According to Trish

It’s my last night in the house. The kids are in bed. It’s really, really quiet.

I’m sitting at the high kitchen table, where I always seem to end up working even though I have a desk in the dining room. There are a lot of boxes around but there’s still some packing to do — mostly random piles of clutter that will take some tedious going-through. I’m think I’m just going to swipe them into a couple of boxes and sort them out on the other end. Because the time for sorting and organizing is over.

Now is the time to mark the moment. An end. A beginning. A transition that is occurring right now as I write this.

The kids spent the day with my sister (THANK YOU, TREAS!) while my mom helped me pack (THANK YOU, MOM!). I picked the munchkins up and as we were all getting out of the car and I was digging out my keys, it struck me that this was the last time I was going to unlock the front door as a resident of this house. And it didn’t bring me to tears, although plenty of other things have. I felt resignation. ”Yeah. There was going to be a last time. It’s now.” Megan whined that she was hungry and Benjamin chattered as I carried him and they had no idea that something significant was occurring.

My normal impulse is to turn things over and really try to get at the meat of what’s going on. But over the past few months I’ve had to learn to power down a bit just so I could do what needed to be done: details, logistics, tasks. They can be a nice distraction.

In my power-down mode, I don’t have a lot of insight into tonight. I don’t really have a lot to say. I just want to note The Moment. I want to nod my head and say, ”I don’t quite understand you, Moment, but I know that you are important.” We don’t always know when the Big Moments are happening, so I might as well acknowledge one when I know it’s here.

If I want to address anyone, I guess that would be my house. I want to tell it that while I’m leaving it, I still have warm feelings for it in my heart. I’m comforted that my children will be able to come back here to a familiar place when they are away from me. I want to thank the house for being good to me. I want to part as friends.

I wonder if growing up in a military family is paying off right now? Moving must’ve gotten into my DNA along the line somewhere because it all feels pretty normal to pack up and start over.

Start over. Not totally but some. I realized today that as long as my kidsters are with me, I really have nothing to complain about. (But don’t hold me to that. Sometimes I find complaining to be entertaining. No, really.)

That’s all for now, blogmuffins. Signing off from this location. Next time I write to you all, I imagine that I’ll be at my desk, which will be tucked into the corner near the stairs, one of my favorite pictures hanging where I can see it. There will be spaghetti sauce on the stove (a house isn’t a home until you’ve made spaghetti sauce there) and the kids will be wrestling their way across the couch, laughing and ignoring SpongeBob on the TV as they burn off their evening crazies. I’ll be trying to squeeze in a little writing before dinner while they’re not paying attention. I won’t finish until after they’re in bed and the house is quiet. Really quiet like it is now.

And instead of boxes to fill there will be boxes to empty.

Nighty night, campers. See you on the other side.

Oh, enough already. I’ve semi-written 3 blogs in the past week and none of them are gellin’. (Is it jellin’? Whatever.) I can’t keep a coherent thought train on the tracks. So just consider this blog a big bunch of random crap. It’s like leftover night. There will be some good stuff, some bad stuff, some stuff that used to be good but hasn’t aged well and some stuff that’s better the second time around. But you know, I have to feed my little blogmuffins, so here we are.

Let the random shit begin.

There’s a lot going on. I’m moving in a week and a half.  There’s packing to do — packing half a house actually involves touching every object in the whole house so you can decide what goes and what stays. There are kids to watch, one of whom was pretty sick for a few days. There’s a job to do — which recently doubled in size (at my request, I might add) so, uh, that takes some getting used to. And I work from home. And it’s summer. And I have a babysitter exactly three hours a week. And I’m having mouth surgery tomorrow. I’m not a big fan of the wallowing in self-pity thing, but I admit that it happened this week. It happened. I went there. I turned into a big whiney babyhead and did the woe-is-me dance and cried to my mama. I know that things will get better. Soon even. But before “better” arrives I have this giant boulder that I’m pushing up the hill inch by inch. Sometimes it slips a little and I have to make up some ground. But it’s temporary. I can deal with temporary. And soon the kidsters and I will be in the single-mom townhouse, surrounded by boxes that can be unpacked at our leisure… perhaps we’ll camp in the living room the first night or two.

I have absolutely killed the area thrift stores the past week or so (yeah, I did it) so we’ll even have some things like lamps and curtains and crap to hang on the walls. I resisted the urge to buy a lamp shaped like a rooster on a log (HOW could I pass that up???) but I did go for some seriously sexy lamps for the boudiour. (Did I spell that right? I can’t pull that off, even in print.) So yeah, my single momma bedroom. Where I’ll be sleeping. Alone. (Sometimes.)

Moving on…

I went to the beach yesterday. I had from 3 PM on Tuesday until 9 AM on Wednesday to go wherever I wanted because my children’s father (does that sound better than “the ex?”) had the kids. So I put my behind in the car and I drove until I hit ocean. I have this spot that I like to go to – I call it the secret beach because it’s not very populated. It’s juuuuust far enough away from any parking spaces that it’s sort of a pain to get to if you’re hauling a bunch of beach crap, but once you get there it’s awesome if you’re a kid or a daydreamer (and I am both). There are many, many massive tidepools because it’s right where the island turns into the inlet (so much for secret beach — I’ll be so pissed if the paparazzi start stalking me there). I went there a few weeks ago at night. There was a full moon and the tide was in so it seemed like there was a half mile of flat, shallow water before the breakers started. It was incredibly romantic. My sister and I both thought so, anyway. But it was so amazing that I just had to completely stop walking for a moment so that I could look up and applaud. “Good job, God,” I said. And I meant it.

