My So-Called Glamorous Life

Every week I toggle between two worlds. There’s the “suburban mom” in sweats and the Manhattan me in heels, however, I should mention, they’re often stuffed in my backpack as I hoof around the city. Although I live outside of New York, my work and part of my social life is in Manhattan. I’m an advocate for veterans’ causes (the Bob Woodruff Foundation), a contributor to CBS This Morning, an author, and, always, a mom. This makes the Metro-North bathroom, where I often transform into “City Glam,” the equivalent of a Superman phone booth. 

Here’s how a typical day goes when I’m on the morning show:

I jump into a town car at 5:45am with wet hair and slits for eyes. As soon as I arrive at the studio, the CBS makeup magicians get to work spackling my face (which takes a little extra effort at my age). In order to keep me from looking like a blind lab rat, they add false eyelashes that—once I’ve left the studio and am back in natural light—give me a “tranny” look and cause me to have to explain at every successive meeting why I’m made up like Phyllis Diller. 

After the show, I duck into a deli and order a three-eggs-and-bacon sandwich. The woman at the register doesn’t give my now-melting makeup job a second look—she must see all kinds of crazy pouring out of the various CBS studios. She stifles a yawn, and as I take a bite, the yolk squirts onto my boob like yellow blood. Great. 

Next up: a meeting with the Caroline’s on Broadway folks to discuss our annual “Stand Up for Heroes” fundraiser at the Beacon Theater on November 8.  Andrew Fox, the show’s creator, wants to talk about stacking the night with artists like Bruce Springsteen, Ricky Gervais, Jon Stewart, and Robin Williams. Not bad company for an old lady in sensible footwear. “Nice look,” Andrew mutters wryly, gazing at the sneakers I’ve already abandoned my heels for.  The crotch of my tights has migrated midway to my knees and they are wrinkling at the ankles, like the plastic bags my mom stuck in my childhood winter boots.   There is an occasional obstruction in my peripheral vision. Is one of my lashes coming unglued, or is that just my sagging lid beginning to impair my vision? Note to self: Get the name of any plastic surgeon except the one who embalmed Joan Rivers.

Working with Scott McMahan on our "Stand Up For Heroes" fundraiser.  

Noon. It’s time for some grits, and this gal doesn’t like to miss a meal. I walk to Michael’s restaurant on 55th and find myself outside the plate-glass window where the A-listers sit, in a public urination-like crouch as I swap out the Nikes for my city shoes. I remove the Mr. Rodgers cardigan I’m wearing over my dress, swipe on a little lipstick and brush my hair. I’m meeting with a magazine editor to discuss my newly released first work of fiction, Those We Love Most. 

 “So tell me,” she asks, leaning over her untouched salad,  “Is this book really about you?” Finishing a bite of my dripping burger, I give the reply most middle-aged mothers of four can relate to.  “If this book were true to my life, I’d have to add lots of spicy sex scenes!  And maybe even throw in some leather and a few whips.  You know us suburban Moms,” I say, as she sets her fork down with renewed interest,  “we’re as frisky as wild ponies!”

Cut to me and the executive director of our non-profit organization in the conference room of a Midtown investment bank. We’re making a pitch for them to sponsor our “Stand Up for Heroes” night. I’m 50 percent sure they’ve agreed to write a check just to get me out of the room, because by this point in time, the TV makeup looks like it’s applied to a Galapagos turtle and the bankers are staring like geologists studying a topographical map.

With one sponsorship in the bag, we take a Starbucks break. I massage my dogs and wonder how my chicer Manhattan sisters seem to spend all day in heels so effortlessly. I’m the one who gets the stiletto stuck in the subway grate when I try to copy the grown-ups.

It’s now the end of the day and I’ve crisscrossed the city to meet my hubby for a drink near his ABC News offices.  One fake lash is now half unglued and curled off my lid like a shrimp.  The other half refuses to budge when I tug.  I’ve learned the hard way not to mess with any of this industrial make-up until I get home to a hot wash cloth.  Anything short of the right removal tools and my face will resemble a Jackson Pollock painting.

Walking in the rain with Bob. 

“What’s wrong with your eye?” my husband asks, squinting, patting himself down to find his reading glasses (I’ve been tempted to duct-tape them to the bridge of his nose). When my pores come into focus, he recoils. I’ve firmly moved into Night of the Living Dead territory, but I’m too tired to care. He shoots me a sympathetic look.

