Dream a Little Dream

By Deborah Sharp
What would you do with $590 million (and change)?

That hypothetical question pondered by Powerball dreamers nationwide is now a reality for someone in Florida. As I write this, the winner of this weekend's drawing has not yet come forward to claim the booty. But the winning ticket was sold at a Publix grocery store in Zephyrhills, Fla.

Five-hundred-and-ninety million! Would you quit your job? Stop writing books? Write MORE books? Buy a full library of books?

Would you invest the money and make even more money? Would you give it all away? Purchase every posh and pricey thing you ever wanted, or start a foundation to do good?

Believe it or not, I've never fantasized about what I'd do if I won more than a half-billion dollars. I think the world is divided into two camps: lottery dreamers and lottery skeptics. I'm in the latter camp; my husband falls into the former. I don't dream about what I'd do with Powerball's megamillions because I don't believe I'd ever win them. The odds are astronomical (175 million to 1). I am not a lucky person. I was 13 years old at the Gold Coast skating rink the last time I won something. It was a limbo song on a 45-rpm record (Kids: Ask your grandparents about 45s).

On the other hand, my husband Kerry Sanders remains convinced that as long as SOMEONE is going to win megamillions, it might very well be him. Kerry dutifully buys a lottery ticket or two every week. He splurged and dropped 20 bucks on Saturday night's Powerball. May I point out we are not living a life of luxury in the south of France from his vast winnings?

As a reporter for NBC, my husband has been covering the story of the winning Powerball ticket from Zephyrhills. Check out Kerry's story at this link: http://www.today.com/video/today/51931523

Doing his report on the Today show, Kerry seemed almost as excited that SOMEONE had won the big jackpot as if he himself had won it.

In my old life as a newspaper reporter, I was once assigned to track down some former lottery winners to see how they'd fared. I was far from excited about what I found. For many, the picture wasn't pretty. The majority had lost most of what they won. Horror stories abound about how money sometimes buys the opposite of happiness.

*  Take a West Virginia man, who became a multimillionaire with $315 million in lottery winnings. He fell victim to multiple thieves, was sued for sexual harassment, got banned from casinos for writing bad checks, and lost both his daughter and granddaughter to drug overdoses. He blamed the money.

* Another man, who won $16 million in Pennsylvania, was targeted by a family member who hired a killer to try to get his winnings. The murder plan wasn't successful. He went on to have six failed marriages, and wound up on welfare before he died of natural causes.

* In Florida, a woman who offered to help the winner of $30 million manage his money stole it instead. Then she fatally shot him and buried him under a cement slab in the backyard.

Woo-hoo! You're a winner!

What about you? Lottery dreamer or skeptic? Do you know any winners personally?

We'll Be Right Back

By Deborah Sharp

I was professionally made-up, my hair blown out, lipstick applied, and powder brushed over my shiny face. I sat on a stool, microphone affixed to the collar of my new blue sweater, waiting and wondering if I was going to faint on national TV.

When I heard one of the anchors on the NBC Today show say We'll Be Right Back, it triggered a panic. I knew we were just a couple of commercials away from my scheduled interview. I suddenly fixated on the white socks I was wearing with my black ankle boots. If I crossed my legs, would my pant hem ride up to expose my fashion faux pas to millions of viewers? With no chair arms to hang onto, would I tumble from the high stool and become the star of an endless loop of embarrassment on YouTube? Would I just sit there, made paralyzed and speechless by fear?

Was it too late to run screaming from the set?

The next thing I knew, a guy in a headset behind a big camera was pointing to me. The Today Show's smart and beautiful anchor, Savannah Guthrie, asked me a question. I think I answered it. She asked me another. I answered that one, too, I'm pretty sure. This is saying a lot, because an hour or so before, I was so nervous that when the show's hair stylist asked me the name of my book . . .

''Uhmmm, it's my fourth book,'' I stalled.

Yes, but what's it called? she asked.

''It's a mystery novel,'' I stammered.

I saw pity in her eyes. She put down her hair spray and patted my shoulder. You might want to practice that title thing.


I hit the author's lottery on Dec. 28. I had the great good fortune to be invited onto the Today show to talk about my latest book, Mama Sees Stars. (Sure, NOW I remember the title!) I'm married to NBC correspondent Kerry Sanders. I'm not deluded enough to think the Today Show selected me randomly from a universe of authors. I know Kerry's connections to the show played a role in my invite, and in previous appearances I've made on Today.

I guess I've done okay, because this time they carved out four minutes for my segment. One of Kerry's friends posted on his Facebook page (a bit meanly, I thought) that I got about twice the time they usually give Kerry for his stories on Today.

Here's a link to click, if you want to see how I did.
This picture was snapped off the TV:

I can say without hesitation my husband did not break a single kneecap in pursuit of my appearance. At least I didn't see anyone on the Today set limping around. Except for me. When the interview was over, I had some kind of weird after-effect of all those nerves and pumping adrenaline. I started to climb down from that towering stool, and my knees began to buckle. My legs were wobbly, wet noodles. I grabbed behind me, and carefully slid my butt back onto the seat.