So this beach is where I go in my mind when I’m feeling a little too stressed from the real world. I picture it that night with the light from the full moon on the water. And I picture it the next morning when I took the kidsters there early. It was just the three of us. Benjamin did not want to walk there, he just wanted to run into the ocean. So I carried him, kicking and screaming, until we got to a massive tide pool and then that was it. Bliss. For all of us. The kids played in the water and I played, too, and sometimes I just watched them, feeling the sunlight as we spun on the globe and made muddy sand castles and picked up dead crabs. I carried B back along the beach toward the car and I sang to him the whole way. He did his little dance  where he puts his arms straight out and twists his chubby hands like he’s turning a doorknob. Megan trailed behind us in her pink bathing suit, looking out at the water and talking to herself, lost in the thoughts of a girl who is juuuuust about to turn 7. I had about 20 cents for the parking meter when we arrived but I knew that there was no way that I was going to get a parking ticket.

And here’s why: I’ve decided to live a charmed life. I’m off to a good start. On paper, things may look less than hot. I’m 38. I’m moving out of the house that I’ve lived in for 9 years — where the word “wife” first started applying to me, where I brought my babies home from the hospital and where I grieved for my dad. I have two smallish kids and I’m not exactly sleeping on a mattress stuffed with money. But still, a paper life isn’t anything that I’m interested in.

I’m interested in a life where the waves surprise you sometimes and get your clothes all wet. Where you get sand in your buttcrack and it makes you walk so funny that you have to laugh at yourself. Where the wind picks up your hair as you walk down the beach and for a few moments, you just feel absolutely fucking gorgeous. Paper can’t stand up to that kind of authenticity.

So will I get my ass kicked here  and there in the coming months or years? It’s a possibility. I can live with that. I’ve taken a good ass kicking every now again and I have to say, I’ve never looked back and gone, “Nope. No idea that why that happened. No lessons learned here. What a waste.” I’m sure someday this will all make sense. Maybe that day is tomorrow. Or today.

BUT, I have to tell you what else happened at the beach. I’m walking along yesterday on my solo trip and I see a guy, maybe in my age bracket, sitting alone in a beach chair looking at the ocean. It’s close to 6 at this point, so it’s a great time for the ponderers to come out and brood. I like that in a person. So I spot him up the beach and I’m thinking that if a guy is sitting there all by himself at that time of day, he must be single. So as I get closer to where he’s sitting, what do I do? Survey says…. I look at my toes and plow on past. Then I really had to giggle at myself that I am SUCH AN IDIOT that I can’t even say hello to a man! It’s hilarious, isn’t it? Had that been anyone else in the world, I could’ve just said hello. But I came to the realization that I really can’t recognize my own tribe — you know, the “single again” folks who are possibly wandering around the planet just as clueless and sheepish as I am. And I really, really have to put that long-ago Shy Trish back in the basement. (Yes, people, I used to be seriously, painfully shy. I’m not making this up. Perhaps it’s a topic for another blog, another time…)

But wait! There’s more! No,  not about the guy. Put him out of your mind. He’s a footnote to this story. What happened as I passed him is that I started looking at shells. I was happy to be on my own but I was also missing my munchkins when I spotted a shell that absolutely perfectly embodied the essence of my daughter. I think I actually squealed a bit when I saw it. This shell was Megan. So I put it in my pocket and kept walking and looking and then I spotted one that was Benjamin, without a doubt. A step or two later I found myself. And then my mom. And then I thought, “OK, if all the people I love best are represented on this beach, what would the shell of my ideal partner look like?” Now I didn’t want to overthink it. Because up to that point, I had been going on pure instinct and not looking for anything in particular. After a minute or two, I spotted it. I will not describe it because that belongs to me alone. But I added it to my collection and continued walking when another shell caught my eye. I shit you not (the best phrase ever), it was a shell with a perfect heart inside. (I posted it to my According to Trish facebook page.) There was no mistaking it. I laughed out loud and then I looked up once again and said, “Good job, God!”

A charmed life. Believe it.

Update: This blog probably doesn’t make sense anymore since I changed the photo. But since this blog rarely makes sense I’m not going to worry too much about it. If you want to see the photo I’m referring to, it’s on my “fan” page. While you’re there, you can “fan” me. Incentive: Once I get to 50 fans, I will disclose something embarrassing about myself. What that is I don’t know, but luckily there’s a big pool to choose from — and I’m sure many of you will be all too happy to offer suggestions…

Did you see my new blog candy? Over there, that way ——->…  you can now “follow” me on facebook. Because I’m going all kinds of interesting places. Or at least I feel compelled to do so now that I have that thing up there. This way I can be “friends” with people I don’t know without having to worry about them looking pictures of my kids. Have I watched too many paranoia-inducing TV shows? Haven’t we all?

What do you think of the pic? Does it look like I’m trying too hard? That’s because I am. I am in serious need of a good photo of myself. So when my almost-7 year old starting taking pics the other week, I admit that I thought, “Maybe one of these would be OK…” But, really. What was I thinking? I’m in my “mom uniform” and I’m just sitting there on the steps like I’m waiting for the mailman or something. Please, someone help me with this because any photos I take of myself look very, very scary.

