Susan Sey's Blog, page 9

Pies, pies, pies

I had a brilliant idea a few weeks back.

Like most brilliant ideas, it seemed incredibly reasonable & imminently do-able.   As time was short & I was on the spot, I went ahead and committed to it.  Good lord, I committed to it.  

And I am now hip-deep in pie.

Let me explain.  

(This is where Inigo Montoya from the Princess Bride should jump in:  ”No,  there is too much.  Let me sum up.”  I wouldn’t mind a Brute Squad at my disposal, either, but we’ll get to that.)

Okay, so way back in the spring my church did this thing called a harvest of talents.  (It stems from a parable about risk and growth but, again, too much.  I’ll sum up.)  Bottom line?  The church handed out $10 bills to each congregant & said, “Come November, we’ll be asking for these back.  In the meantime, see about making them grow.”

And we did what people ordinarily do in these situations.  We took the money & promptly forgot about it.

Oh we knew we were supposed to do something with our family’s cumulative forty bucks.  Make something, build something, create something that we could then sell at the Harvest of Talents festival our church would throw in November.  We just…you know….didn’t do it. 

 

Then, about 24 hours before the Harvest of Talents Festival we said, “Oh crap.”  Because we still had our forty bucks but we hadn’t done anything worthy with it.  We were Bad Church Goers.  

This is when I hatched my Brilliant Idea.  

“Okay,” I said.  ”Here’s what we’re going to do.  I’m going to bake a couple pies and give away samples.  If people like it, they can sign up to have me bake & deliver a holiday pie for the low, low price of just $10.”

I was hoping for at least 4 takers.  Just enough to satisfy my conscience & allow the church to break even on the $40 they’d invested in the scheme.  For the most part, though, I figured people would want to do their own baking.  I mean, pies are sacred business to me, as is my whole holiday table.  I don’t outsource if I don’t have to.  

This–I realize now–was the fault in my logic.  Whereas my three sisters & I have been peeling apples & rolling out pie crusts under my mother’s eagle eye since we could be trusted with a paring knife, many people have not.  As a result, many people do not care to bake their own holiday pies.  And if somebody undercuts Baker’s Square’s price and offers to bring the pie to their doorstep the day before the holiday, these non-bakers will jump all over that action.  

Which explain how–less than a week before Thanksgiving–I am baking an extra dozen pies.  And driving all over the metro area the night before Thanksgiving leaving them on doorsteps like the Pie Fairy.  (I’m doing another 12-14 on Christmas.  I can only thank God I belong to a teeny tiny church.  Imagine if I’d offered my deal to a congregation of 1,500 instead of 150.  Gah.)  

However.  A dozen pies is still a dozen pies.  And in addition to my pie commitment, I am also hosting a Harry Potter themed birthday party for my youngest on Monday night, and am producing Thanksgiving dinner for nine on Thursday.  My husband is bound & determined to kick off our holiday shopping on Black Friday (pray for me), and then we’re hosting our annual Festival Of Leftovers Potluck on Saturday.  My kids also have all of Thanksgiving week off school.  Did I mention that?  They do.

Oh that poor girl, you’re thinking to yourselves.  I feel just terrible for her!  How is she going to survive?

Well, rest assured, I’m thinking that myself.  It’s given me a couple bad moments lately, & a few sleepless nights.

 Then I remembered the Holiday Wisdom, imparted in humid, fragrant kitchens, mother to daughter, for countless generations in my family:  

Holiday Wisdom, part one:  When the holiday baking begins–no matter what time of the day or night–you open a bottle of wine.  This is a sacred tradition that I have no interest in flouting.  There will be wine.  Oh yes, there will.  

Holiday Wisdom, part two (perhaps related to part one):  Watch the birth control.  It’s a sketchy time of year.  

I believe I mentioned that I’m one of four girls?  It might also interest you to  know that of the four girls, three were born roughly 9 months from Thanksgiving/Christmas.  Listen to the Holiday Wisdom, ladies.

So there you have it.  I’m baking twelve extra pies this week, plus twelve to fourteen more just before Christmas, in addition to producing birthday parties, potlucks and the holidays themselves with all their attendant baking, cooking & shopping.  

