According to Trish

I was going to open with a big, fat mom anecdote involving only 4 hours of sleep and making milk-free cupcakes for my daughter’s class and multiple trips to the store and … you know what? I got bored halfway through writing it. So [insert charming "frustrated mom" story here]. If you’re a mom, you’ve got one. Feel free to substitute your own. Think of it like Mom Libs.

So yeah, I’m a mom. I don’t talk about that much on the blog, I guess. And I worry about how that comes off sometimes — like I’m all focused on being single and “me, me, me” and not on my kids. Luckily, however, at some point over the last few years I’ve finally reached that magical land where I can prance around in my tutu and not worry too much about what other people think of me. I’m not saying that I’m perfect at this yet, but I’m getting pretty damn good. The thing with my kids is that I find them interesting and entertaining because they’re mine and I made them. But I don’t know that all of you would find the same enjoyment in them. And I certainly don’t want to get all Kate Gosselin here and start exploiting all of their kid traumas for entertainment purposes. Their traumas are theirs. Someday, this blog will probably be pretty fucking traumatic for them as it is. Why pile on? [Also: there are many, many good "mommybloggers" out there covering these topics. I leave it to them to do the subject matter proper justice. Meanwhile, I will prefer to think of myself as a "motherblogger." (Can't take credit for that term, but thanks to the friend who thought it up for me.)]

So I know you all want to talk dating. You know how I know this? Because it’s all anyone farking asks me about anymore since I outed myself as a dater. All these people all tied up in relationships wanting to know what the juice is out there in the great beyond. I’m honored to be your amabassador. I admit, I still don’t know what the hell I’m doing but this brain of mine is doing some tabulating and calculating and coming up with some info. Of course, this info is very specialized and applies only to me. However, if you can learn something from it, I’m happy to share.

Again, I have to say how much it entertains me that all of you relationshipped-up people are so interested in my dating life. Shouldn’t you all have better things to do?

The answer to that is a very real and a very unsnarky “no.” No, you shouldn’t. Because what is at the core of all of this is something I touched on in my last blog. Dating is the first step in a long chain that may eventually end up in a little land we call love. (Aaah.) Dating also can lead to a little something we call sex. (Ooh.) These two things are big-ticket items, people. The biggest. And put them together … oh, baby. So I don’t blame people for wanting to pull up a seat to watch this little reality show. I’d probably be doing the same thing. After all, what’s more human, more real, in our sanitized, civilized world than a true connection with another person? And what’s more fun than the blush of new romance? (Sex. Sex is more fun that that.) Shut up. It was a rhetorical question, pervert.

Now that I’m out here in singlepeopleland and self-identifying as a person who wants to date, I find myself looking around and going, “What the hell am I doing here?”

While my last blog was all about being in the moment and not having goals in dating, I have since discovered that I, indeed, have some intentions. It was a shock to me to find this out about myself. But now that I know this, I can’t un-know it.

Earlier this week, quite by accident, I ended up writing a sort of dating mission statement for myself. I was surprised that this popped onto my computer screen even though I had typed it, but there it was. And it made sense. And it was big and scary but it was true so I will own it. If I’ve learned anything throughout all of this divorce crap, it’s this: Once the truth is out there, you can’t go back. And it might be terrifying and uncomfortable to live with that truth at first, but ultimately it will lead to greater things. Luckily, I happen to be one pretty brave chick when it comes to this stuff, so come what may, bitches.

Here’s my intention: I’m looking for love.

I’m in it to win it, baby. Bring it on.

Now let’s break that down a bit. (Because that’s what we do here on the old bloggity blog.) That obviously means different things to different people. As my marriage was in the process of disintegrating over the past however-long-it-took-that-to-happen, I thought a lot about what love — romantic love, in particular — means to me. And recently, getting out there and meeting some different people and having some different experiences, I’ve managed to clarify it a bit more. So what I’m looking for is this: I want to find my partner in crime, so to speak. As I have said before on this blog, I intend on taking this life and living the heck out of it. I’m looking for someone who’s not just interested in going along for the ride, but who doesn’t mind taking the wheel some of the time. I’m looking for someone who is going to challenge me and who is going to enjoy being challenged right back (this may be a shock, but I can be pretty challenging). I’m a big goof so I want to laugh my head off with someone.  I’m interested in a hundred million things so I want to feed my brain with someone. And yeah, I want a smokin’ hot sex life, too. (Don’t we all?) On top of all of that, I want to be able to look somebody in the eyes and know that there’s a deep connection between us — that hard-to-define chemistry that goes deeper than physical attraction (although that’s important, too — see note about sex above).