But don’t get me wrong. I am a big, big, big fan of social-networking self portraits. I love ‘em. I actually have thought several times about how I could stage one myself. In my dream photo, the final effect would look as if I’m in the middle of a joyful laugh as the wind rustles my hair and the sun sets behind me… as if a professional photographer just happened to be roaming the countryside and just happened to notice me at the perfect moment –instead of me trying to pose for myself in front of my iPhone and ending up looking like I’m in a fishbowl.  However, my favorite self-portraits are the sexy ones. Oh, how I enjoy thinking about the preparation that must go into getting the hair and makeup just so and how long it took the person to arrange their face into the dazed but suggestive ”I just got done doing something nasty” look — mouth slightly open, possibly biting part of the lip…  I mean, it’s an art form. I’m sure there must be a Web site dedicated to this somewhere. Send it to me if you find it.

I actually have another post started but I’m feeling self-conscious about my goony photo so I had to address it. (Is a goony photo better than no photo? Show of hands, please…)

So if I ever get past this next deadline, I’ll have a new bloggity blog for you, my pretties. Until then, I’ll be looking behind me in case you’re “following” me (and if you thought the photo was bad, the view from behind is something else altogether…)

OK, confession time. Shhhh. Lean in real close, would you…? Anyone looking? Here’s the thing: I, uh, really don’t know how to be single. I don’t know how in such a massively huge way that as I’m sitting here typing this I’m on the verge of hysterical laughter because I REALLY DON’T KNOW WHAT THE HELL I’M DOING!

I’m sure this sounds premature. I know we just made The Big Announcement. It’s true. But divorce decisions don’t just happen overnight. There is a big, fat lead-up to the day when you finally become the town crier and confess that, yes, it is true. So you have some time to kick things around and think about what life is going to be like afterward. I am not ready to date right now, today, here at the Panera where I seem to spend so much of my bloggy time…

But…

The time is coming. It’s out there. (Oh no! It’s out there! Somebody call the police!) Right now I feel like I’m 15 and in my best friend’s house and I just want to giggle into a pillow. Because this Trish who I am right now has never been single. The Trish who was single before was a different Trish. That long-ago Trish is sitting inside of me right now, poking me in the ribs and going, “Hey! Guess what? I’m still here… You want some help?  Because I’ve done this before… remember?” Oh yeah. I remember.

That Trish was not great at dating.

You want to know just how not great? If you happen to be a guy and maybe you went to high school with me, here’s a test to figure out if I had a crush on you back then: If I spoke to you at all, I was absolutely not interested. Sorry (I’m sure you’re fabulous now, though).

I maybe got a little better as I got older but probably not much. I don’t know. Let’s face it, if I dated you at all in my 20s I was probably drunk during the meet-and-greet phase of our relationship (or possibly “relationship” — you know what I mean). And I’m pretty goddamn charming when I’m drunk, I can tell you, so I probably had no problem chatting you up. Also, if you were lucky enough to meet me during what I like to refer to as the Slutazoic Era, I’m sure things moved along quite nicely.

But now it’s a different ballgame. And I’m out of practice for any sort of dating ballgame, to be honest. 

I like people. If you’re a person and I don’t know you (or even if I do), I want to dig into your head like it’s a half-gallon of ice cream. I’m interested. I want to know what you ate for breakfast and if you had a dog when you were a kid and what age you were when you first did it and if you ever pee in the shower… I want to know it all. So I think that this is probably good for my personal dating world because I like to ask questions. Or it will be, when I freakin’ have a personal dating world… but I’m saying that even if I go on a buttload of bad dates, at least I’ll get to meet a bunch of people and have some conversations. Some of the guys will boring or loser-y or whatever. Some of them may be nice but there’s no chemistry. Maybe some of them — or even just one of them — will be the best ice cream I ever had. Who knows?

But I’m paranoid that that shy, tongue-tied, long-ago Trish is going to try to take over. I was pretty sure she moved out years ago so I was surprised to find that she’s been squatting in the basement all this time, waiting.

And here’s another thing that I’m paranoid about — and it’s probably really, really stupid but I think about it and I want to say it: I am maybe the only divorced person (or soon-to-be, anyway) in most of the peer groups I associate with. I am big and loud and crazy and talkative sometimes. As I mentioned before, I like people and I like to talk to lots of people. I am now really, really paranoid about talking to anyone’s husband because I am terrified that people will think that I’m flirting — because I’m being big and loud and crazy and talkative. But please let me assure you that I DO NOT KNOW HOW TO FLIRT. I missed that lesson whenever they were giving it out.  Any attempts at flirting in my past have ended in terrible disaster, I assure you (ask my college roommate — she still teases me about it). So please do not mistake my smartassiness as flirting. It’s just me. (I also say this because it’s been misconstrued in the past — I’d find some guy trying to lay a kiss on me and be like, “Whoa! What are you doing?” And he’d be like, “You were flirting with me all night!” And I’d be like, “Ummm… I was?” So I am clueless.) (And also: I do not cheat and I do not help anyone else cheat. Long-ago Trish had a policy of not going after anyone who was otherwise involved with anyone else — that’s one policy I’m going to borrow from her.)