But there will be wine.  And there will be well-protected nookie, so I think I’m going to make it after all.

How about you?  What’s the craziest thing you’ve ever committed to in the name of holiday cheer?  Or in the name of charity?  How did you survive?  Inquiring minds want to know!

images courtesy of Free Digital Photos, mouse over image for individual attribution.

 

 

Best Birthday Ever.

So I had a significant birthday recently.  I won’t get into details, I’ll just assure you it ended with a zero & it makes me officially…not young anymore.  

I’ve got to say, though, gift wise?  This birthday was a tremendous success.  

Now normally I’m not much of a gift girl.  I’m much more interested in the cake & ice cream.  Top it with a gift card to Barnes & Noble, & we’re good here.  

This was, however, a Significant Birthday.  (Did I mention?)  And my family (the one I was born into, not the one I made) wasn’t going to let it slip by unmarked.   See, I’ve left these people unattended during the run-up to such events before (I’m thinking of my wedding here) and paid the price.  You know that childhood pants-wetting episode you can’t ever live down?  Now imagine it worked into the maid of honor’s toast.  There you go.  These people aren’t to be trusted.   

So I did an unprecedented thing.  I took the bull by the proverbial horns & I sent out an email that said essentially I want this.  

What’s this, you might ask?  

A Little Free Library.  That one there on the right?  That’s mine.  In my yard.   (Ignore the trashed garden.  You go on vacation most of August, that’s what happens.)  

So this library?  It’s the most awesome thing ever.  It’s like an oversized mailbox you put in your yard and fill up with books.  Then anybody passing by gets to take one.  Or leave one.  Or just stop by your yard to check out the selection & maybe admire your garden.  

You also get to establish a theme if you like.  Mine is Happily Ever After.  I don’t stock books in which the main characters die, or things end worse than they started.  Or even ambivalently.  I want a happy ending, damn it, & this is my library.  What I say goes.  

So how have things been going in the three months since I planted this beauty in my yard?  Well, the towering stacks of paperbacks moldering in the basement have been significantly reduced, which is awesome.  So have the stacks of People Magazines.  I put a bunch of those in the library & they were gone within 24 hours.  I gave away a bunch of basil & rosemary from my garden.  And I’ve talked to more neighbors in the past three months than in the previous twelve years at this address.  

And the best part?  The pants wetting thing  was not involved in my birthday at all.  Miracles abound.

What about you?  If you  had a little library in your yard, what would you put in it?  What would you take if you passed one?  Is it cheating when I give away my old magazines in a vehicle meant for books?

Birthday cake image provided by Stuart Miles, courtesy of Free Digital Images.

Comfort Read

I used to live in the Midway area of the Twin Cities–so named because it lies midway between St. Paul & Minneapolis on I-94.  It’s the kind of neighborhood where a local artist has done all the sidewalk planters in gorgeous mosaic tiles.  It’s also the kind of neighborhood where the local gang can steal & strip your car in fifteen minutes or less.  

It was a colorful place to live, & now that I’m up in the suburbs I miss it.  Oh, I don’t miss everything.  It’s nice that I can throw a Superbowl party now without fearing for my guests’ cars.  But I miss the Axe Man.

What is the Axe Man, you ask?  The Axe Man is one of those stores where you can buy anything.  So long as you don’t want anything nice, new or typical. 

You need a set of weighted dice to rig the craps table at casino night?  They’re at the Axe Man.

You need a whole bunch of left-handed rubber gloves?  They’re at the Axe Man.

You need half a mannequin for your Halloween haunted house?  It’s at the Axe Man.  (Not a whole mannequin, mind you.  Just half.)

And you know what I found there the other day?

Romance novels.  

Old school romance novels, a whole stack of them.  Harlequin Presents, Loveswepts, Silhouettes, the whole shebang.    I spent a quarter & bought the one published in 1984–a Candlelight Ecstasy!–by Barbara Andrews.  It was called Happily Ever After, & set at  a thinly-disguised Romance Writers of America conference in New York City.  