We sip our wine and wait for the traffic to subside so we can head home. Somewhere north of Harlem, my head lolls to the side and I am drooling on my sweater. Next thing I know we’re pulling into our driveway. One of my twins gives me a hug with a skeptical eye while the other is quick to bring me back to reality. 

“What’s with the Halloween makeup Mom? I’m starving.” 

Welcome home.

Enjoying a hike with my girls.

An original version of this post ran in Oct '12 Manhattan Magazine
http://www.modernluxury.com/manhattan/articles/every-day-exactly-the-same

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Remembering a Friend

I cannot fall back asleep.  I am stuck on the dentist, the mechanics of how this works, identifying a person by their dental records.  Does he get a call at 2:00 AM, when family members and loved ones are awaiting an answer?  Or does he come to work at a reasonable hour?

 

I am struck by the term “lost his life,” as if it was simply an object he misplaced and someone will find again. As if you could walk out a door, never to return and then somehow walk back in again.  What an odd and inappropriate turn of phrase.

 

I am thinking about his last minutes and hoping that there was no suffering.  As a wife I would need no suffering.  I would want to know there had been that moment of being there and then suddenly not there, before you could even flicker through the fullness of your life, before you had time to tell yourself that it was abundant and well lived and that you had more than you even deserved.

 

I am remembering what that call feels like—to go from a before to “after” with one piece of news, a few words that ripple out to change the lives of an entire clan.  There is the cool ceramic shock that follows, the membrane that appears over your brain to prevent the truth from sinking in all at once.  The information digests slowly, as you toggle between numbness and disbelief at the oddest times. This is the only way a wife can absorb the enormity of that kind of loss, you cannot otherwise compute the circumference of such a thing. 

 

 

She will still expect to hear his shout out from the front hall, see his lopsided grin and wire glasses askew, his full head of ginger hair.  She will listen for, but not hear, his footfall and the familiar sound of his briefcase being hefted up on the counter where they will eat.  “You’re dragging the dirt of Manhattan onto our table,” she might say and now she smiles to think of it.  Impossible that someone could be there one day, taking up all that space and then simply vanish so fully that the dentist must be called.  “Never” is a difficult word for humans to grasp—we are creatures who crave.

 

In the early days following his death, the kitchen is warm and bustling with covered dishes and deli food. The fireplace crackles, the doorbell rings, flowers arrive and then more food.  In these early days there is way too much food.

 

The household spins with industry, the cluck clucking of the community of women and the spiked laughter of his pals, yes laughter, because this is still unreal.  She will not sleep, at least not without pills and aids, because the images both imagined and real and the questions and “what if’s” will swirl in her mind like a thick pudding.  She will replay the film loops of the past, the time they first saw one another in Manhattan, how he held himself, so sure and confident, a boy from a modest home who was determined to make a mark with his good education.  She sees a freeze frame of them in the maternity ward, holding their daughter, how they thought their hearts would burst with so much love.  And then more children, more love. 

 

She thinks about his passion for all things outdoors, of hiking and biking and being out on the water in the Adirondacks.  She pictures him coaching hockey and wakeboarding with his boyhood friends and their children on the lake.  He was a person always in motion, whose presence bulged, so that he seemed to occupy a larger space, in a way that made the people around him feel more alive.  He had a childlike sense of wonder and enthusiasm that made those of us in his presence smile.  He was the leader, the aggregator, the congregator, the do-er.  He was where the fun was.  He was the “Fun Dad.”

 

 

He always said exactly what he thought and he was forthright, never cruel.  Even when he was goading or teasing you there was something still appropriate, still loveable.  He was loveable.  He jibed and joshed and his self-deprecating manner made us all feel we knew him better than maybe we did.  We smile just remembering it, each of us reviewing our own cache of highlights.

 

But then there will come that period in the house when the activity will slow and sag.  All the plates will stop spinning.  The hugs, the calls and the people dropping by will diminish.  The cars that have occupied the driveway will pull out and friends will go back to their lives because that’s what people do.  And then the real life part begins.  The living with it part.  And this will be the difficult part for the family. 