So I don’t know if I had to say all that or not, but I wanted to. A divorced friend of mine (who is now happily married) said that he felt a lingering sort-of 1950s stigma about being a divorced person. Possibly he just perceived it, possibly it was real. But I get what he was saying. I keep thinking of the Happy Days episode with the “hot to trot” divorcee’. I wonder, “Will people think I’m hot to trot? What the hell does that mean anyway?” Where is Potsie when you need him? (And why was he called Potsie? What the hell was up with that show?)

And now, chickadees, one more confession: The thing that prompted this whole blog tonight was that I think I might have maybe kind of gotten checked out by an OK looking man when I walked in here. I was thinking, “OK, girl. This is your world now. You’re not ready but you could use some practice…” So when I got up to throw some things away he happened to be walking past. And you know what happened? Nothing because long-ago Trish took over and I put my head down and sprinted to my seat without even attempting eye contact. So embarrassing to even write that. I’m laughing at myself right now — and also cringing. But, hey, it was a learning experience and it was harmless. Now I know that long-ago Trish needs to be bound and gagged and reminded that she doesn’t run the show anymore.

Someone today called me the Indiana Jones of Singledom (thanks, Charlie!). I’ll take that. If I think of myself like that then maybe I’ll be able to take this on…

Hang with me, people. It’s going to be interesting.

Dear Hallmark: I’ve found an untapped market for you — Father’s Day cards to men from the women who are in the middle of divorcing them.  They don’t even have to be bitchy or anything. Maybe something along the lines of, “Hey! Thanks for making those little people with me. They turned out pretty nice, huh? Now go take them to your parents’ house so I can sit on the deck in the sunshine, read a book and eat some blueberries.” (Of course, I’m sure the bitchy ones would sell like crazy. Call me if you need some suggestions…)

Another idea: Valentine’s Day cards for lovers that you feel ambivalent about but haven’t yet broken up with. I’m telling you, that could be a big one.

So the bloggity blog has languished a bit in the midst of all of my personal trauma and drama. It was hard to not write while the shit was going down. I wanted to. I’m a heart-on-my-sleeve type of girl. But the last thing I wanted to do then — or now– is to air out the proverbial dirty laundry of my married life in public. For those of you who have known us (or the people formerly known as “us”) as a married couple, I think it’s only normal to speculate on what went wrong. I’d probably be doing it if I were on the outside of all of this. I’m sure that you can come up with a hundred and fifty reasons why I must be a real pain in the ass to be married to or why he must be a real jerk to live with. Some of those reasons probably did factor into the equation somewhere. But anyone who has been in a long-term relationship knows that the only people who really know what goes on are the people in it. And even if you’re one of those people, you may still be in the dark and not know it.

So I’m cycling through all the complicated emotions that come along with ending my life as I have known it for the past decade. It’s a lot to process. Despair (hopefully now mostly past, mostly manifested as inappropriate public crying), blinding fucking anger (seems to be making a sneaky little comback, mostly manifested as furious typing followed by repeated hitting of the backspace key), resignation (one of the more palatable emotions) and now, finally, hope and happiness (mostly manifested as a little bright light, just around the corner, up ahead — it’s going to let me catch up with it soon).

I plan to give myself the time I need to feel all of the uncomfortable, rotten emotions of the situation. If I feel like crying, I’m going to do it. But when all of that energy is spent I am going to take this life of mine and live the heck out of it. I am on a quest for a joy. A quote I recently heard: Sometimes you have to walk through the valley of the shadow of death, but you don’t have to build a condo there.

I believe that absolutely everything in life is a learning experience. And I’m starting to emerge from this rancid mess with a surprising thought in mind: I am really proud of myself. This has been so hard. But I feel that someday I will be able to look my children in the eyes and honestly say to them that I did every single thing I could to try and save the family. Now some of you may be thinking, “What? If that’s true, why aren’t you just staying?” To that I say: You do not know the whole story. And you probably never will. Because there is always more than meets the eye.

And another person I can look in the eye is me. I think when the shit hits the fan you really find out what you’re made of. I’m proud to say that I think I’m made of some pretty good stuff. I have behaved honorably throughout all of this. I kept my promises — to myself and to other people. I did what I said I was going to do.

Another thing that I’m finding out: I’m a hopeful person. I could walk away from this all bitter and damaged — a real man-hater. But I don’t feel that way. Sure, I have some healing to do. But ultimately I believe in love. I believe that there’s something better out there for me. And if there’s not at least I’m going to die trying. Real love is worth it. Yes, I’ve faced the fact that I could wind up ALONE (oh no! not that!). But I’m pretty good company for myself. I am blessed beyond all measure with family and friends. I’m interested in a hundred million things. Yes, I’ll have pockets of loneliness here and there, but I’ll never be bored.

So I start my journey. I have my little hobo pack slung over my shoulder. It’s full of books, some good music, a notebook and something to write with (OK, and my iPhone — anyone know if there’s a hairdryer app?). My kidsters are toddling around my feet. We’re talking and laughing and learning and dancing. And we start each day with Little B’s favorite song because it gives us all a boost… Don’t worry, about a thing… ‘cuz every little thing is gonna be all right…

Divorce. No one wants to say it. People find out that you’re having problems and they talk around the issue so they don’t have to use the word. I talked around it, too. I said “splitting up,” “if things don’t work out…,” etc. Then when someone finally says it they whisper it, like that scene in St. Elmo’s fire where the mother kept whispering about cancer.

Then finally you realize that you have to speak the word. You have to try it out. You have to see how it tastes in your mouth, how it feels on your tongue. It has a hell of an aftertaste, I can tell you that.