The heroine was a divorced romance writer, and all but a virgin due to her ex-husband’s ham-handedness in the sack.  The hero was a book store owner, an eighties-style alpha male full of punishing kisses.   He manipulates her into a publicity tour for her latest book, & seduces her along the way.   This included a great many of the aforementioned punishing kisses from the hero and a great lot of  no-but-maybe-yes?-ing from the heroine.

I spent a delicious three hours gobbling it up, & when it was over I thought to myself, “Now where are those old Iris Johansen Loveswepts from the 80s?”  Because I man, did I love those.  The Trustworthy Redhead?  And the Desert Blooms?  Good stuff.  

See, I spent my entire middle school career–from 13 to 15, let’s say–reading exclusively category romances.  And since this was the mid-eighties and I was on a library-only sort of budget, I was reading books published mostly in the 70s.  There were a lot of mustaches and very few liberated women.  (And, yeah, the phrase liberated women was used a lot, which tells you something.)

But somehow, I turned out fine.  I don’t care for punishing kisses in real life (I don’t think so, anyway, never having experienced one), and I’m liberated enough to have skipped shaving my legs for a good ten years somewhere in my twenties.   I do stay home with my kids, but my husband does the dishes, so I’m calling that a wash.  

No, what my trip to the Axe Man reminded me of was just how much I love a good category.  It doesn’t matter if it’s a pure 70s, alpha/passive pairing, or a 2012 kick-butt heroine & her beta-male boyfriend.  I can always count on a category to deliver 180(ish) pages of pure, sexy banter.  

Yum.  

So tell me, who’s your favorite go-to category author?  I know we have some awesome ones here in the Lair but I haven’t branched beyond my fellow banditas lately.  So share!

Dice image courtesy of Posterize at freedigitalimages.net.

Peanut Butter: A Love Story

I have a strange & complicated relationship with food.  I think most women do, and I think many of us nurse some level of shame over that.  
 
After all, who among us flaunts her candy wrappers?  (So many tiny foil balls, no longer full of kisses!)  Who doesn’t stuff her empty Blizzard cup into the bottom of the trash so nobody sees it?  (Hey, who had Dairy Queen?)  Who hasn’t polished off her kids’ dinners while doing the dishes instead of just eating as much as she wanted at the table?  (Pig.)
 
So, yeah.  Strange & complicated.  And today was a perfect example.
 
See, I’ve been having this love affair with peanut butter lately.  It’s all I want to eat, all day, every day.  Oh, I eat a normal, healthy breakfast. (You have to start the day out right, of course.  Good people do.)  I eat a well-balanced, normal dinner.  (Examples must be set for children, & husbands do expect to see some evidence of industry from stay-at-home moms.)  But lunch?  Lunch is all about me & a jar of Jif.  I start dreaming about my lunchtime PB & J around, oh, say, breakfast.  
 
So back to today.  After a whole morning of PB-fueled fantasies, it’s finally lunchtime, right?  And I”m slathering peanut butter on a flat bread because open-face sandwich = more real estate for the peanut butter. And I’m talking peanut butter like half an inch thick.  Oh, the glory!
 
And then my husband saunters into the kitchen.  
 
Panic!  I’d forgotten he was working at home for the morning, & I did not want him to see how much peanut butter I was planning to pack away for lunch. I immediately blocked his view of the counter with my body.  
 
Let me interrupt my own story to say this:  Mr. Sey has never–not once–shamed me about my weird relationship with food.  Mr. Sey has never–not once–had anything to say about my size or shape that wasn’t absolutely complimentary.  In fact, when I do that big sigh, look-at-the-size-of-my-butt thing that women do (oh, come on, you know you do this), his traditional response has run along the lines of, “If you don’t know how to appreciate that thing, why don’t you bring it over here & let me refresh you?”
 
Not in those exact words but you take my meaning.  Mr. Sey is a true gem.  

So why on earth would I feel ashamed to let this man–who’s seen me throw up, give birth, and pee my pants–see what I was eating for lunch?  (Peeing my pants was birth related, in case you were wondering.  Just, you know, FYI.)

Well, I don’t know.  I truly don’t.  It was reflexive, like slapping an arm across your passenger when you jam on the brakes.  You know it’s not effective, you just…do it.  And it was in much this same way that I kept my body strategically between Mr. Sey & my lunch until he left the kitchen.