''I can't get down.''

What do you mean? a stagehand said.

''My legs won't work.''

He got the deer-in-the-headlight look. Another guest was standing by, waiting to move into my spot on the interview stool for the next segment. After a couple of moments, they managed to peel me off the seat. Leaning on some guy's shoulder, I limped off the set.

My friends all said I did great, and that I didn't look a bit nervous. (Of course, that's what friends are supposed to say). It got me thinking about how often all of us put on a public face that might be very different from how we feel privately, inside. In my case, I wanted to run away screaming, ''I can't do this! I'm scared.'' Instead, I talked and laughed with Savannah as if she were just a gal pal chatting ... and not a famous TV anchor I'd never met before, with millions of people watching at home.

I am having recurring nightmares, though, featuring the phrase We'll Be Right Back.

What scares you? Have you managed to fake your way through it?

Inkspot News -- Dec. 24, 2011

Midnight Ink author Deborah Sharp is scheduled to appear on NBC's TODAY show on Wed., Dec. 28, sometime after 8:30 AM. Deborah, a former journalist who is married to longtime NBC Correspondent Kerry Sanders, will talk about her most recent Mace Bauer Mystery: Mama Sees Stars. For an author, an opportunity to appear on national TV is equivalent to -- and just about as elusive as -- hitting the lottery. Deborah admits her husband's connections play a role in her getting on TV, but she contends no kneecaps were broken in pursuit of her appearance.

Party Like It's 1949

By Deborah Sharp

Despite what it says about my social life, I must confess that the rockin'-est holiday party I've been to this year was at my elderly mother's retirement home.

No kidding. Great food. Open bar. Groovin' tunes -- providing your taste in pop music, like mine, can stretch back to the 1940s and peak in about 1989. Hey, Sinatra's not too shabby. Neither is the Miami Sound Machine. ''Rhythm is Gonna Get You'' indeed.

My mom, confused at age 97 but still spry, seemed to believe the whole event had been planned just for her. What do you think of my party? she asked my sisters and me, somehow overlooking the 25-or-so other Royal Palm residents also enjoying the festivities with invited family members.

She danced. She ate. She knocked back three glasses of wine. They were short glasses, but still. My husband added a sugar cube or two to each one so that the classy Chardonnay they were pouring would taste more like the super-sweet pink wine she used to adore. (The party picture shows my hubby, Kerry Sanders, and me flanking my mom, Marion Sharp)




If you've read my books, you may recognize sweet pink wine as something the fictional ''Mama'' enjoys. It's not the only trait I stole from my real mom for my character. The fictional mama is central to each of my books' plots, and is known for driving her three grown girls crazy. Lovingly, of course. I'll just say that in real life, my mother hasn't driven me that crazy. We've always been close.

Earlier this year, I agonized over moving her into assisted living. It's an awful, hard choice faced by countless adult children. Taking control of a failing parent's life. Making complicated, painful decisions. It doesn't feel any easier to know you're trying to make those decisions in the best interest of your loved one.

Ask me sometime about facilities I rejected. Long, dark corridors. An overwhelming smell of urine. A staff member who answered my doorbell summons as a cold, unfriendly voice over an intercom.

Yes?

I was wondering if I could come in to talk to someone about a possible room for my mom.

Long pause. Some scratchy, electronic squawks. Thinking maybe I was being buzzed in, I rattled the steel gate. Nope. Still locked tight. I stood there, waiting on a baking asphalt parking lot in South Florida in July, so hot the heat rose in shimmery waves off the blacktop.

I rang again. Perhaps drawn by the sound, an unkempt, ancient man shuffled toward the entryway, on the inside of the gate. I could see him through the metal bars. His zipper was open, and he was playing with himself.

Finally, the intercom echoed again with the disembodied voice: You'll have to come back later, when the owner's here.

Sure. When hell freezes over.

By contrast, the first time I stood at the front gate of my mom's retirement home, I looked into an outdoor courtyard. Parakeets chattered in a birdcage. Flowers bloomed. A fountain burbled. When I rang the doorbell, a smiling nurse's aide popped her head out the door of a resident's room: Hi! I'm Sue. How can I help you?

That cheerful, caring attitude has surfaced over and over in the months since Mom moved in. No, it's not home. But they try to make it like a home. For the holiday party, members of the multicultural staff each brought favorite dishes from their homelands: Haiti, the Caribbean, the Philippines, Latin America. Guests included some family members of former residents. Even though their loved ones passed away, they came back for the holiday party.

My mother's short term memory is spotty, at best. But when I visited this week, several days after the party, she was still talking about it. She didn't remember exactly who'd come, but she did remember the music, the food, and festivities.

We sat in the courtyard. Lights from a decorated Christmas tree shone in her eyes. That was the best party I ever had! she said.

Me, too, Mom.

Would Your Husband Sign My Book?

By Deborah Sharp

What is it about TV that turns normal folks into idiots?