And now, I worry that I have shot my dating life to hell for the forseeable future.  Because all of that is terrifying. To dudes. I think. (Who knows what you guys think? Clearly, not me.) But let’s be clear: These are my big-picture goals. I want this someday. Like I want to retire someday. I have 0% interest in just snagging the first guy who’s willing to hang out with me, ensnaring him in my Web of Womanhood and making him watch the Real Housewives while I slowly devour him alive. All those things that I wrote up there in that last paragraph? They sort of only work if there’s a guy who’s just dying to jump on that magic bus with me. It’s a tall order. I willing to hang out as long as I need to.

Now maybe I sound all idealistic and romantic and completely unrealistic. And maybe I’ll have to go it solo for a long time.  While it’s not a thought that I relish, I can handle it. I’ve been lonely before. It sucks. It’s not my favorite emotion. But for me anyway, I’d much rather be alone for the right reasons — with hope for something better around the corner — than hitch my wagon to someone tolerable who happened to be available.

In the meantime, I date (if anyone will ever date me again after this blog entry). I’m happy to take it nice and s … l … o … w … getting to know someone. In fact, I think that’s a great plan for me right now. I don’t want to meet anyone’s family and I don’t want to discuss how we’re spending Christmas or where we’re going on vacation. I just want to hang out, be open to possibility and see if anything good blooms from the little seed that is us. You never know.

And then I have the giant elephant in the room behind me, in the form of the two delicious little morsels of humanity that I call my children. Yup, there they are. That whole “deal” is not everyone’s bag. I understand that. What I am definitely not looking for is a new dad for them. They have a dad, so that spot is taken. I’ve never done this whole single-mom thing before, but I think that the biggest thought in my head is that the kidsters don’t need to meet anyone I’m dating for a long time. Then, eventually, if it ever gets to the point of cohabitation with a man-beast again (I want to meet my cosmic-soulmate-lover, but I don’t know that I want to live with him … after all, I already have two kids) it would need to be with someone who’d be interested in having some kind of relationship with the munchkins, beyond just tolerating their existence. And you know what? They’re really worth knowing. It would be cool if someone could view them as an asset instead of a liability, because they are the opposite of a liability to me. They’re funny and smart and unbelievably cute and clever — and they’re difficult and demanding and messy and the biggest one is prone to eye-rolling and the littlest one is smack in the middle of the tantrum phase. So, they’re kids. They’re ever-changing. But they’re growing and they’re getting more interesting and more interested in the world all the time. And guess what? They’re already on that magic bus with me. 

Then there’s this: A friend of a friend who is divorced told me a few years ago that she hated to admit it, but it was kind of the best of both worlds. She said, “I get to have my kids most of the time, but then they go away to their dad’s sometimes and then it’s just me and my boyfriend [who is now her husband.]” So that’s kind of a nice way to look at it. Like I said on facebook a few weeks ago: Divorce. It’s the best babysitter.

So here I sit now in my bedroom on my new bed, finishing this blog that was started hours ago in the coffee shop. I look around the room and am blown away at how all of these random objects I picked up at different times and different places all just sort of gel. Much of what I bought for this room wasn’t my usual style. Some of it seemed completely impractical when I first picked it up — like these crazy lamps I have yet to find shades for — which perfectly match the bed that just fell out of the sky for me. A lot of it I just bought by instinct, even though my head was like, “Really? That? What are you going to do with that?” So it’s a nice reminder for me to relax and to remember to trust my instincts and intuition during this time. Yes, overthinking is my calling card. But I’m learning to go by feel, too.

Ultimately, I believe everything will come together even though it doesn’t look like it makes sense now. That charmed life I talked about before — that was no joke.