This was, I have decided, cowardly of me.  And further, it was  insulting to my husband.  Badly done, Susan.  Badly done.  If Jeremy Northam himself had appeared in my kitchen dressed as Mr. Knightley to deliver this line, I could not have been more ashamed of myself.  Do I not trust my husband?  Has he not at this point proven himself worthy of knowing what I ate for lunch?  Of forgiving me my gluttony?

Commence the shame spiral.  First the food shame, then the relationship shame.  Plus an extra shot of relationship shame because it appears I’ve inadvertently indulged in a minor Jeremy Northam fantasy.  Gah!

I find this–as you might be finding it–exhausting.  So you know what?  I’m getting off that merry-go-round right here. 

When Mr. Sey returns home, I will confess what I have done.   I will tell him what I had for lunch.  (He will not care, & be slightly baffled that I’m offering the information, but that’s not the point.  The point is that I will reveal my peanut butter indulgence.)  I will also confess the Jeremy Northam thing, & he will laugh.  He will say, “What, was Christian Bale unavailable?  You couldn’t get Matt Damon?”

And I will love him to my dying day.

Him and my jar of Jif.

So what about you?  Do you have any weird food fixations these days?  A dish you dream about, a must-have without which your day just isn’t complete?  Do you sneak it, or are you totally up-front about it?  And do you–honestly now–do you ever hide your eating habits from your significant other?   

Dirty Girl

I’ll start by apologizing.  (Always a good place to begin.)  I’m going to be scarce on the comments for the first half of today.

It’s not that I’m ignoring you.  Heavens, no.  Believe me, I’d rather be here with you, sipping a cup of coffee in my pjs, enjoying your e-company on this lovely Saturday morning.

Unfortunately, that’s not in the cards.  Because I am (possibly at this very moment) dodging barbed wire, leaping over open flames, slogging through mud pits and conquering cargo nets.  And that’s all while running a 5k.  

Yeah, I signed up for one of those mud runs.  

As god is my witness, I don’t know how this happened.  

Well, I sort of do.  I mean, I signed myself up.  But I didn’t mean to.  Honest.  It just sort of…got away from me.  

You know how these things happen.  You have an idea kicking around in your head, sort of a Gee, I’ve always wanted to try [insert bizarre idea here.]   You maybe even mention it out loud once or twice.  ”You know, before I [turn forty/have babies/go back to school/send the kids to college], I’d really like to [bizarre idea.]“

And that’s that.  You never really do it.

Until you meet an enabler.  

An enabler is somebody who hears you, takes you seriously & says, “Dude, we should totally do that!”  Could be a friend, a stranger, even your previously innocent spouse.  I have a friend who ended up taking her whole family on a mission trip to Africa last summer when her husband suddenly turned enabler on her.    She’d been talking about it for years, but suddenly the oldest turned 15 & the husband was like, “Well, now or never, babe,” & next thing she knew they were all getting vaccinated for some seriously scary stuff.

Classic enabler.

In my case, it was the husband half of a couple we dearly love & hang out with often.  Kind of quiet, very cerebral, funny as hell if you shut up & pay attention (which is always my challenge but I’m working on it), but not super athletic or outdoorsy.  So I never thought twice about mentioning my desire to do one of those dirty-girl runs–all military-style obstacles & mud pits–in front of him.  What were the chances he’d turn enabler?

Well, he recently discovered martial arts & has gotten seriously into it.  And seriously into shape as a result.  We all trotted through a 5k at the state fair a couple weeks ago, & when I said afterwards how much I’ve always wanted to do one of those mud runs, guess what he said?

“Dude!  We should totally do that!”

Or words to that effect.  

And here I am.  Or, actually, not.  I’m not here at all, am I?  I’m running for my life in the company of my husband (who is baffled by this turn of events but being a good sport about it), my enabler and a half dozen of our crazy friends.  

I’ll post pictures. 

In the meantime, wish me luck?  I’ll report back this afternoon.

So what about you?  Have you ever found yourself suddenly tackling something you’ve always wanted to try but never really expected to?  What was it like?  Is there anything still on your bucket list that you’re saving for that far distant someday?  Share!