I showed up to do a book-signing the other day, and I could tell people who'd come hoping to meet the guy on TV were disappointed my husband wasn't in tow.

"Oh, Kerry's not here?'' said one woman, frowning. "I thought you'd bring him.''

"Nope, it's just me. I'm only the author,'' I said.

If she hadn't gotten in for free, I'm sure she would have demanded her money back. People at signings have asked -- often -- if my husband could also autograph their books. "No problem,'' I always say. "Just so long as you remember I'm the one who wrote it.''

Look, I get it. My husband, NBC reporter Kerry Sanders, works on TV. I'm proud of the job he does, covering stories all over the globe. But the fact he appears regularly on that glowing screen in the nation's living rooms, mere channels away from true celebrities like Kim Kardashian and Flavor Flav ... well, it makes people act weird.

I realized how weird early on. Take my normally stolid, down-to-earth Lutheran minister, for example. When Kerry and I went in together 23 years ago to talk to him about performing our marriage, he didn't question us about whether differences in religions or core values might cause problems down the road. No.

"What's it like to be on TV?'' he asked, gazing starry-eyed at my husband-to-be.

"Hello,'' I said. "I'm over here. The bride?''

I only expect the star-struckiness to get worse this week. Kerry's appearing alongside the Today show's popular anchor during the network's heavily promoted feature, Where in the World is Matt Lauer?

In preparation, I'm rehearsing my answers to the non-book related questions I expect to get at my next book-signing:

"Nope, I can't tell you what country Kerry is in. It's Top Secret.'' (Tune in Thursday morning on the Today show, if you're curious. My husband will be the one who isn't Matt Lauer at that day's fabulous location.)

"Nope, I don't know what Matt Lauer is really like. I've only met the man once, briefly. I'm certain he couldn't pick me out of a line-up.''

"Nope, I can't get Matt Lauer to autograph my book for you; but I'd be glad to ask my husband to sign it. Buy two, and he'll pose for a picture.''

How about you? Have you ever met someone from movies or TV? Did you act cool, or giddy? I still remember how nervous I was as a teenager when I met my famous sports star crush, quarterback Joe Namath. I spilled a Coke all over both of us.

Mrs. Famous

By Deborah Sharp

I was butt naked on a hospital exam table when I realized being Mrs. Famous isn't all it's cracked up to be.

My epiphany occurred during a colonoscopy. Everyone of a certain age – okay, past 50 – should have the procedure. Katie Couric even had a scope inserted from the bottom up on national TV a few years ago to check the health of her colon.

Which brings me to my husband, Kerry Sanders, pictured above. He's nowhere near as well-known as the network anchors are. But as a correspondent for NBC News, he's still seen by millions, reporting from wars and disasters, infamous trials, and the occasional cushier assignment.

For Kerry, it’s his job. But unlike selling insurance or fixing teeth, the fact that his job is on TV renders even sophisticated people star struck. Trust me on this. Let’s say my husband was at a cocktail party with Albert Einstein, Mother Theresa, and Shakespeare, all amazingly resurrected. Guests would bypass the genius, the saint, and the most famous playwright ever to make a beeline to the guy they’ve seen on TV.

''You covered Casey Anthony,'' one party-goer might say, ignoring Einstein riffing on relativity. ''What was up with that verdict?''

''Tell me,’’ another would gush, as Shakespeare scribbled sonnets unnoticed, ''what's Matt Lauer REALLY like?''

We've been married 22 years. I've become accustomed to watching people's eyes go glassy when I talk about what I do.

''I saw Kerry on the news,'' they’ll interrupt. ''Tell him I didn't like that yellow tie.''

I thought things might be different at the hospital, as several nurses arrived to prep me for my procedure. They all gathered 'round my gurney . . . and started quizzing my husband about TV. As usual, I was the invisible woman.

''Is Al Roker really as nice as he seems on the Today Show?’’ one nurse asked.

''I used to watch you reporting from Baghdad,’’ another said. ''Your eyes are SO blue.’’

''It’s funny, you look taller on TV,’’ the last nurse told him, my IV forgotten in her hand.

''Hey! Watch that needle,'' I yelled. ''Terrified patient here.’’

Finally, they wheeled me off to the colonoscopy room, leaving Kerry on his own to wait. As things got underway, I remember an open-backed gown, a chilly breeze, and insistent prodding from behind. The last thing I recall were these words from my doctor, as he began to scope:

''I still think about Kerry reporting from Hurricane Katrina.’’ Poke. Dig. Poke. ''How does he do those kinds of stories?'' Dig. Poke. Dig.

Just then, thankfully, the drugs kicked in. Away I floated to my happy place: A land with no TV, where someone – occasionally – will ask about me.

How about you? Do you ever feel overshadowed by a better-known or higher achieving family member? What is the weirdest place anyone’s ever chosen to ask you about them?

BTW, the colonoscopy results came back fine. When I called the insurance company later to iron out a billing problem, the woman on the phone noted Kerry’s name on the family policy. ''Hey, is that the same Kerry Sanders that’s on TV?’’

''Yes.'' Sigh. ''It is.''