 

In the quiet of their home, grief will settle around her like an unwelcome arm on the shoulder and she will ache for the sound of that briefcase hitting the counter, the small dog’s incessant bark, rejoicing that her husband is home.  I want to say to her, do not fester over recreating your last moments together, the fact that you might have discussed the credit card bill that last night instead of something more weighty.  Do not worry if you can’t recall exactly when you last embraced him or told him what was in your heart.  Do not punish yourself if the last night you slept together - and how could you know that - you didn’t spoon him or kiss him passionately, but instead poked him when his snores woke you.  None of that matters now.  It was a marriage and he adored you.  I saw it.  We all did.  You made each other stronger and more complete in the weaker places.  And that’s simply what the best of couples do.

 

And when you are ready to feel us, we will all be woven strong.  Each of your varying and diverse communities, all of the places you have lived and worked, played and learned, will be interconnected, like the reeds in a basket.  Although we will never come close to replacing him, we will hold you up, and cradle each one of you.  We will be here to remind you how well you are loved.

 

 

In memory of Tighe Sullivan—devoted father, husband, friend, brother, Colgate University alumnus and lover of Silver Bay on Lake George. 

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In Praise of Indies

This is not one of those stories where the supermodel tells you she was home alone with her cat on prom night.  I did go to prom and I kissed a boy. But at the same time, for most of my childhood, I was the kid in the corner of the room curled up with a book, not the one joining organized sports teams or taping up teen idol posters. I can't remember if the term "nerd" was alive in the early 70’s, but you get the picture.  Drawing horses and reading were my two favorite past times.  Let's just say that doesn't set you up for a membership in the Gossip Girl cool club.

 

Many childhood afternoons, I rode my bike to the Delmar Public library in upstate New York. The librarians and I were on a first name basis. They helped me select piles of books that introduced me to imaginary lives, mysteries, history and biography.  Double bonus, Ellen Harris, the cool Mod Squad hippie-ish children’s librarian was also our occasional babysitter.  Checking out books with my own library card had the grown up élan I associated with whipping out a credit card.  And when I devoured those reads at home, I inhabited alternate universes, fed my head and stretched my vocabulary.

 

I married a man whose career took us to many different cities.  In each one I acquired a succession of library cards to match my growing collection of state driver’s licenses.  And eventually, as a mother, I would haunt the children's sections of my town libraries once again, directing my kids toward timeless reads like the Babar series, the Wind in the Willows or The Lonely Doll, a childhood favorite.

 

And while we were regular patrons of our libraries, it was the local bookstores that became my personal sanctuaries, my mental watering holes.  Back when mothering four children could feel like fighting against the undertow, I would have described a perfect day as “being alone in a bookstore.”  I still would.

 

I am drawn to bookstores the way others migrate to clothing boutiques or shoe sales.   Here's what happens. The door opens, the bell tinkles and a beatific look overtakes my face.  I love the absence of a shopping soundtrack. There is no migraine thumping bass in the Abercrombie dressing room, no “Nine Inch Nails” blasting away so as to quicken hand tremors and force premature surrender of the plastic as I plot my exit from mall girl hell.

 

 

Nope.  This is bliss. The hushed interior, the shelved cache of rabbit holes into other worlds and other lives.   Sometimes there is an espresso machine puffing in the back, a worn comfy chair, an invitation to sit and linger.  And the books!  All those crisp hardbacks lined up like soldiers, the distressed pine tables groaning with proven paperbacks, the old faithfuls in the back, arranged by category. And those colorful jackets!  Oh, the books that catch my eye like stained glass.   Even an artfully designed “so-so” read can seduce like a painted whore in soft light.

 

And then I'm jonesing like an addict entering a crack den.  Books are my crystal meth.   Friends and family members have had to literally tug me out of bookstores on occasion.  I can get that gone.

 

Bookstore employees in the towns in which I’ve lived came to learn my tastes and recommend new or unfamiliar titles.  We'd parse reviews like bookies at the track.  There was small talk and gossip, the questions about each other’s children and families or a mutual friend.  At some point in the conversation I'd feel like the party's social climber, making polite conversation while scanning the crowd for bigger game. One eye was always running up and down the shelves looking for the latest read or a book I’d kept meaning to add to my list.