 

Images courtesy of Free Digital Photos: 

Coffee cup by nuttakit

Parachute dog by Grant Cochrane

Thumbs up guy by Stock Images

Good luck post-it by Stuart Miles

 

 

On the Run

The first year I lived in Minnesota, I discovered a truly wonderful thing. 

The State Fair.  

I know I’ve posted about my abiding love of all things deep-fried & on-a-stick many times before, so I won’t bore you with the laundry list of everything I ate this year.  Though I really ought to give a quick shout-out to the fried green beans with garlic dip that came with a side-dish of bag piper.  (Seriously.)  And the chocolate cannoli that rocked our world.  And the sweet-corn-and-bacon pizza that was so good I swear I heard angels singing.  

But I’m not here to talk about that.  No, this year I want to talk about my other favorite thing about the fair.

The Milk Run.

This is a 5K held on the opening Sunday of the fair every year, sponsored by the MN Dairy association.  For your entry fee you get admission to the fair, a t-shirt, a buck off a coffee at the Farmer’s Union booth and a free milk shake.  Plus it’s held at 7:45 in the morning.  So you get up, you get a jog in with 1,500 of your fellow fair goers, then you get to eat your way through the fair without guilt.  Because, hey, you already worked out!  And you’re going to log another who knows how many sweaty, dusty miles around the fairgrounds all day.

It’s the perfect way to do the fair.  

Last year I talked my oldest kiddo into jogging with me. (That’s her above–I’m repinning her race number.) This year, Mr. Sey joined us.  (There’s sweaty picture of us at the finish to your left.) The 5 y.o. felt a little left out, though, &  is demanding to be included next year.  It’s turning into a family affair, & I’m delighted.  I see little old ladies trotting along every year beside their kids & grandkids, earning their cheese curds one sweaty mile at a time.  And every year I think, “If God is good, that’ll be me in thirty years.”

Eventually I figure the kids will have to help me a little (okay, carry me.)  But heck, I carried them enough.  They can do me a solid.  I’ll buy ‘em a fudge puppy & we’ll call it even.  

So tell me, do you have a sweet tooth?  Do you fight it, or do you (like me) just try to run enough to balance it out?  Do you have a favorite indulgence/event combo like mine?  (Milk Run + State Fair = Happy Susan)  Or just a favorite Fair Food?  Share!

Summer Vacation!

All right, everybody, it’s August! 

It’s likely you’re aware of this already but I thought it worth pointing out, because in our house?  August means vacation. 

Come Monday morning, I’m tossing the kids into the van with five days worth of clothing apiece & taking off for a massive round of driving that won’t end until we’ve seen both the only walled city in North America (Quebec City, bien sur!) and celebrated my fortieth birthday in the state where I was born (Michiganders unite!).  

But when I’m not feverishly doing laundry & changing the oil in my van & checking off the days on my calendar, I’m thinking about other Augusts, other vacations.   Now I don’t often like to double-dip when it comes to vacation–there’s so much of the world to see and so little time/money–but here are a couple places I’d go back to in a red-hot minute.  

Kauai:  Mr. Sey & I left the kids with my folks & celebrated our tenth anniversary on Kauai.  Local ordinances decreed that no building could be taller than a palm tree, so buildings maxed out at about three stories.  It translated to this incredibly laid back vibe.  I don’t think I went into a single restaurant–no matter how expensive–that you couldn’t wear a swim suit to.  Which was nice because the beaches were spectacular.  I ate dinner in my bikini sort of a lot.  Plus the hiking was unbelievable.  And one of my very best friends just happened to be celebrating HER anniversary on Kauai, too.  (Honest to pete, it was a coincidence.  But a wonderful one.)  We’ve promised to go back for our twentieth, but we’ll take the kids.  Maybe we can afford to by then.  

Ireland:  Oh, Ireland.  I love that place.  We took our in-laws & went a few years ago to celebrate Mr. Sey’s 40th birthday.  I’d already been once–my mom’s from Dublin–but the instant Mr. Sey announced the cities to which bargain basement air fares would let us go, he didn’t get past Dublin.  We motored straight across to the Dingle Peninsula where I could happily stay for the rest of my life.   Though, all right, I’ll be honest–we stopped in Dublin for a quick pint at the Guinness brewery.  Possibly two pints.  My memory on this point is a little vague.  (Did I mention I’m Irish?  I cannot pass up a pint.)

