Category — personal life

I’m really excited that my website is being redesigned. Right now this site is just a super-stuffed blog that I designed myself including the header which, although cheerful, is not quite right.

Any suggestions of stuff you’d like to see/be able to do, please let me know.

The wonderful Melanie Lowe is doing the design to make this site easier to look at and more fun to peruse. Now if only she had her own website, I’d point you to it. But you know how it is, cobbler’s son, no shoes, etc.

Under construction photos here.

Did I ever mention that I’ve basically been kind of sick for the last two years? Not like sick in the head, but regular sick, sick-sick. I never really blogged about it because for whatever reason I thought it would be embarrassing or make me feel worse. Plus I wanted to be all super-woman and what have you. Or at least not a whiner. This morning it occurred to me, hey you ought to write about that. Especially because you’re feeling so great now.

I thought all this while I was driving home at 745A this morning from a 615A Ashtanga yoga class. It was awesome. It felt so good to stretch and sweat and flex. I felt really strong. Suddenly it struck me that 6 months ago I had to stop and rest while trying to walk up a flight of stairs between the first and second floors of our house. I had been undergoing treatment for Hepatitis C. From which I have been cured—or I should say, have had a sustained viral response, meaning 6 months post-treatment, no virus is detectable in my system. I can’t get the capital letters big enough to express the YAY that I feel about this.

I got Hep C when I was in a car accident almost 20 years ago. It was a really bad accident. Dreadful. I’ve never written about it, but a few weeks ago decided to give it a try. I thought I could get the story down in a page or two but after more than 1200 words, I still didn’t really get the story out. Still unfinished, but here is the work in progress. IT CONTAINS A SCARY PICTURE OF A PERSON IN INTENSIVE CARE (me), so don’t look if that kind of thing makes you squeamish. Or I should say I have written about it, but only to record the dream fragments and half thoughts that, to me, are the story. Since I have no memory whatsoever of the accident or the days following. But I did have dreams and experiences nonetheless… These are those fragments. It’s more like a long poem.

I don’t know if you know anyone who has Hep C or has undergone treatment, but there are a lot of us out there.

There are various genotypes of Hep C, but the popular ones in the US are 1A, 1B, 2A, 2B. Genotype 1 is more resistant to cure so the treatment is twelve months. For Genotype 2, treatment is six months. In both cases, the basic treatment is weekly injections of interferon (also used in some chemotherapies, I believe) and daily pills of something called Ribavirin. I had genotype 1A so I was in for the twelve month program.

Here are a list of the potential side effects. The basics: fatigue, depression, weight gain or loss, nausea, brain fog, and the ubiquitous “flu-like symptoms.” The not-so-basic: psychosis, colitis, heart problems, and hair loss. Oh please, don’t clobber me with these chemicals and make me fat and bald. This was my primary thought when beginning treatment. Well neither of those happened. I did get super-skinny though, going from an already not fat weight of 120 lbs (at 5’7”) to a frighteningly skeletal 109 lbs at one point. The biggest side effects by far were fatigue and depression. I didn’t get depression so much, but I definitely was whacked with fatigue, but I think they should say “weakness” instead of fatigue. I wasn’t pooped all the time, but I was so unbelievably weak. Like if I folded the laundry, I had to lie down for awhile. Had to rest while going up stairs, as mentioned. My doctor put me on anti-depressants about a month before treatment cause it’s recommended for those who tend toward depression, as I do and I guess it must have worked. But I totally had brain fog, which is great practice if you ever choose to become demented. I couldn’t retain information. (Although I could write. I wrote a book during this time. Go figure.) I developed all these coping mechanisms for remembering things like why did I come upstairs? What time did you say to pick you up? Do I turn right or left at the intersection? Everyone forgets things like this now and then, but I forgot them I’d say 80% of the time. So I covered myself in post-its. I learned to “put” certain pieces of information in various body parts—for example if I was supposed to pick someone up at 7P, I’d look at my right thumb and go, “7P. Remember that.” So when I looked at my right thumb, I’d get 7P. Don’t ask me why that worked, but it did.