It’s  5:23 AM. I started this last night but exhaustion won out before I could finish. I’m sorta scared to see what I wrote … let me take a peek first before we all go in together. Wait here.

All right. It’s not gorgeous in there but I’ve tidied up a bit. Put on those mining helmets. We’re apparently going deep into the dark recesses of my brain. If anyone would just like to wait here today because of the unpredictable nature of this blog post, that’s fine. We’ll all reconvene at the next one.

____

 So, once again peeps, it’s confession time. I’ve been hiding something from all of you and it’s time to be out with it. I’m a heart-on-my-sleeve girl and I might be able to keep your secrets but I’m not great at keeping my own.

So let it be known: I’ve been dating.

Listen, no one is more surprised than I am. Except maybe the poor guy who accompanied me on those dates. And right here, I think it’s important that we all stop and applaud him for performing the important public service of stumbling with me through my first few steps back into the Land of Single People. It wasn’t always pretty but he was a trooper. Sir, I salute you.

And no, I’m not going to tell you who it was. Because how on earth am I ever supposed to date if the (legions of) guys who I go out with have to worry that I’m going to write about them later? It can’t happen. Sorry to disappoint you, blogmuffins. Those conversations are best left to smokey bars with cocktails in hands. (Yes, that is absolutely an invitation to buy me a drink.)

OK. I’ll give you this. A tiny hint. Because you never know. Some of you might know this guy. It’s a small world after all. It’s a small, small world (bitches). Soooo…. let me just say that he has a handlebar mustache and he enjoys twirling the ends of it while pondering the best way to tie damsels to train tracks. He also once killed a grizzly bear by singing to it. (Damn. I may have said too much on that one.) Also, he is a carnivore.

Heh heh heh…

The point I’m trying to make here is: fuggetaboutit. And it’s nothing to get all nuts about anyway. Because it’s nothing serious. It’s all light and fun and completely like a big fluffly pink dessert — whimsical, tasty, full of little bubbles that tickle your nose.

Except when it’s not like that at all.

Because it can be confusing out here, blogmuffins.

I think dating is like one of those pictures that everyone had hanging in their apartments in the early 90s — the ones that looked like a big blob of nothing until you were able to relax your eyes enough to get to the point where … there! It’s the Statue of Liberty! And once you saw what the real picture was, it was really easy to see it again even though several of your friends were still struggling. When I was married, I could see the hidden picture in the single world very clearly. I could give great advice to my single friends. Once I had no horse in that race and I was sitting safely on the sidelines, my eyes relaxed and the entire scene was clear. 

But then I got tossed back into the picture and I can’t seem to refocus. 

OK, married people. I was one of you not so long ago and I can still tap into your thoughts with the awesome power of my divorced brain. And here’s what I’m hearing, “Trish, come on. Relax. It doesn’t have to be any big deal. It’s early. Why don’t you just have fun with it? It’s too soon to get into anything serious right now.”

I  hear you. I respect your viewpoint. I tell myself the very same things, in fact. But there’s a problem with that logic.

That problem is this: Dating can be fun. Dating can be light. Dating can be a rip-roarin’ hootenanny of hilarity. But … the fact that you’re dating denotes something else. Because when you’re dating, you’re playing with real money.

And now, I must pause to say this is awkward. Because when I started this blog I told myself that I had to be a brave girl and write like no one else was ever going to read it, otherwise it was going to turn into something all sanitary and showroom-pretty but not very interesting or real. My biggest goal here, beyond anything, is to be authentic. So I will do that now even though I know that these words are going to be sitting here for anyone who feels like doing a little Internet recon on me (and who isn’t guilty of that?), including handlebar-mustache guy and any other men who have been or will be warped enough to read this blog and go out with me anyway. But also, I have nothing to hide so I will tell my truth.

Hunker down. Here it is.

The fact that you’re out there in the world dating, to me anyway, denotes that you’re open to the possibility of letting another person into your life in a big way (unless you’re just trying to get laid — in which case, it seems that there would be easier ways to pull that off). You’re vulnerable. You’re standing there on the planet and God is looking down and going, “Hey, any of you people down there want to fall in love?” And, very timidly , you raise your hand and squeak out, “I do.” So God starts throwing people at you. You do your hair, you think about what you’ll wear, you go to the movies and you laugh to your girlfriends. It’s fun and it’s funny.