So how about you?  Where are your favorite vacation spots?  Do you love revisiting special places?   Or are you a stake-out-new-territory sort?  Where would you love to go but haven’t managed yet?

All Good Things…

You know how that one goes, right?  All good things must….come to an end. 

What goes up must come down.

RWA 2012 Anaheim has come to an end.  

I’m flying home as you read this–exhausted, worn out & happy.  I’m probably snoring on the guy beside me or reading one of the new-to-me authors I picked up at the conference.  It’s possible I’m happily scribbling away on a fresh inspiration I took away from a workshop, or texting my new besties.  Because it’s not a conference unless I’ve found myself a new bestie.

Not that she’d ever replace my old besties.  No, the banditas are the constellation around which everybody else I meet through RWA spins.  And I missed the absent this year as much as I delighted in the present.  (Next year, y’all!  I demand it!)  And connecting with Bandita Buddies, giving real hugs and putting faces to email addresses and avatars?  Priceless!

But I’ve decided that this yearly meet up of beloveds works for me on another level.  It satisfies a deeper need than just seeing people I’ve missed. And why?  Because when I was a kid, I was a die-hard summer camper. 

Oh, yeah.  I was a Camp Kid.  (Holla, campers!  Let me hear you rock this campfire!)

For me, Camp (and, yes, I do capitalize it on purpose) was akin to Prom.  A thing so important and defining that it doesn’t require a preceding the.  We went to Camp, not the camp. Just like we went to Prom, not the prom.  And I lived for those two or three weeks in the summer.  

Why?  Because of the homogeneity.  And not racial or socio-economic or anything like that.  No, we were all different colors and creeds.  There were rich kids and poor kids, city kids and country kids.  But we were truly and uniformly nerdy.  It was like Camp was a dog whistle for geeks with good hearts who wanted to do goofy skits and sing songs and dance in the chow hall.  Only we could hear the siren song of Camp, & boy did we turn up. 

I made friends I have to this day at Camp, people I love & understand though we haven’t spoken or seen each other for dozens of years.   Here’s me in 1985 (see if you can pick me out!), when I first shared a cabin with my best friend from middle school.  My counselor that year on the far right went on to room with my sister in college.  I’ve hugged both of them within the last calendar year.

So I’ve decided that RWA is my new Camp.  It’s chock full of people who hear the same song I’m hearing, & we’re all just geeky enough to turn up for the dance party.  And being in a whole crowd full of folks who unabashedly love what I love?  Who dig a happy ending, and weep delighted tears when an apha male is brought to his stubborn knees?  Who love those stories enough to bleed them onto the page year after year?

Pure bliss.  So thanks for coming out to play this year, everybody.  And for those of you who missed it?  I’m saving you a dance.  Next year, ‘kay?

So tell me, were you a Camp kid?  What kind?  (Mine was a low-budget, liberal-minded church camp with a lot of spontaneous singing.  As if you couldn’t guess.)  Did you love it?  Or did you–like my sister–hate every buggy, dirty second?  Share!    

 

The Kind of Friend I Am

I’m a terrible friend.  At least by traditional standards.  I’m not good at calling people up, making plans, creating social opportunity or networking.  I’m absolutely abysmal at making friends.  I was born the third of four girls, after all.  You couldn’t throw a rock without hitting somebody to play with in our house.  Besides, what were the chances that my mom was going to drive across town to fetch me a playmate when there were already three kids hanging around looking bored?  

Slim to I-don’t-think-so.

And to compound the situation, I grew up in a small town.  New people didn’t come along all that often. Figuring out how to pull together a social circle was not a skill I was forced to develop.

So to bottom line this for you, I’m not great at making friends.  And I’m not awesome at being a friend, either.  All those things friends do–call you when you’re down, take you out when you’re lonely, invite you to a play, the bar, a party?   They make me nervous.   I have the impulse to reach out, but talk myself out of it.  We’re not that close, it would be weird.  Awkward.  This person probably doesn’t really like me that much but how are they going to say no when I ask them point blank if they want to hang out?