The first time I spoke it was on a Saturday afternoon at a parade. My daughter was still in her leotard from her dance class. She was busy playing with someone she knew so she wasn’t paying attention to me. I told the other kid’s mom and then I fell apart, right there on the curb as people walked past me with their lawnchairs. I hardly knew the woman but I knew that she’d been divorced because we’d discussed it at the community pool the summer before. But I had to tell someone. I had to make it real. I had to put it out there in the universe. I had to call it what it was — not “we’re splitting up,” not “separating,” not “having problems.”

That was weeks ago. On that day, I was sure that there was no way back. I was so sure that I decided to tell a person who wasn’t in my family or who hadn’t already met me for coffee and watched me cry publicly or who hadn’t fielded long and gut wrenching emails from me. Just a person. Because I was sure.

But then I wasn’t. Because I wanted to find a way to not do it. Because the pain of splitting up your family is so bad it’s actually like sticking a knife into your own belly, grabbing your intestines, ripping them out and then jumping up and down on them while they’re still connected to your body. Then multiply that feeling by a million. Or, as one divorced friend says, “It’s hard as fuck.”

So we took a step back from the edge of the cliff. We said maybe not. But then there came a point when we both realized that what was broken wasn’t going to be fixed. And if we did manage to adhere all those pieces back together, it was pretty likely to be some warped, cracked version of what it was.

Then you have to tell everyone. That is when you wish you had some sort of celebrity publicist to do the dirty work for you. And these days, you practically have to write a press release anyway because of facebook. So I did the dirty work. Then, before I posted the Notice of Our Official Demise, I got a babysitter and sat in Panera and emailed back and forth a hundred times with the person who I guess I now have to refer to as “the ex.” There were no more last-minute “let’s not do this” emails. Instead, it was “Let’s stay a family, even though things are going to look different. Let’s cheer each other on. Let’s be kind and cooperative. Let’s stay friends,” all the while thinking, “Do all divorced people do this? Are we kidding ourselves?” but hoping to God that we can pull it off. Yes, there is hurt and disappointment and some anger, but we could work well together when we wanted to in the past. Maybe we can do it now.

So it was time to tell the world. Or our world anyway, via the ever-present gossipsphere of social networking. But first there was lots of staring out the window and thinking, “Really? There’s really no other way out of this? Really?” And then saying, “No. There’s not. It’s hard and it’s sad but how many times can we circle the same block before we decide to turn?” So I posted it. And somehow that made it feel official. And we again emailed each other about how sick we felt after seeing the post. And we commiserated over the announcement of our divorce from each other.

This is going to sound nuts, but in a way it was kind of beautiful. There are many things that we do not see eye-to-eye on. We are very different people. We’ve hurt each other and we’ve made each other mad. But at the end of it all, perhaps we are able to set each other free in a peaceful way, with the recognition that we’re both hurting right now. Perhaps we can find a new way to love each other — as friends and as co-parents. We both have to reconfigure our lives. We both have to start over in many respects but we also have to find a way to continue on with the next phase of our family life. I do not know what shape the future will take but I have hope for us.

And now let me tell you that the napkins in Panera are not absorbent enough to mop up tears. If you’re planning on going there to cry, bring some tissues.

And I also want to say that this has been a tough few months. There have been lots of people who have come out of the woodwork to support both of us and I just want to say thanks again. Thanks doesn’t seem like enough considering the heavy emotional burden that many of you have tried to help us carry. I know that many of you have lost many hours of sleep over us because sometimes it’s almost harder to see the people you love in pain than to be in actual pain yourself. So a very humble thanks. Your friendship and love and support have been overwhelming . While a lot of you have said that you didn’t know what to say or that you wished there was more that you could do, let me tell you that you did a lot just by being present and walking through it with us.

… would you bring extra undies to throw onstage or would you just remove the ones you were wearing? Good lord, one sentence into this blog and I’m already talking underpants. I am the trashiest of philosophers, apparently.

All right, little blogmuffins, I’ve been neglecting you. Life is kicking my ass right now so I appreciate you all hanging in there with me. Instead of pissing and moaning (two activities which you would think should always go together, but you might be wrong), I will turn to happier topics.

Before you read on, stop what you’re doing and go out and buy or download Jeffrey Gaines’ live CD. Or any of his CDs, really. I’ll wait.

Now we’re working on the honor sytem here, chickadees, so I’m going to assume that if you’re reading THIS sentence that you have followed the instructions from THAT sentence. I will now continue with the blog and pretend that I don’t know that you’re lying to me…

I saw Jeffrey Gaines last Saturday night at the New Hope Winery. You’ll remember him from this blog http://accordingtotrish.com/2010/04/notamericanidol/.  And let me tell you all about JG because I sorta glossed over him before and he’s not a dude to be glossed over….  For the uninitiated (who really shouldn’t be reading at this point… don’t make me check your work) you may have heard him a while back — he’s best known for his remake of Peter Gabriel’s “In Your Eyes.” 

Here’s my deal with Jeffrey Gaines: If my life were a song, I’d want him to sing it. What do I mean by that? How to say…hmmm… OK, I think we all have those songs that just sort of hit us the first time we hear them — like if there was a song in your heart or in your soul and you didn’t have the musical chops to bring it out yourself and maybe you didn’t even quite know what it sounded like but then WHAM! Someone comes along and they’re singing yoursong! Something resonates inside of you like they just lifted the music right out of you and delivered it to you with all the heart and soul and passion that you hoped your song would have. Now don’t get me wrong — I’m not saying I could’ve written any of his songs (or any song for that matter), I’m just saying it’s one of those things where something in me recognizes something in his music in a very (cosmic? primal? …that all sounds sort of goony) let’s say instinctual way.