Anyway, I made it through the year virus free. Sadly, I relapsed after 3 months. (The cure rate is 50/50 so it wasn’t a huge shock, although it was a huge bummer.) I decided to try again, this time a treatment specifically for relapsers and non-responders. 35% success rate. I just thought it would work. Whatever the odds are for most people, it usually doesn’t work that way for me, so I figured I had a 65% chance of being cured. Thus began another 12 months of a slightly different form of interferon, this time 3 injections per week and also Ribavirin again. This time it was worse. I had all the same symptoms as before, but worse and with the addition of ridiculous migraines. For the last 6 months of the treatment, I probably had 3-5 migraines a week. Plus anemia. Plus skin rashes. Plus a zillion other things I probably can’t even remember now. This time I did not relapse. I made it past the all-important 6 month mark, at the beginning of this year. My doctor sent me my blood test with a little smiley face draw on it.

About 3 months ago, I think I basically came back to normal although still kind of weak from 2.5 years of very little exercise and very low calorie intake. Now I’m about up to my normal weight and can once again do warrior poses, handstands, and a zillion chataranga dandasanas. Thank you, my body. You rule.

Books for a Better Life Awards
“The Awards recognize excellence in self-help, motivational, and self-improvement books in nine categories.”

Unbelievably, “How Not to Be Afraid of Your Own Life” has won best spirituality book of 2007 from Books for a Better Life. It is an annual event sponsored by the National MS Society. This year’s event was hosted by TODAY show co-host Meredith Viera. It’s the only event that recognizes self-help books. There are 9 categories, including Relationships, Finance, etc. Publishers submit books from their list that they think should be nominated and then judges actually read them and choose 5 titles for each category. The winner is also determined by judges.

Which goes to say that although I may heart my book, I never, ever, ever thought it would win because it was in a category with the wondrous Anne Lamott, nominated for her book, “Grace (Eventually).” Anne is one of my very favorite writers and a total role model for me in terms of voice. She writes about the business of being human with an admirable, inspiring combination of sharpness and fragility.

Also nominated in my category was the awesome T.D. Jakes, preacherman extraordinaire. I was throwing down with T.D. Jakes. This was getting very surreal.

But it got surreal-er. Here are some highlights.

(picture taken with my cell phone)

Highlight #1 Some years ago, I purchased my husband a vintage Hamilton watch from the Aaron Faber Gallery. It was in need of repair and so we brought it to NY with us thinking we’d drop it off there. I ran into the owner, Ed Faber, who is very close with one of my best friends, Beth Grossman. My mother was with us. (Both my parents said “we’re coming” when told about the awards ceremony. I didn’t invite them. In fact, I doubt I would have attended if they hadn’t said this!!) Mom told Ed I was up for an award and the ceremony was tonight. He said, well you’ll need some jewelry, won’t you? We’ll lend you something. I wanted to say, no, no, that’s okay, but instead I heard myself go, “Wow, thanks! OK!” What is your dress like, what is the neckline, how dramatic do you want to go are the kinds of questions he asked. I said I want to wear whatever will make people go, “Where did you get that?!” when they gazed upon my jewelry, so I could say “Aaron Faber Gallery of course.” It was totally like being a movie star. Or how I imagine a movie star gets treated. After trying on a lot of very bold necklaces, he showed me a gold and diamond necklace that, I’m not kidding, brought a tear to my eye when I saw it. It was so beautiful. And then he paired it with non-matching gold and diamond earrings. When he told me the necklace cost $54000, my tear-stained eyes almost bugged out of my head. I thought, no way can I do this. Then another voice said, why not? See what it’s like to wear a $54K necklace and see if you can wear it with dignity instead of having it wear you. It may sound silly, but if you ever get such a necklace draped around your décolleté, see if you can stand it without feeling like an unworthy shmo OR an entitled diva. See if you can simply wear it as the beautiful thing that it is. That’s what I tried to do. It was AWESOME.

Highlight #2 I loved my dress. Calypso “Julia” wrap dress. Color: Champagne.

Highlight #3 My dad had left his seat early in the ceremony to stand on the other side of the auditorium. That way he could hear the proceedings out of his good ear. Just before I got up on stage to accept the award, he came barreling out of nowhere to hug and kiss me in front of the whole auditorium. I said, this is my father and the audience went awwwww.