But then, if you’re out here for the second time like I am, you have to hit the pause button and go, “Wait a sec … what am I doing here?” Because if memory serves, dating the first time around was very goal-oriented.  The goal was getting the guy to like me, or the goal was having a relationship or the goal was getting engaged (although I was a little late to that particular game and apparently didn’t play it very well). So now I don’t want to “get” anyone to like me. I don’t have anything to sell here.  Someone either likes me or he doesn’t. I don’t know what’s going on inside of someone’s head — that’s their business. What’s more important is that I contend with what’s going on in my  head. So I need to ask myself, “Do I like this person? Am I having fun?”

And as for “having a relationship,” well, I have mixed feelings about that. Having that (or marriage) as an end-goal seems kind of like taking a seed that’s just starting to sprout and transplanting into a pot labeled “petunia.” And now, since this thing is growing in the petunia pot, that means that it’s expected to take on the characteristics of a petunia. Or else something must be wrong with it.

So I have a theory that I’m working on that just might be the thing that lets me go out and date without my head exploding. I like to call this theory tantric dating.

Maybe you’ve heard of tantic sex, made ever more popular by rockstar-guy Sting and his lady love, Trudy? Here’s the idea: It is sex with no goal. It’s maybe even sex without intercourse. The idea is to fully experience the other person and allow yourself to be fully experienced and through that, reaching some sort of transcendence. That means going along for as long as you care to go along, possibly without ever reaching “the money shot” moment (as our friends in the porn industry refer to it). The goal is no goal. There’s no finish line to race toward, just breathing, experiencing, soaking it all in and being fully present.

So I’m trying to adapt this theory to dating. That means no thinking about what’s coming up or what’s past. No score card to check off. Yet, there’s still an openness to it (because if there’s not, what’s the point?). For the moments that you are with another person, you’re fully there. You’re giving of yourself at whatever level feels comfortable and hopefully the other person is, too, without the constant head chatter of, “But what does it all MEAN???”

That way, there’s the possibility to let that little seed grow into whatever it is that it wants to be. Maybe it really does want to be a petunia. But maybe it’s a bean sprout or a dandelion or a giant sequoia. Because the little space that exists between two people — be it friends, lovers, family, anyone — has its own unique energy. The possibilties are endless . Maybe we close off those possibilities by attaching a name too soon.

So here’s my no-plan plan (because I’m still me and this is as close to no plan as I can get — the little seed that is Trish still overthinks everything): Meet people. Enjoy getting to know them. Let them get to know me. Be open. Let the seed do its thing. For however long it wants to. In whatever direction it wants to. Let the seed lead the way.

And once again, I’m writing a blog and realizing that my latent hippy tendencies are on full display. So be it. (But since this is a blog about dating, I think it’s important to reiterate that no, I don’t have hairy armpits. Just want to be clear about that.)

So that’s where I sit, right here, right now, drinking my coffee at my desk in the corner by the stairs, cultivating my respective seeds with the two munchkins as they do their early-morning thing.

Thanks for stopping by, peeps. I’ll keep you posted.

Shh. It’s early. I have sneaked (snuck?) downstairs to have a little rendezvous with you before the kidsters are awake. I inadvertently made coffee the consistency of pancake syrup but I’m just going to suck down that nasty bidness anyway so my brain can wake up. And then you and I can have our special time together.

Because I have missed you.

Let me just get my excuses for not writing out of the way so we can move on to more interesting things: moving, doubling my job, kids underfoot, little bit o’ family travel and some grownup-style socializing here and there (momma must get out, after all) have all teamed up and roundly kicked my roundly ass. As a result, my body is no longer accepting the synthetic sleep serum that I’ve been offering it (caffeine) and is instead insisting on the real deal. But sleep is like organic fruit — I know why it’s better for me but it’s so darn expensive sometimes.