Sounds heavy, right? But no one can deny that music is some heavy shit. And if you have a soul I’m sure this has happened to you. And if you haven’t been bowled over by music in this way at least once, there’s very little hope for you and I’m going to have to ask you to stop reading my blog because being so near to you scares me a little bit.

All right, so let’s be honest here, peeps. Most of you probably didn’t do your assigned homework so it looks like I’m going to have to break things down for you. Howzabout some bullet points? We’re rocking it corporate-style in the WiFi Hot Spot. Hang on to your butts… it’s getting cruh-za-zee….

Here’s what you could learn about life from going to a Jeffrey Gaines show (and fortunately or unfortunately, I’m the kind of person who can formulate an entire life philosophy based on how my Cheerios (TM) congregate in my bowl… there’s the tiniest possibility that this could be exhausting to the people around me):

1. Live with passion, baby. PASSION. What is life without it? It’s a big bowl of oatmeal, minus the raisins and the brown sugar, that’s what. (Don’t argue with me on this, either. Honestly, I’m getting sick of fighting with you…) What excites you? Talk about it, sing about, groove your bad self all over it but own it. Claim it and make it yours.

2. Dig thyself. I cannot overstate this. Listen, we’re not all songwriters. But if everything you did in life could be translated into music in some way, what is the riff that would make you nod your head, close your eyes and jam along to your very own music? Do it. Jam on, mammajamma. Be confident. And if you’re enjoying your own tune and you’re authentic about it, chances are that other people are going to dig it, too. And if they don’t, so what? You still get to enjoy what you love.

3. Trust your voice. Again, we’re not all musicians but we all have a noise to make in the world. Trust your ability to riff on your own creativity. Maybe last time you sung something THIS way but this time you’re going to sing it THAT way. Trust yourself to carry it off. It’s your song, baby! Play around with it. If it’s not coming out how you like it, feel free to stop in the middle and switch keys. The point I’m making here is that if you’re being original, you can’t mess it up because it’s yours.

4. Be your own band. You don’t have a drummer. Or background singers. Or a guitar tech. So what? Pound your foot on the floor and beat the crap outta your guitar until the strings break. The audience won’t even notice that it’s just you up there. Sing at the mic, sing from the back of the stage and trust that the mic will pick it up. Fill up the whole space. Yes, you are big enough to pull it off. Don’t be afraid.

5. Get your head out of your ass. Yes, personal heartache and all of that stuff is a very big deal. Huge, especially since YOU are the one feeling it. But you know what? There’s other stuff going on in the world, too. Take a look at it. Learn from it. See how it can inspire you to do bigger things with your own life.

6. Laugh. Go ahead. Maybe you’re singing a heavy song. Maybe you’re singing a song that an entire generation considered the touchstone of their first heartbreak . Maybe you took this awesome song and made it awesomer (I made up that word) by just singing the shit out of it. And people creamed their undies over it. But that doesn’t mean that you can’t stop in the middle of the song and tell ridiculous stories about it. Don’t make it all too heavy.

7. If the power goes out, eh, oh well. Finish your song anyway and know that the audience is with you, singing along.

8. Let people dig you. There are lots of people who love you. Let them. Take their requests.

9. Smell good. That way you can hug people and it will be nice for everyone.

At the risk of this becoming a really bossy blog post, let me say this: You must go see him live. I think he’s mostly touring in Europe in the next few months but knowing most of you, you don’t have much going on anyway so you might as well make a day of it…

I’ll try to not make it so long between posts next time, kiddos. Until then, XOXOXO….

I never thought that I would be the person who was having a spat with her neighbor. But here we are, in a veritable turf war over dandelions.

I posted on facebook the other week that I was committing surbuban heresy by not using chemical dandelion killers on my lawn. My immediate neighbor — let’s call her “Fern” – has let me know on several occasions over the years that she hates dandelions worse than she hates Republicans and that if she sees one (a dandelion, not a Republican) she has to immediately rip it out of the ground and flog it as if she were Dick Cheney and the cursed weed was a Gitmo detainee (or something like that). After a while I got the feeling that her general outrage might just be a thinly veiled plea for a specific action on my part.

We have done the chemical treatment once or twice over the years but I try to avoid it when I can. I’m no hippie (despite the presence of a Phish CD in my hybrid vehicle — OK, two Phish CDs…) and yes, I do shave my underarms and attend to various other forms of personal groundskeeping. But I’m not a huge fan of the Suburban Steroid Lawn. Really, to me, it’s just grass. You walk on it. Animals crap on it. It’s not a carpet and I find it silly to treat it like one. Also, I have a toddler in my house. Toddlers spent 90% of their waking time on the floor. Chemicals on the lawn get tracked into the house and all over the actual carpets and floors — where my darling Little B is picking up every teensy little thing and taste testing it. Not to mention, the runoff from all the chemicals is very bad for local water sources and everyone on our street has private wells. So the way I see it, I’d rather deal with some dandelions than deal with spreading poison all over my entire lawn. (I will admit to using occasional targeted weed killers like Round Up — I just hate the idea of covering the better part of a half acre with the stuff.)