Highlight #nth At this age, I know the value of making my parents proud. In my 20s and 30s, it seemed like a decent thing to do but in my 40s with an 83-year old dad and a 77-year old mom (both aging in amazingly good health, knock wood), it means something altogether different. I thank God, Jah, Buddha whoever is watching out for me for enabling me to give this gift to my parents. This is by far the biggest highlight.

Someone asked me what I said in my little acceptance speech. We were actually encouraged to tell a little story about how the book came to be. Here is the gist:

Gasp, sputter, guffaw, inadvertently cuss and stammer…then thank agent and editor for working so hard on my behalf, parents and husband for being so nice to me even when I was super cranky during the writing process. Then this:

Some years ago, I was lucky enough to attend the first public dialog between the Dalai Lama and top Western scientists who had come together to discuss the nature of mind. It became apparent that we in the West have made enormous strides cataloging and treating negative mind states such as depression, anxiety, psychoses, etc. This is enormously valuable. It became equally apparent that over the last several thousand years, Buddhists have spent their time cataloging and cultivating positive mind states such as wisdom, happiness, and compassion. These teachings have nothing to do with religion and when I found that I had the opportunity to write about them from the point of view of a student, I was so happy. This very same Buddhadharma had helped me when relationships ended, money was short, or my aspirations were thwarted. I had been studying it for over a decade and it totally applied to real life—so I could write about it from the point of view of a student, which I did.

Everyone who has written a book knows what torture it can be. I sat down at my desk many mornings and just burst into tears. Half the time it was because I didn’t know what to say. The other half was in gratitude for being able to devote my precious human birth to the task of understanding the dharma and then trying to communicate it for the benefit of others. It was the best experience of my life.

And my jewelry is from the Aaron Faber Gallery of course!!

Just kidding about that last line.

The kind that kicks ass here on earth.

Me, many years ago–early 80s. Plus a lot of muscle.

This is for you, Davee.

Just started “following” a woman on Twitter (this is not like stalking, you’re supposed to follow people) who blogs about stepmothering. Her stepkid is little, mine is 21. When I married his dad, he was 11 so I’ve been part of his life for a fair amount of time. There have been super-high pros and super-low cons. But—and I’m not just saying this in case he might someday read this—the highs have totally outweighed the lows.

Some chronology:

1994 He is 8. I start dating his dad (Duncan), who is separated from his wife of 18 yrs. By all accounts, son (Duncan Jr.) bursts into tears every time my name is mentioned.

1994-1997 Awful divorce proceedings; situation deemed too fragile for us to even meet. So we have no relationship although I shop for his Xmas presents and do his laundry. Wonder if I’ll always be the maid. They’re a family. I’m not in it. Girlfriends counsel retreat. I hang in.

1997 Our first meeting. Lunch with his dad, him, and his best friend. For safety. He’s 10. I have no idea what to wear. We get a moment alone and I tell him, “Look I know your dad really wants you to like me and your mom really wants you to not like me. (Believe me, this was no secret.) All I ask is that you make up your own mind. I hope you’ll like me but if you don’t, I’ll deal with it.” He looked at me real serious and said, “OK.”

1997-1998 The 3 of us gradually begin to spend time together till it’s a regular thing. He kisses and hugs his dad and I try to make it okay for him to just wave at me. His dad is tormented about whether or not he’s handling the situation well. He is desperate about his son’s happiness. I understand, but also know he’s a bit less desperate about mine. It must be so; I am a grownup. I feel like a second class citizen because I am one. It’s absolutely clear that this relationship (father-son) takes precedence. I understand and even support this. But it still hurts.

1998 We get married and my stepson is best man. “What do I call you,” he says. “Susan,” I say. One of my vows to my husband, “I vow that the love I feel for you will include your beloved son.” I didn’t know how to do it, but really meant it. I liked this kid a lot. And he handled the whole wedding thing like a prince.