This is part of why I adore my husband.  His social impulse is strong and true.  He actually believes people like him, & that he’s usually right about stuff.  And because he believes it, it comes true.  I find this magical & compelling.  He calls people up on a whim, invites them to a thing…and they say yes.  They actually seem happy to be asked.  

I’ve tried this on occasion.  It doesn’t go as well for me.  I can’t explain it but I’m happily coupled with a guy that makes it work, & that’s enough providence for me. 

But you know what I am good at?  Child care.  

See, I’m a stay at home mom.  I literally have no value to the world apart from the fact that I can watch the kids while everybody else is out being useful and smart.  (And getting paid.  But that’s a different topic.)  

But that’s okay by me.  I happen to enjoy kids.  First of all, they’re sort of hilarious, & second of all, they’re mine.  There’s nobody I want raising them but me.

I’m thinking about this today because a family we know–a family we love–just had a baby.  Their third.  Their older two kids are the same ages as ours, & love to play together.  So my husband did his usual magic trick and pulled this family out of the herd of acquaintances we were running around with & made them our friends.  He called them up, he invited them to stuff and they said yes.  

I know.  It’s a miracle to me, every time.   Mr. Sey shines in this regard & I adore him for it.  

But then this family had a baby, & it was my turn to shine.  

Because suddenly, they needed more than an invitation to the movies or the park or the ice cream parlor. 

Suddenly, they needed child care.

And not for the baby.  No, a new mom has an infant all covered.  What they needed was somebody who could fold an extra 5 & 8 year old into her life while their parents did the hard work of bringing a new baby into the world.  They needed somebody with a big ol’ van & extra car seats & a flexible schedule.  They needed somebody who would text them every morning to say, “Hey, when can I come for the kids?”  (Because calling is awkward.  I like texting.)

Suddenly, they needed the kind of friend I can be.  

And every time I picked up or dropped off, they said, “Thank you so much.  We owe you, big time.”

And every time I said, “You absolutely do not.”

Because honestly?  I was the grateful one. 

My mom is still close with the neighbor who watched my sisters while I was being born.   Despite moves and miles and years, they still talk and connect and consider each other dear friends.  I gave my eldest daughter this woman’s name.  I hadn’t thought of doing it, but when my husband suggested the name out of the blue–and it’s an unusual name–I said, “Oh my gosh, we know one of those!  She’s wonderful!”  And suddenly we had a name. 

And now these friends of ours, who just had the baby?  They allowed me to be that person to them.  I offered to open my arms to their kids, but I was really opening my heart to their family.

And they said yes.

And it felt like a miracle to me.

So how about you?  Are you a good social instigator, or do you rely on others to make your connections?  Are you a good networker?  Can you call people on the phone without thinking twice?  Or are you more like me, weirdly phone-phobic, forever grateful for people who make it look easy?  And if so, who in your life plays that role?  

     

 

Meet Susan Sey!

This month’s Bandita spotlight belongs to Susan Sey, often referred to as The Tardy Bandita, since she wandered into the lair about three months after everybody else. (She dislikes asking for directions & insists she’ll find her own damn way.  Eventually.)  She’s happily married to her own personal hero, & is the mother of two girls who are simultaneously the pride of her life & the reason she will never be able to write more than one book a year.  At least not until the 2020s.

She writes unabashedly in the genre least likely to sell or make her any money (single title contemporary).  She was as astonished as anybody when she got picked up by a major publisher after winning the 2008 Golden Heart in this same ill-fated category.  She was not, however, astonished to find herself unceremoniously dropped by that same publisher two books later.  The economy sucks, & better writers than she have gotten the axe.  She remains, however, the proud author of MONEY HONEY (Berkley Sensation, 2010) and MONEY SHOT (Berkley Sensation, 2011), and is delighted to announce her foray into self-publishing with her…what else?….single title contemporary romance KISS THE GIRL, which debuted on June 26, 2012.  

So.  Let’s grill her, shall we?

Q:  How long have you been writing, and how has your writing changed over time?