However, I know people get nuts about their yards. And after a certain age in particular, people get absolutely obsessed about their yards. I’ve seen “the change” happen to people I know…  And I would like to tell you all now that if I ever get that crazy about my grass that I would like you to take me to an art movie house and duct tape me into a seat because I will clearly need some reprogramming. It’s one thing to get some sort of peace and joy out of gardening. It’s entirely another to patrol your grass for weeds as if you were a Minuteman doing border patrol.

But even I had to admit that this year the dandelions were getting a bit much. I knew that we were probably ticking off the neighbors, which I didn’t want to do. So we bit the bullet. I nagged the husband to go outside and do the dirty deed. Our front yard is now one unbroken stretch of green.

Then there’s the back yard. Last year we removed an old above-ground pool that we inherited from the former owners. Problem is, when you remove an above-ground pool, what you’re left with is an enormous round depression in your yard that looks like a meteorite may have once landed there. And our landing sight is full of sand and rock, which is on top of a membrane that I can’t seem to dig out. Oh yeah, and there are weeds. Lots of ’em.

We let the big mess just sit last year because our financial situation was changing and we didn’t want to put out the money to pay contractors. But Tom and I both agree that it’s an eyesore and we have already starting getting estimates to get it done this year. But in the meantime, the dandelions are having a dandy time in there.

Then one day this week I returned home from picking up my daughter at school and my husband says, “You’re going to love this. Right after you left today, Fern came over and started pulling dandelions in the backyard. She left just a few minutes ago.”

Now Fern and I have always been friendly. She had keys to our house. She let our dog out a bunch of times when we were away. She once drove me to the doctor’s office when I was having strange pregnancy-related symptoms. But I have felt the tide turning in the past few years — ever since I told her that I was voting for Obama in the primaries and not Clinton. Seriously.

Now it’s important to know that this woman is home all day every day. She spends a LOT of time walking around her yard, talking on her cordless phone and smoking. So I guess she has a lot of time to look things over.

I began noticing little comments here and there after Benjamin was born. She emailed me to water our grass seed after we had some work done — I was uncertain whether to be amused or annoyed (I decided to be grateful because I honestly had forgotten). Several times she complained about leaves in her yard (that we both knew had blown over from our house) and talked about how some pine cones from her one tree fall on the other neighbor’s property and that she feels bad about it and has to go over and pick them all up.

I knew what she was getting at. But I have two small kids, a big commute every day, a job and a husband with a very hectic work schedule. And even if I didn’t, I still don’t care enough to spend time patroling her yard for foliage that might have blown over from ours.

But I couldn’t blow off the Weeding Incident. So I emailed her. I tried to be dispassionate about it and just state the facts. This is what I said:

Dear Fern,

Please do not weed our yard. I know that dandelions bother you and because of that, we treated the grass with dandelion-killing chemicals last week. I personally do not like to use chemicals unless I have to, but we felt that we should do it because we do not want to upset the rest of the neighbors.

As for the site where the pool was, we realize that it is an eyesore. There is a thick membrane underneath the sand and rock and we have decided that we want to bring someone in with heavy equipment to remove and re-grade the site. To do it ourselves would take forever and Tom’s work schedule is extremely hectic. We could not afford to have someone do it last year, as it was the first year that we didn’t have the income from Tom’s day job. We have already asked our lawn guy to give us an estimate on what he would charge to take care of it this year.

If you have concerns about our yard, please feel free to talk to us about them.

Trish

Within the hour, she approached Tom outside and returned our house key. Then I got an email which I won’t reproduce here because I don’t think it’s fair to post something she intended as a personal correspondence. But the jist of it was that she was just making a neighborly gesture but if she had known that I was so touchy she wouldn’t have. She gave me a big explanation of how dandelions are spread. She said she didn’t think much about the former pool site in our back yard, but now that I mentioned it, it probably was a big breeding ground for mosquitoes but, oh well, it’s been that way for years. And also, she will never step foot on our property again.

I replied that I had no intention of turning this into a turf war, that I just wanted to let her know how I felt. I mentioned that we’d always been neighborly and I hoped that that could continue. And I pointed out that the pool had been that way for less than a year (which made the email feel a little less magnanimous, but that one pissed me off).

So at this point… whatever. I have bigger fish to fry than getting into a pissing match over this. If she’s going to sit in her home and feel hostile toward me, so be it. But I have to admit, I was outside with the kids yesterday wondering if she was inside her house shooting daggers at me. Maybe she was and maybe she wasn’t. I honestly hope that she has something better to do.

And while I try to act like I’m above all of this, I will admit that the big joke in my house right now is, “Did you feed the dog? No? OK, don’t worry about it, I’m sure Fern will be over to do it later…”

But I’m me. And for me nothing is ever about only what it’s about. It’s all gotta go big. So my thoughts on this one are along these lines: In trying to be a good neighbor, a good citizen of the world, a good spouse, a good mother, a good sister, a good daughter, etc., how much do I need to conform to other people’s ideas of how I conduct my life? I think in a lot things, there’s what I would do based on what I want to do, and there’s what I actually do based on how it will affect the people around me. It’s a compromise — “No, I don’t really want to go to your jewelry party but you are my friend so I will show up as long as you don’t expect me to buy a bunch of expensive crap that I don’t need.”