1998-2003 He shakes and shivers his way through middle school and then high school. It’s obvious that he’s an artist. It’s obvious that he’s NOT cut out for high school. He freaks out from not getting good grades. His parents don’t know what to do. They start to freak out. Suddenly he’s 6’ tall and weighs 120 lbs. He gets many zits. He grows dreadlocks. They look awful. Zits begin to disappear. He gets a buzz cut and is transformed into a majorly handsome guy. Grows more confident as an artist. Starts picking up my books about Buddhism and develops a real interest. Hey! Guess what? I’m a writer! I’m a Buddhist! We have the exact same interests. Our conversations get deeper. I think he can talk to me maybe a little easier than his parents because step-mothership conveys some distance. By this time, I love him but still my stomach doesn’t walk out the door with him as his parents’ do. The natural cool between stepparent and step kid (relative to birth parents) turns out to have value. This step-parenting thing is pretty okay, I think to myself.

2003 Is it? Time to test. His mom moves to another state. He comes to live with us full time. He’s unpacking his stuff and gets a little choked up. We hug. Over his shoulder I see a photo on our hall table: him as a baby in his father’s arms, his grandfather’s arms around them both. Three generations of Duncans. Can’t protect him from the shifting tides of time. But I can hug him.

Thus begins a year of major adjustment. Unwashed dishes. Wafting smell of pot. Strange inability to make toast without crumb-bombing the kitchen. Inscrutable teenagers watching TV in the living room in the middle of the night. Hey, I don’t remember signing up for this.

2004 He graduates high school and goes on a month-long meditation retreat. He comes home for a week or so and then goes to a week-long workshop with his artist-ideal, Alex Grey. During the workshop he’s surrounded by fellow-artists for the first time. He sees that life isn’t like high school. Alex and his wife Allyson adore him, support him, encourage him. It is the summer of Duncan. He comes home a changed man. He tells me he loves me. I love him too.

2005 He gets rejected from Mass College of Art, his first (and only, basically) choice. Reason? Portfolio: good, grades: bad. He attends community college to get his grades up. Crumbs are still everywhere.

2006 Reapplies. He is accepted. SWEET. Joy throughout the world. He moves into an apartment with a roommate.

2007 My parents are up for a visit. He draws their portrait. He asks if he can call them Grandma and Grandpa. Tears flow. We’re a family.

Yes, I was on Oprah. Two times in late 2003, early 2004. Without fail, when someone hears I’ve been on the show assumptions are made:

1. I must have pulled some wicked strings to get myself on.
2. I am now rich.

If only it were that simple. I’d be spending money like water and jerking those strings whenever coffers began to look bare. But neither of those things happened.

Here’s what did happen.

One day I was sitting at my desk talking to a manufacturer in Hong Kong about paper stock. Sure, I had written a book and it had been out for almost two years, but no one can make a living from one book and so I continued doing my regular job. I was what is called a book packager, someone who dreams up kooky ideas for books + something else (like flash cards or audio components), sells the product to a publisher and then goes out and produces the product, ending by shipping finished goods into their warehouse. (Book packaging is labor-intensive and expensive so most publishers don’t do them in house, they outsource to people like me.) In any case, there I was talking paper stock when the other line rang. My assistant answered it, turned to look at me and said, “the Oprah show is on the other line.” That’s how I got on the show.

On the line was a segment producer, a lovely woman who told me they were thinking of doing a show called “What happens after the wedding” and her internet research came up with my book, “The Hard Questions: 100 Essential Questions to Ask Before You Say ‘I Do.’” We started discussing the book very casually and it took me about 20 minutes to realize this was a pre-interview. The conversation ended with her saying, well if we ever do decide to do a show like this, we might be in touch. This was a Friday. On Monday she called to say they were sending a camera crew to our house (just outside Boston) cause they thought what I had to say was interesting but they already had guests booked for the show so they’d like to include a video interview with me. You never saw anyone go out and buy new curtains, wash floors, window sills, and her own hair so fast. Or so repetitively. So they sent a crew and a hired-gun interviewer (who was off-camera the whole time) and we talked for probably 90 minutes and they shot some b-roll of me and my husband walking down the street and in our backyard, pretending to garden. And then they left and we were all hey where’s the crew, we have more stuff to say!! It’s funny how quickly your ego shoots to the heavens when a crew shows up and how it falls to the ground even faster when they leave. A risk of the profession.