 Susan Sey:  I’ve been writing since I was old enough to read.  I loved the characters I met in books like I’d love a real live friend, and it was difficult for me to say goodbye to them when the story ended.  So in my head I made up more of their story so I could spend more time with them.  It seemed like a perfectly logical solution to me but evidently not everybody does that.  Who knew?

 As far as how my writing’s changed over time, well that’s an interesting question.  I’ve just recently self-pubbed the last book I wrote before selling to a big-time NYC publisher, the one I’ve always loved but that never found a home in NYC. (KISS THE GIRL, previously titled THE PRINCESS PROJECT.) And in cleaning it up for publication, I made a fascinating discovery:  This book is palpably joyful.  It’s funny and charming and ridiculous, and it’s because when I was writing it, I believed in myself and in my talent.    

See, when I wrote KISS THE GIRL, I was at the peak of my game as an unpubbed writer–winning contests, finalling in the Golden Heart, signing with an agent–and my confidence was at high tide as a result.  And then my dreams came true and I sold to a big ol’ publisher.  And suddenly I was a teeny, unproductive fish in a vast, cruel pond, my books sold respectably but I didn’t blow the doors off, and my confidence took a massive hit.   And my writing got dark and confined and tentative.  And it shows.  MONEY SHOT is the book I wrote under that contract, and it’s about as dark a book as I’ve ever written. 

 Don’t get me wrong, I love that book.  It’s tightly written and well-plotted and I’m still sort of half in love with my hero, Rush.  But there’s an anxiety running through that book, a darkness, that speaks very strongly to my experience of writing it. 

 So I’m looking to get back to that KISS THE GIRL place, where I feel happy and strong and confident, and my writing shows it.

 Q:  What drink does Sven bring you when you’re hiding in the cave?

SS:  Ooooh, well it’s summer here in the upper Midwest so I’m all about the beer gardens.  I often ask Sven to trot over to our local micro breweries–Surly and Summit–to see what’s on tap.  Lately, I’ve been enjoying Surly’s Cynic Ale, and Summit’s Summer Ale.  (Thank you, Sven, darling.)

Q:  What’s the hardest thing about writing?  What’s the most rewarding?

 SS:  The hardest thing is honestly finding extended periods of time to get immersed in my world. I have little kids, you know, and I can pawn them off on the cabana boys and gladiators for a little while but once the girls start tossing about spears and reeling off drink ingredients, I know I need to dial back the writing time.  The most rewarding thing is far and away when somebody tells me my story touched them.  I always find it humbling and astonishing when something I write garners an honest emotional response from somebody.

 Q:  Who do you enjoy writing more — hero or heroine?

 Oh, I’m unashamedly in love with each and every one of my heroes.  Female friendship has always been sort of a difficult thing for me–I have three sisters so never really had to learn the knack of making female friends until it was too late & everybody already had a BFF for life.  So this is sort of a handicap for me when I write, & my heroes come far more easily.  I fall in love with them right out of the gate, & they love me right back.  They’re easy.  But the heroines I have to warm up to.  Or maybe they have to warm up to me before they’ll let me know them?  I don’t know.  But my heroes just spring to life, while my heroines make me sweat. 

 The one exception has to be Nixie from KISS THE GIRL.  She was a joy from page one, a pure delight to know and a ball to write.  I missed her when I wrote The End.  But she was so darn happy with her happily ever after, I didn’t have the heart to disturb her to see if she wanted to hang out or grab a beer sometime.

Q:  Favorite thing you’ve researched?

Right now, I’m thinking about writing a story about a disgraced corporate high-flyer whose business empire falls to shreds & leaves him with nothing but a dilapidated small-scale goat and cattle farm in Northern Minnesota.  Which isn’t exactly known for its pasture land.  But confidence is not this guy’s problem, & he thinks he can just take up organic farming.  I’m learning a ton about cheese, of all things.  Working title?  The Milk Man Takes a Wife.  Of course.

So there you have it.  My life story in a nutshell.  If I’ve failed to satisfy your curiosity about any little thing, feel free to get in touch by visiting my website, my Facebook page or just old-fashioned emailing me at susan@susansey.com.  Looking forward to hearing from you!