainsley picking up rocks instead of riding her pony. Uh-oh. Clearly her snotty alter-ego, Rodafina (half rodent, half Lucifena- spawn of Lucifer) had emerged. Okay- score one for me. I might have been killing myself trying to get up these you-can’t-get-there-from-here hills, but at least I was spared the epic meltdown of a ten-year-old girl.

We got back on our bikes and Sarah noticed an odd thing. She had map app open on her phone and the mileage did not match the signs posted. Turns out the ride was five miles longer than advertised. I know what you’re thinking. Shut up and pedal, you giant pansy. Five miles on a bike is nothing. Normally I’d agree with you.

Do you remember the comedian, Richard Jeni? He did a bit about walking six miles to school, in the snow, uphill, both ways. Well, that was this ride. It was straight uphill. And then up hill. And then uphill some more. Fifteen miles into it, I was ready to flag down a support vehicle and hitch a ride. Eighteen miles in, I seriously considered throwing myself in front of one.
Being the exceptionally good friend she is, Sarah basically didn’t pedal so I could keep up with her. I loved chatting on the rare moments I could catch my breath, and we eventually finished. I’m pretty sure we were DFL (a sailing term Kurt uses- Dead F-ing Last), but we did it.

Maybe long-distance rides of yesteryear are like childbirth. Pain has no memory. But, I swear both the JDRF and the Closer To Free rides were a million times easier than this one. It was just hill after hill after bloody hill. Of course, Kurt gently reminded me that it probably would have been a little less torturous if I’d trained, even a tiny bit. Okay- Mr. Roboto. Lesson learned.

On the way home, I told Sarah that if I die tragically, I’d like her to set up a charity ride in my memory. I want it to be twenty-two miles (the far reaches of my comfort and fun zone) and on completely flat land. It can be called the “We’re Fat or Lazy or Fat and Lazy, But Still Raise Money for a Good Cause Ride”. Because it will require virtually no effort, people can even do it in costume. How about a nice Zombie Ride?
Because a Zombie is exactly what I felt like by the time I got home that night. With exhaustion and soreness barreling down hard on me, I took my gorgonzola salad upstairs and ate dinner in the tub.

Last night I did a book signing at the lovely and wonderful Palm Beach Bookstore. While in the sunshine state for a total of thirty-six hours, friends invited me to stay with them at their condo in Palm Beach. So I booked myself a flight, hopped on a plane and rented a capable little Ford Focus at the airport. Okay- it wasn’t quite that happy. I hadn’t slept more than five hours a night for the last three days, I’d sweated through my clothes and had made the ill-fated decision to hairspray my carefully constructed curls in the wind. Rather than achieving carefree beach blown waves, I ended up with stringy, sticky hair. So, by the time I pulled up to the security gate at my friends’ place, with Kid Rock serenading me loudly on the radio, I was not pretty. Nor did I smell good.

I rolled down my window feeling full of myself, despite my appearance, because I was, after all, in Palm Beach, Florida for a book signing. In just a few hours, the store would be packed to capacity and they would almost sell out of my books. Of course, I had no way of knowing that at the moment, but it didn’t deter my good mood. That feeling lasted right until I told the guard who I was there to see. He looked me up and down, scanned my scrappy little rental car from front to back, and said, “Oh, you must be the dog walker.”

Imagine my indignation. Me- a rising star (okay, at the very least, a published novelist), all the way from the great white north, in town to inscribe books to adoring fans (or maybe local friends who’d been holding out on buying the book in hopes I’d make it down) being mistaken for a dog walker. I smiled sweetly, suddenly aware of the lettuce stuck between my front teeth, and told him that no, no, I was friends with said people and was taking up residence with them for the night. I’m all for sticking to my guns and that’s exactly what this guy did. He rolled his eyes, and said, “Well, you look like a dog walker.”
Of course I was offended. Why wouldn’t I be? And then I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror. Round, red face, stringy hair, sweat stains on my armpits, porky frame, cheap car, inexpensive t-shirt. As I was taking inventory of myself, a line of cars slowly trickled in the complex: sleek BMWs and sexy Porsches driven by impossibly perfect women who looked like they hadn’t eaten since 2003. I couldn’t spy much else as I was blinded by their five carat diamonds and glossy hair. Immediately I thought of that game from Sesame Street- Which One of These is Not Like the Others? So I guess couldn’t blame the guy for assigning me a dog-walking life. My irritation was replaced by bliss as I took in the strangely calm, turquoise water lapping against the beach in front of me and reminded myself that shortly I would be catching up with old friends and engaging in one of my favorite activities- talking about my books.

Okay, Mr. Gate Guard. No harm no foul. But then I realized there was harm and foul, and it was mine. Not his. My best friend has a friend who left her obscenely high-paying job in corporate lawyerdom to become a dog walker. She lives in Lulu Lemons, walks several miles a day and does something she loves. She’s also five-foot-ten, model skinny and beautiful. Suddenly I thought I should be so lucky to look like a dog walker, or at least that dog walker.