So it aired about a week later. I watched it from a friend’s house with like 5 other people. At each commercial break we’d say, after this commercial! But after each commercial, no Susan. No sage advice from moi. No fake gardening. I was ready to reconcile myself with being left on the cutting room floor when prior to the final segment, they said and now after the commercial join us to hear about a woman who says you should ask some questions before you get married! And there I was. And suddenly, there I wasn’t. The whole thing was over in about 5 minutes.

But then the snowball started its slow descent down the hill. My book, which till then had sold okay, maybe 12 or 15000 copies, started selling more. Publisher got reorders and then more reorders. Of note: there were 3 other authors on the show and this did not happen for their books. Why did it happen for mine? I mean, they were on the show and I wasn’t. I wasn’t sure.

Still, all I could do was go back to my paper stock issues and the like. Until. A few weeks later they called to say that the show had gotten a great response—their audience really liked this topic—and they were going to do a follow up show. This time, they were thinking of inviting me out. They didn’t say, “come out,” mind you. They were thinking about it. A few days later they said can you get on a plane tomorrow? I was getting the idea they knew exactly what they were going to do but told guests at the last minute to minimize freaking out. An excellent strategy.

I can tell you that the Oprah people could be complete jerks and authors would still crawl on their knees to be on the show. But they were absolutely the opposite—thoughtful, patient, kind. They sent a car to pick me up from the airport and put me up in a really nice hotel. A few minutes after I walked into my room the producer called to make sure I was okay and to request I watch a video of the previous show to refresh my memory since this was a follow up. They were messengering the video over. I said I’d call the front desk and ask them to bring up a player. I figured I’d do this after going out to shop for like the zillionth outfit of the week. When I got back up to the room about an hour later, the un-requested player was there, hooked up, the video was in the machine, and the remote was on my pillow. That’s how they roll.

This time there were also going to be other authors on the show—3 including me. For my segment, they had asked several engaged couples to actually ask the questions in the book (basic stuff like “will we keep our money in the same account” and “do we have a religion?) They would be on the show to talk about their experience and I’d be there to nod wisely or something. When I got to the studio the next morning, they sent me to hair and makeup and let me know I’d be seated in the audience. Some authors get on the O couch and some are seated in the audience. Apparently, I was an audience author. I called a friend of mine who is a publicist of the highest caliber (works with the Dalai Lama among others!) and he said it was good cause it would be less nerve wracking for me. Oh, okay I thought to myself. So when the time comes, they seat me in the audience and I watched the first half of the show from there since I wasn’t on till the second half. At the commercial break just prior, the guy with the clipboard comes out and calls, “Susan Piver?” I wave my hand and he walks up to the stage and points to the O couch. Me? I gesture. Yes you, he gestures back. That’s how I found out I was going to be sitting up there with Oprah herself. She’s up there reviewing some notes for our segment, we shake hands, and the lights come back up. That’s how I met her. Our interview began. All I could think of was what one of the other authors had said when we were in makeup—she had been on the show the last time and appeared so calm. How did you do it, I asked. She said she was totally nervous, until Oprah started talking to her and then she felt great. I can say that this was my experience too. I was one giant stomach butterfly until she turned her attention to me and I got it, I’m on a super jet being piloted by the best pilot in the world. All I have to do is keep my seatbelt on and it’s going to be okay. And so it was. She asked me questions, I answered, we chit-chatted back and forth like two girlfriends. The couples then joined us onstage and told their stories—they talked about all the stuff they hadn’t known about each other until they asked these questions. One couple even broke up after asking them. Which was actually okay because better before the wedding than after. It was clear that the O goddess really liked the idea of the book because at one point she held it up along with the other author’s, looked into the camera and said “Don’t get them a toaster. Everyone go out and get these books!” I stole a glance at the other author and we shared a “holy crap, did she just say that?” look, or at least that’s how I interpreted it.

And then I went home. My husband said I spent the next few days walking around the house like hey where are all the mics, I have things of importance to say until I got back to normal.

Not. Because immediately following this appearance, the book completely sold out of every bookstore in the country. I am not kidding. I think I taped on a Tuesday and the second Sunday after, my book was #2 on the NY Times besteller list, on the “How-to, Miscellaneous” list. I had always assumed that was the junk list but it turns out to be the power list. These are the books that sell the most of all books in the country. Diet books, self-help and the like. They had to be separated out of Non-Fiction cause they would solidly dominate that list week after week and no one would ever hear about things like the new John Adams biography or what have you. It stayed there for 9 weeks—at #2, sandwiched between The Zone and The Atkins Diet. Quite a little sandwich. My friend the publicist made me a mug and a t-shirt with the list printed on them.