It’s before 5:30 AM as a I write this. I’ve become quite fond of this time of day over the last 7 years since I’ve become a mother — not because I love getting up early but because the wee AM hours are often the only time I can grab to work or to write. And I’d like to make a little report to those of you who aren’t up at this time: It’s getting pretty sweet out there right now. That’s because it’s still dark. I love the summertime as much as anyone but the delicate slide into fall gets me every year. It’s so impossibly gentle yet so powerful, like the small of a woman’s back. I just want to grab a seat on a hillside somewhere and not get up until it’s November.

So enough of that. I know that’s not why you come here. You want to find out what’s going on in the life of single-momma Trish — and I suspect that you don’t want to hear about the dishes that need done or how fast the kids are growing. You want the good stuff. You want to know if I’ve gotten over that shy thing yet (nope — but working on it), if I’ve started hiking my boobs up to my chin in order to attract a little attention from the male-creatures in the tribe (not quite to my chin) and if I’ve managed to entice one of those man beasts to press his lips delicately or not-so-delicately against mine (not telling, bitches).

And it makes me laugh that you all want to know about that. But I get it. Because while so many of you have expressed your concern, your sympathy and your support during this time, you’ve also expressed another thing: jealousy.

Not that anyone wants to get divorced. But I think the prospect of a little freedom is tantalizing to a lot of you married types. The thought of getting “out there” again, knowing all that you know now … oh, the things you’d do.

And there’s another interesting thing going on with all of you since I dropped the D-word. Let me explain: When I was in college, I had a delightful friend who couldn’t keep it in her pants. (Yo girl! Holla!)  This was no secret, first of all because we lived in a dorm and second of all because she was quite generous in sharing tales of exactly who was or was not circumcised. And she was/is a screamingly hilarious chick. (No, I’m not talking about myself.) And, as often happens on co-ed college campuses in our great nation, there was a lot sex going on — much of it of the guilty variety. You know, girls sleeping with people they later regretted or sleeping with guys to land a boyfriend (which rarely works), people neglecting to use proper protection, classmates adding new and exciting levels of kink to their sexual dance cards … you get the idea. As it became known that my hilarious friend was pretty open about her exploits, people started talking to her about theirs. I guess it was like no matter what you (I mean they) had done, you could go confess to so-and-so because she always had a story that would top yours. There was that reassurance of thinking that what you’d done wasn’t so very bad after all.

Since I’ve come clean about the divorce, I sort of feel like that girl in that I’ve slept with everyone in my dorm (kidding). But now that I’m out there with the failed marriage thing, and been open to certain point, I find that people want to tell me their stories about their marriage woes. And I want to hear them. Not because I get off on hearing about people’s problems, but because I’m interested and I care. (Because I looooves you!)

I also suspect that people want to tell me about their marriages as a point of comparison. They want to know if they’re having normal marriage trouble or if they’re having big, scary trouble that will eventually be their undoing. It’s like talking to a cancer patient who started out only having flu symptoms — and maybe you’ve been having flu symptoms, too. You want to know how to tell the difference  between a minor bug and a potentially fatal condition and you’re wondering if the cancer patient has any insight.

Now let me pause right here to say that if you have shared your story with me, please know that it is safely tucked inside my head and I have no intention of hauling it out for the world to see. If you read something here that sounds like you, please know that someone else  or several someone elses have told me similar stories. Because many of the stories I’ve heard are strikingly similar.

The fact is, marriage can be a lonely place. Even if you’re married to your best friend. Even if you wouldn’t change partners for the world. Even if you’re still attracted to the person on the other end of that ball and chain. Why is that? Is it because we stand there in front of the whole world and go, “See this plate of spaghetti? I love it. I love spaghetti and this plate of spaghetti in particular is so intricately delicious that I pledge, for the rest of my life, that this is the only food I will ever eat again! Come visit me in 50 years and I’ll be sitting right here, still chowing on this exact plate of spaghetti! When I’m on my death bed and they ask me what I want for my last meal, I’ll say it loud and proud, ‘Bring me my spaghetti!’”

But come on. It’s a tall order. That’s not saying that I don’t believe in marriage, because I think there can be a lot of fantastic things going on in the good ones. But I’m saying it’s really easy to get tired of doing the mental work to relate to that spaghetti anymore. And eventually it becomes easier to just skip some meals rather than go back to that same plate of food.