We do judge books by their covers- both literally (An angry college student told me she wasn’t going to read my book because it was about snobby, rich people. When I asked her what made her think that, she replied that only rich people hang out at lakes.) and figuratively- this guy assumed by my shabby state that I was a dog walker. But which one of us was the bigger offender here- him for making assumptions about me or me for being bothered? Aren’t we all guilty of acting like Mr. Gate Guard? What about the girl with the platinum blonde hair, long fingernails and breasts spilling out of a tank top that wouldn’t fit on an American Girl doll who turns out to be the chief resident in the neurosurgery program at the local hospital? Or the guy who was sitting in front of me years ago who was wearing torn, canvas sneakers, paint-splattered shorts and a dirty t-shirt who, after striking up a conversation with him about his neon green shoelaces, I learned not only was a good friend of my husband’s but also a gazilionaire (he didn’t tell me that. I recognized his name from Kurt talking about him). And how about the man in the tailored suit who is a college student on scholarship?

In my defense, I don’t think I would have been irritated if his comment hadn’t been meant to be a slight. Believe me, it was: he’d perfected looking down his nose at me and used that unaffected tone of voice as if I were a fly he was trying to swat. Perhaps he shared some of the harm and foul. A job is a job. He shouldn’t have come to a disdainful conclusion about mine given my appearance and I shouldn’t have been insulted. I know plenty of people making six figures who hate their jobs and even more folks who make considerably less and wouldn’t change a thing.

Lesson learned, Mr. Gate Guard. Next year when I come back to Palm Beach to do a signing for book two, I will bring along a pink, sparkly leash and proudly own up to that noble profession.

Being a novelist, I work from home, usually in my pajamas with a cat on my lap and Van Morrison playing in the background. I know- I’m very glamorous. When the tiny black letters on my screen seem like they’re melting together, I know I need a break. Sometimes I take a walk (to the refrigerator). Other times I fold laundry (not really). But, usually, I’ll surf on the Internet for a few minutes where I inevitably find articles written by cheerful, pretty moms wearing flowered capris and pink sweaters tied around their shoulders.

It’s the morbid fascination similar to slowing down to look at an accident that makes me click on those pages. I know what I’m going to get, but I can’t stop myself: How to create my own Thanksgiving Day Mayflower replica centerpiece made from two-thousand tiny twigs plucked from the expertly manicured trees in my yard or maybe someone named Betts will explain the forty-seven easy steps to assembling personalized, embroidered throw pillows that my perfectly well-behaved children would never dream of throwing at each other. If I get really lucky, I might stumble across a self-proclaimed super mom demonstrating how quickly and painlessly she and her seven superior offspring produced sixty-six hand-painted place cards for the sixty-six delightful guests they’re having over for a delicious and nutritious Thanksgiving cage-free, sugar-free, homemade, artificial-free, taste free, cardboard dinner.

I get it- genetically engineered, mammoth vegetables probably aren’t good for us. Sugar makes us fat. And too much sun will be the death of us all. But really? I can’t trot down to HomeGoods with fifteen dollars in my pocket and pick up a cute centerpiece that will last for more than one day? Do I need to spend all my extra time when I’m not writing, blogging, cooking, chauffeuring to playdates and cleaning pony tack learning calligraphy for the formal, sit-down brunches I will never host? Okay- let me stop right there. I am not super mom. And when I’m not writing, blogging, cooking, chauffeuring to playdates and cleaning pony tack, sometimes I like to do, wait for it… nothing. I don’t want to be covered in glitter and cutting out tiny pieces of felt when I’m not busy doing something that absolutely has to get done.

Truth be told, I might have a minor case of sour grapes. I’d love to convert extra toilet paper tubes into Independence Day rockets. It’d be fabulous if I could use a glue gun without cementing my fingers to the table (thank goodness for nail polish remover). My kids would be thrilled if I could stencil a mural in their bedrooms (okay, that one might be a lie). I’d really, really like to be handy enough or talented enough or determined enough to accomplish all the tasks that Perky Piper not only blogs about but also does on a regular basis. But, I’m just not that… that.

While the creators of just about every mommy blog I’ve ever read are making adorable handmade invitations for holiday parties, I’m sending out evites for another Streckerfest Free For All. My idea of fun is not to crack a rib while I stuff myself into a pair of Spanx and then put on my fancy dresses for my fancy friends. For any gathering that happens during warm weather, we fire up the grill and have a barbecue in the backyard. Shoes and nice clothes are not permitted. For Thanksgiving, Christmas and the Super Bowl, we pretend we’re outside and cram as many friends as we can into the gathering room, throw a turkey in the oven or a pot of chili on the stove and eat on ottomans, couches and the floor.

Carefully painted eggs lovingly shaped into the circle of life have no place at our Easter cookout. The only tablecloths I break out on Mother’s Day are cheap plastic ones I throw down so the kids can paint, um, each other without making too much of a mess. Thanksgiving is loud, messy and sooner or later we all lie on the floor and unbutton our jeans to make room for dessert. We’re not fancy people. And at least in the craft department, I most certainly am not a do it yourselfer. But, if Perky Piper and Blogging Betts peered in our window on any given holiday or a random weekend, they’d spy a Streckerfest Free For All in full force- happy messy kids, adults in comfy clothes and all of us spending quality time with the people we love the most. I’m pretty sure my family would take that over a hand-trimmed topiary nativity scene any day of the week.