Suddenly I was a relationships expert, but that’s a whole nother story.

Because the book sold so well, I got to write more books. I didn’t make a zillion dollars but I’ve had the extraordinary good fortune of being able to make my living putting pen to paper.

An interesting note again: the other authors’ books did not become best sellers, debunking the myth that anyone who goes on the show automatically has a best seller. Much as I would have liked to believe it was my good looks and charm that made the difference, I was forced to conclude otherwise. My book was simple (ask these 100 questions before you get married!) while theirs suffered the onus of being authored by actual experts (The Conscious Bride; How Can I Get Through to You: Reconnecting Men and Women). Instead of offering advice, I just told them that I wrote these questions down cause I was petrified of being married and secondarily they became a book. And on the show, I didn’t blab on about how I thought people should act, instead actual humans did the process and showed what it was like. Very important lessons. Simplicity is good. Personal experience trumps professional expertise when it comes to connecting with an audience. Show how it works, don’t talk about why it works.

So I didn’t get rich, but I received (and continue to receive) largesse in many forms. And I didn’t do anything to get on the show. It just happened.

Finally, people always want to know, as I would, what was Oprah like? She was the master pilot and her mastery goes deep. If an organization is the manifestation of whoever is at the helm, then she is professional, kind, and super sharp.

All hail.

I taped a short segment on the Tyra Banks show on Dec 5. It was about asking The Hard Questions before you get married.

This is not the dress I wore, but it was basically this style:

Here’s what happened:

The roller coaster ride is over and I’m back at my desk in Boston wondering if the whole thing even happened at all. That’s how it is with these things. It’s like being kidnapped by aliens who perform bizarre experiments on you and then return you to earth. When your livelihood depends in any part on having your work publicized (as mine does), it adds a strange layer to the whole thing: I hope they’ll like me. I hope my book will sell because of this. Maybe my career is really happening/doomed. I hope they won’t think I’m too old/young/fat/skinny/stupid/smart. Maybe I DO know what I’m talking about. Maybe I DON’T. DO. DON’T.

I have several friends who also go on talk shows every now and then, and some of them handle it in a totally balanced way. They don’t get caught up wondering about the validity of their thoughts. They don’t go into the interview with one idea about how workable their career is and exit it with a different one entirely. I don’t know how they do it. Apparently, they see themselves as inhabiting a stable world, one of their own making, that provides a reliable working basis that they can return to whether or not the viewers of this or that show respond to them. They don’t fall into self-doubt the moment the interview is over. And this is when things go well. Forget about the possibility of your ideas being attacked!! Actually, it’s not the idea of being criticized that’s so bad, it’s the possibility of having your motives and/or intelligence impugned. That really hurts. I totally never, ever, ever read reviews of my books on Amazon for this reason. My mom used to call me whenever someone posted a good review and I had to beg her like 1000 times to not do that. I do not like going on that ride. I even have one friend (whom I blogged about previously) who was roundly criticized in Newsweek for god’s sake, and came away from it thinking, “wow, I really shook them up.” I have no idea how one holds their seat in this way, and I admire this guy beyond words.