 

When I became a published author in 2007 with the release of In an Instant, I appreciated the value of libraries and bookstores from a different perspective than that of customer.  On my first book tour I had the pleasure of meeting some of the owners at iconic independent stores like Powell’s in Portland, Andersons in Naperville, Politics & Prose in DC and Book Passage in Marin County.  Numerous Barnes & Nobles welcomed me to the back office to sign stock, then un-stacked the chairs and invited people to come meet me on the PA system (always a slightly awkward moment to be a literary blue light special).

 

I learned to grow comfortable with popping unannounced in places like the Concord Bookshop outside of Boston or Bookshelf in Truckee, CA when visiting my brother-in-law, to introduce myself and sign their copies of my books.  That was me, yesterday, in the airport bookstore, bedraggled and puffy-eyed, pointing at the glam-ish author photo in the inside flap to convince the clerk who I was while aggressively offering to “sign some stock."  Ahhh, the joys of self-promotion.

 

Our Indies are the conch-holders, the pulse-takers of their communities.  They are a taproot for the book clubs, schools, the ladies groups and readers in their areas. They are the aggregators, event planners, gatekeepers and bulletin boards for the cultural happenings in their area. 

 

Many bookstore proprietors have put their own personal touches on my tours, driving me to a venue, offering a cup of tea or allowing me to "pick a book for my girls" after a talk (thank you RJ Julia in Madison CT).  How could I ever forget Viv and Roger at Rainy Day Books in Kansas City who demonstrated how they grease the folding table so we could slide and sign all 500 books with assembly line speed?  I’ve kept up with many of these folks personally and I consider my relationships with them a great privilege.  They are book people. That makes them my kind of people.

 

 

On September 11, Hyperion published my first work of fiction.  I was over the moon when Those We Love Most made the New York Times Bestseller list and I was pleased, ok, totally pumped, to read the reviews.   And then my publisher told me that I'd been selected as an “Indie Next Pick” for September.  Reading that list and the insights into the titles continually reminds me why our hometown bookstores are gems, why they really matter.  It's because the owners and staff read the books, they delve deeper, they comment and discuss, they start and advance the conversation.  They get excited.  I like to hang out with people who get excited.

 

As I crisscross the country on a book tour schedule that pals have exclaimed "makes them tired just to read," I'm gearing up to visit with old friends and add some new ones.  I’m eager to meet readers and friends at Big Hat Books in Indianapolis, Common Good Books in St. Paul, Elm Street in New Canaan, and Tattered Cover in Denver, to name a few.  I can’t wait to walk back through the door of the Book Stall in Winnetka, Illinois, the picturesque town in which we lived that formed the basis for the setting of my first novel, Those We Love Most.

 

In the spring I’m determined to get to Just One More Page in Arlington, VA, Brookline Booksmith in Boston, People of the Book in Austin or maybe Bookends in Ridgewood, New Jersey, if they have a spare night.  And Ann Patchett, you Patron Saint of Bookstores and personal She-ro of mine -- just say the word and I'll use my frequent flyer miles to get to your beloved Parnassus Books in Nashville.

 

Arcade in Rye, New York is my hometown store.  We try to buy most of our books from Patrick, who also happens to play in a jazz band.  School-assigned reading, my personal picks, gifts for friends, books on tape all lead me and my family to Arcade.  Shopping local is the only way we roll and the doors are open because many townsfolk feel the same. I hope you shop local too, those of you who are still lucky enough to have bricks and mortar bookstores in your hood.

 

 

These are scary times for bookstores.  Scary times for library funding.  Scary times for reading.  All of us who love to hold books and turn a page, borrow them from the library or read them on tablets (it's OK, really it is) we need to join hands and squeeze tighter.  It’s more important than ever to be a patron or customer, to re-discover the magic of getting lost in the stacks, of finding an unexpected surprise at the suggestion of a bookstore employee or a librarian.

 

And here’s why: I believe books can do good. Lives are made richer by teachers and librarians, by bookstores and the people who love books, recommend reads and encourage reading.  Reading itself may be a solitary endeavor and writing a solo enterprise, but stories have the power to connect us, sometimes in places we didn't know we could.  Stories move us.  Poems and essays, art and conversations, all of it enhances and advances our world. They are as wonderful an elixir as a walk in the woods.

 

Books simply matter.  And so with that, I’m off to pack my suitcase.  Here's hoping I see you on the road.

 

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