And from the other perspective, how often do I scrutinize my friends and neighbors and expect them to live up to my expectations? Do I expect perfection? Do I make unreasonable demands on things they “should” be doing when maybe those things just aren’t important to them? Is it unfair to expect the people around me to adjust their behaviors for my own comfort? And to what extent are their quirks really affecting my day-to-day life anyway? Are they just a few dandelions on the lawn or are they causing little earthquakes?

I think the bottom line is that very few of us exist in a vacuum. I think you have to be true to yourself but be considerate to people around you. Don’t be the neighborhood jackass. Accept that people are rarely going to give you perfection — and that you will rarely have perfection to offer them. Decide what you can live with.

And if you see a few dandelions here and there, sit your ass on the grass and take a good look. They’re actually sorta pretty.

If my life were a purse, this would be the month that it got picked up and dumped out all over the couch. It’s time to sort through all the crap I’ve been carrying around. Let’s see… what has been shoved into the deep, dark corners? What is still useful and important and just needs a good wipe down? There are crumbs everywhere… too many emergency baby snacks have been left to their own devices over the last year. My children may be the constant in my life but that doesn’t mean that I have to carry their residue everywhere… I’d rather just carry them or hold their hands and walk next to them. 

Things need to be dealt with. Even if I don’t see every object every day, things are still taking up space and weighing me down. They are affecting me. I can pretend that they’re not in my purse but at some point, I’m very likely to find a melted piece of something or other congealing in the corner – possibly dripping out, even – and making a mess of everything around it. And how did this damn purse get so heavy? What have I been putting in there? Best to do the hard work of figuring this stuff out now before I have an even bigger mess and my purse gets so heavy that I can no longer walk upright. 

Someone recently said to me that you have to clean out your proverbial closets before you can put anything new in there. I like that. But it’s not a job you can do on the fly. You need to carve out some time. You need some space to spread out so you can sort, assess and decide. You need to look at that empty closet and decide if maybe it needs a paint job before put you everything back in. Maybe what it needs is pretty polka-dot wallpaper. Maybe it needs some shelves or something to help you get organized. Maybe it’s begging for a glass door so the sun can shine inside. After all, if you let the sun in that old closet, it’s less likely to get all cluttered again – dusty, ugly things like to lurk in the dark but you’re not likely to keep them around if they’re staring you in the face everyday. Maybe you even want to put a sound system in there so you can listen to music that makes you feel good. And after you do all that, maybe you find that the closet is so nice that it doesn’t even want to be a closet anymore, but part of the room. It could happen. 

And so I begin, blogmuffins. You’re all welcome in my closet anytime.

I am having what Oprah calls a full-circle moment.   I’m sitting in a certain coffeehouse near-ish to my home. I was writing about something else and it wasn’t going well. Then they put Jeffrey Gaines on the sound system. (Do you know him? You should…) It occurred to me that it was RIGHT HERE, one table away from where I’m sitting right now, when I saw Jeffrey Gaines perform for the first time several years ago. It’s not a big room and Jeffrey is a big, passionate guy. It was one of those shows were time and space sort of bend and the air gets thick with magic.

At the time, I was a new-ish mom. I didn’t get out much. As I sat there listening to these powerful songs about longing and truth and being who you really are, it occurred to me — more like hit me like an anvil over the head — that this life I was living didn’t quite fit me. I was stifled and lonely. I loved being a mom but I also wanted to be so much more. I needed to speak. I needed to find my voice. I really, really needed to start writing again — and not about OSHA violations.

And I found that what I was waiting for for so long was something that I had to give myself. I wanted permission. I wanted someone to say to me, “You have great potential. You were born to do this. You MUST write. The world needs it.” But things rarely happen like that in life. There’s no American Idol for most of us. We just do what we do — put in the work that we really want to do anyway. We put in the work whether anyone notices or not — because it brings joy, because it fulfills a need, because it makes us feel whole and allows us to appreciate life a little more. 

And now I sit here in the same place, listening to the same music four or five years later. I have not written the Great American Novel. But I have two great chapters that I’m really proud of that I think could someday germinate into something lovely. I’m not a columnist for a national publication. But I have this little blog here that a bunch of you read and I got a nice little bit of recognition for it recently. I’m not a size whatever. But my pants are loose and I’m learning how to be kind to my body. I’m not 22 and I’m glad about that because I’m a lot smarter now. I’m not meeting my husband at the door with lingerie on but we’re talking and being honest about what we need. My kids are cute and healthy and smart and funny. I feel like I’m on the path I’m supposed to be on even if it is extremely rocky sometimes.

For right now I feel like I’m pointed in the right direction. I’m not sure where I’m going to end up. But that’s OK. I have this step right here in front of me and when it’s time to take the next step, the direction will be clear.

So, little blogmuffins, what I have learned that’s worth sharing here? I’ve learned that you have to be honest. And that there are sometimes many layers to honesty and it takes time for them all to come up. But speaking that first truth, even if it’s hard and not very pretty, will start the ball rolling. I’ve learned that to live a good life, you  have to be authentic. You can’t be who other people “need” you to be — you have to be who you are. You can’t wait for someone to annoint you or validate you, you have to take those first steps forward. And I’ve learned that I am the only person inside my crazy, overactive brain. I better make sure that I’m good company.

Someone somewhere once said that an acorn can only be an oak tree. So don’t pretend to be another kind of tree if you’re not.

And with that, I will sign off, my dear, sweet bloggy pals. I wish you all an authentic day.