ANYWAY. The taping. If you’re interested, here’s what happened. (In part. I can’t tell too much about the show because there are some surprise elements in it and I don’t know when it will air. Maybe Valentine’s Day.) I got to the studio with the publisher’s publicist (whom I had never met before). She had booked the appearance, which to me came out of the blue. I had no idea she’d been working on this. Thank you, Jennifer! She had hired a car service to pick us up and when we got to the studio, there was a line of people waiting to get into the studio audience. Our driver came around and opened the door for me and when I stepped out, people turned to look. At me. Weird. I could see that they were ready to see a “celebrity” and whether or not I was one, I was one to them. The projections are so unbelievably strong in a situation like this. I can see how it would be tempting to either look down in shame at not being famous or look away as if I was indeed a famous person. Holding on to your actual reality is quite a trick. (Not this and not that.) We were taken to a green room where other guests were waiting. People were running all up and down the halls with headphones and clip boards. They were all incredibly, incredibly busy but also super nice. Mostly I just waited around for the first hour, looking again and again at the notes I’d been sent about the interview I’d be doing with Tyra and a young couple. Before my segment, they were going to flash a full screen shot of my book, “The Hard Questions: 100 Essential Questions to Ask Before You Say ‘I Do’” and after the segment, they were going to give away a copy of the book to everyone in the audience. Cool!! I was going to discuss 3 of the hard questions and as I did, each question was going to appear at the bottom of the screen. I wanted to use the same wording as the screen, so I kept going over and over it. Okay, I’ll speed up this synopsis. I got taken to hair and makeup and they pumped the hell out of my hair until it was fairly gigantic. I said to the young, cute, goth-y hairdresser, don’t you think this is a little matronly? “Matronly? Never! That’s my name on top of your head and I’d never do that!” So okay, I had Gina on top of my head. Then the makeup guy got his hands on my face and plied it with every product imaginable. But he did so with such a casual air–it was like he was swabbing my face with a mop. So I was shocked when I looked in the mirror and saw how perfect it was. I’ve learned that you can really, really trust these people–that even when you think you look ridiculous, somehow it all looks great on TV. So except for the matronly comment, I kept my mouth shut. Then the wardrobe guy came into the green room with 3 dresses. One was way too big. One was way too small. One was heavenly–but a little tight around the rib cage. So they sent in a seamstress who basically sewed the dress closed. I looked down and saw that my chest had been transformed into cleavage central. How that happened, I really don’t know. I guess that’s what happens when you get sown into your clothes. They liked my boots, so I got to wear them.

The sound person came in an miked me, clipping the device onto my bra strap which showed out the back of the dress, but who cares, no one was going to see my back. Someone came up to bring me down to the stage and as we were walking, wardrobe showed me three bracelets and I picked one. I was shown to my seat on stage and everyone in the audience is smiling at me like I am someone and then there’s Tyra and the producer is shouting, Tyra, meet Susan, Tyra, meet Susan! except someone else was also talking to her so we basically shook hands as her cue cards came up and the camera rolled. (PS She’s gorrrrgeous!!) She talked to me, I talked to her, we talked to the cute couple who was considering the hard questions, and boom it was over. 5 minutes. They escorted me back upstairs, cut the dress off me and I was back out on the street with my very nice publicist and there was no car to pick us up and it was snowing and she said just take a cab and send me the receipt. My hair was still way poofy and I had a load of makeup on, but showtime was over. I couldn’t get a cab. Then I did and went to meet a friend at the City Bakery before heading to Penn Station to take the train home, gargantuan hair and all. (The guy sitting next to me told me I looked like Carly Fiorina… um, excuse me?!) I rode wave after wave of they hated me, they liked me, I did fine, I sucked. Whatever. I just wanted to get home.

This morning I woke up in my own bed and my hair was sticking straight up totally like bride of Frankenstein and there were little specks of mascara on my cheeks. I felt like Gloria Swanson in Sunset Blvd, except I was so NOT ready for my closeup. I jumped in the shower and turned the water on full speed until my hair got tamped back down into place.

This is my report.

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Taping an interview today on the Tyra Banks show!!! Totally came out of the blue. As these things do. I’ll be talking with Tyra and a very adorable couple about their plans to marry and why it’s important to ask The Hard Questions. I don’t know when it will air; perhaps Valentine’s Day.

From past experience, I know that being on TV is a total roller coaster ride. One minute you think you’re a serious superstar with important things to say to the people of the world and the next you think you’re a total loser who is fatuous AND fat. Neither one is true. Neither one is true. Neither one is true. I have to remember this and just keep my eye on trying to be a human who is helpful to other humans. Unless my segment gets canned in which case I’ll be a raving lunatic.

You never know!!

Thank you for this chance, Tyra!!

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I’m always tinkering with mine. Found this article on writer’s rooms on the Guardian website. I sort of can’t stop staring at it.

Here’s what my office looks like currently. I LOVE to stare at pictures of other people’s workspaces. Hint, hint.

Who knew there was such a thing as Books for a Better Life! Suddenly I love them.