I’ve been a published novelist for eight days. People keep asking me how I feel. Hmm, let’s see. I guess I feel like I can’t wear pajamas all the time anymore since every now and again I have to be seen in public For instance, last Monday I did an interview for WTNH’s Connecticut Style TV Show. Before the segment, my good friend, Brittain, called her friend who regularly appears on national TV for her job. She was nice enough to send me a list of helpful hints intended to make my appearance go more smoothly.

Unfortunately her suggestions terrified me. There wasn’t anything unreasonable on her list, such as speaking in a British accent to make myself sound smarter or answering questions with questions to keep the conversation going. On the contrary, she provided a thoughtful list of tips that would have benefitted someone more like Brittain (she’s sophisticated and has her s*** together). If I wanted someone more my speed to give advice, I probably should have asked Mama June of Honey Boo Boo fame. Anyway, included on the list were the following:

*** Wear nude heels to elongate my leg. Um, let me back up here. The fact that I was a guest on a TV show called Connecticut Style is nothing short of ironic. If you’ve read my blog titled A Bright Orange Buoy in a Sea of Beautiful, you know that fashion isn’t my thing. Needless to say, nude heels do not live in my closet. They don’t even live in my imagination. My choices were pretty much black riding boots or pink flip flops.

*** Wear a DVF dress. This one made my brain hurt. I grew up in the NASCAR world, so the only abbreviations I’m familiar with are STP and RPM. Oh, and NASCAR, I guess. I googled it, came up empty, and finally my friend Bobby filled me in. Turns out DVF doesn’t stand for Don’t Vomit, F***face (I thought maybe the dress was made of plastic), but Diane von Furstenberg.


*** Don’t move my hands. No problem. I’m Italian, so I’ll stop talking with my hands right after I cut them off.

*** Never, never, never look at the camera. I thought that would be easy until I got to the TV station and there were six cameras pointed at the set.

*** Cross my legs at the ankle and point my knees away from the interviewer. I actually practiced this at home. Every time I hooked my feet together, my knees opened like I was a drunk girl at a frat party.

*** Have a stylist meet me at my house an hour before departure time. Believe me, it takes more than an hour to make me look like a girl, which is why I never do. I pretended I didn’t even see that directive until I got to her last suggestion which was…

*** Make sure a professional does my hair or I will look (and I quote) crazy on TV. At this point, I accepted defeat. Fortunately for me, I rock the crazy look.

So this is how Monday morning went: I dug a pair of plain black slides out of the bottom of my closet, wiped off the mud (they had clearly made a guest appearance at a horse show), and managed to find black pants that I wished were plastic because I was afraid I might poop myself. I styled my hair in the least crazy manner I could, rummaged for makeup, found dried up mascara, threw it away, settled for Chapstick in lieu lipstick, tried one more time to cross my ankles without looking like a hooker and then drove to New Haven.

I got there, met the lovely staff and waited my turn (still trying to master the ankle cross). Once I sat down with the beautiful and perfectly put together Teresa Dufour, I ran down the list of pointers Brittain’s friend had sent me. Positive I had committed everything to memory, I took my seat and a deep breath and was ready… right up until the cameras started recording and Teresa began asking questions I should have been able to answer without thinking about them.
As she was introducing me (even I was impressed with me after listening to her), I crossed my clunky slides, jammed my knees together in such a way that made my hips ache immediately, pointed said knees away from Teresa, swiveled my upper body so I could see her, craned my neck to make sure I wasn’t looking into any of the giant cameras staring at me and clasped my hands together so hard I thought I broke a finger.

Then the rapid-fire questions began. Okay, she spoke slowly and eloquently, I just couldn’t think fast enough to keep up with her. She started with an easy one: How did I make the transition from my past career to becoming a novelist. For once in my life, my filter wasn’t malfunctioning. I was thinking, I quit my last job because I F-ing hated it. But, I managed to say something politically correct (and true) about wanting to be home with my kids, and then having some time to write once they started school.

Next she asked if the book has any truth to it. Um, well, the main character, Jensen, is a tall, skinny, black-haired beauty who models in the nude for artists. Yeah, no. Just no.

A few questions later she asked if my own upbringing influenced the book being set on the Connecticut shoreline. I originally had the novel taking in Baltimore, but I caved to editor pressure and changed it to New England.

Although the interview only lasted five and a half minutes, it felt like five and a half hours. The best part of my time on camera was concentrating on Teresa’s pretty face since I wasn’t allowed to look anywhere else. At the end, I thanked her for having me on her fabulous show and sat beside the next guest. Feeling like it went better than it could have, I smiled at her, hoping for a little atta girl. She looked me up and down, then brought me back to reality by saying, “Next time you might want to smile. And take a Quaalude.”

Night Blindness: A Novel