OK, I think my little metaphor is falling apart here. Let’s speak plainly, shall we? Here are the things that I’m hearing over and over:

1. My spouse doesn’t understand what I’m going through.

2. We’re not having sex.

Right now I’m imagining a bunch of you going, “Wha? You mean we’re not the only ones?” Nope. There’s a whole subculture going on here, people. I have heard this A LOT.

I wish that I could trot out some great advice for all of you celibate, lonely married people at this moment but honestly, I’m too busy trying to get laid. (Another joke.)

However, since I’m a chick I can offer just a wee bit of insight to the dudes out there. This probably won’t help any of you, but what the hell?

If you’re in the land of supposed domestic bliss, and especially if you have children, you need to help the fuck out. (Said with love. Lots of love.) I think some of you are great at this. I have seen this in action. But I’m talking this kind of help: Send your woman off for the day (or several days). Hold down the fort. Don’t be a whiney baby about it. Let her go off by herself or with some girlfriends and let her remember who she is. Because the mental load of motherhood is much more formidable than the list of tasks on her to-do list. Yeah, she wants to sit down and take a break, but she also wants to stop thinking about what everyone else needs and just think about herself for a bit. Let her remember that she’s funny and interesting and worthwhile for a bunch of reasons that have nothing to do with getting someone’s breakfast. Motherhood can be phenomenal in a million ways. But it can also be a big, fat identity crisis. When roughly 99.2% of your day belongs to the care and upkeep of other people, it’s pretty easy to not feel so sexy. Having the expectation of 0% privacy throughout the day doesn’t help, either. It’s hard to take the time to conduct all of that personal groundskeeping that women require when you have short little people peeping around the shower curtain.

On the reverse side, ladies, you need to take the time if he’s offering it. Go. Don’t look back. If he’s not offering it, comandeer it. Explain why you need it (which he may or may not get — doesn’t matter) but then GO.

And obviously, men want more sex. And if they’re getting plenty, chances are that they still probably want more. And then even more. I’m just guessing about this …

Sooo … the question is, how do we get this all humming along so that everyone is happy? I read something a while ago by John Gray (the Mars/Venus guy) that relationships are cyclical, in that woman need romance and intimacy in order to feel sexual and men need sex in order to feel intimate and romantic. The thing is that someone has to get this cycle started. So if you’re reading this, I challenge you to be the one. Consider it your homework assignment. BUT …. but, but, but … don’t expect an overnight miracle here. You have to work this program for a while, I think, before the cycle starts running on its own. I also just recently heard something from a wise person who said, “You wouldn’t go to the gym once and then go, ‘Well, nothing happened so I guess it didn’t work.’” Put in the time. (And yes, to answer the obvious question, I applied all of this to my own marriage. I’m not saying this system fixes everything but it’s an important starting point.)

Obviously, I’m no expert at any of this. However, I have a friend who I think is a good case study. She is the most contented person I know, in her life and in her marriage. Her husband really shares the load at home (they both work). They each let the other get away, guilt-free, pretty often. They’re getting busy a couple times a week — not always like rock stars, but still, there’s a frequency. I think they have some pretty spectacular fights here and there but they’re airing things out. Another key: I suspect that she feels pretty sexy — as she should because she’s a hot momma. So there’s something to be said for taking care of yourself (although between you and me, I doubt the bitch has ever had to work very hard on it). But even if you don’t have a rockin’ bod, it’s worth taking the time (yes, I understand time is hard to come by) to wear clothes that make you feel pretty and to go out get a good haircut, etc. Those things help. Because ultimately, neglecting yourself is neglecting your relationship. Ladies, speak up about this.  Spell it out. Inform your man-beast that it takes work to look hot and sexy and to FEEL hot and sexy so you’ll be motivated to get him all hot and sexy.

And it’s now 9:00 in the morning and I’ve been writing all of this while getting breakfast for the munchkins and changing diapers and sitting in a lawn chair in the basement so I can keep an eye on them while they’re playing and now sitting on the sticky deck. If they only knew what their momma was up to. Enjoy this now, peeps. Someday they’ll be old enough to have Internet access and then I’m going to have to start writing about knitting patterns and how to make a great meatloaf.

Reminder: Do your homework. Report back.

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.

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.