According to Trish

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…)

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.

I thought I invented a word the other day and I was so excited. The word is jackhole. (It’s all class here, folks.)

But I was just catching up on some horrible TV that I DVRed last night (which may or may not have had something to do with the phrase “Real Housewives”) and guess what? Not only did someone say my word, there was an entire segment called “Jackhole of the Week.” I have never watched this show before and I swear I’ve never heard anyone say this word. (Although now I’ll probably get a hundred million emails with people saying that that word has been floating around forever. Keep in mind: I don’t get out much.)

So the question is, was this word just floating around out there in the ether and my brain caught it? I sort of like that idea — that ideas are floating around in the air and we just have to reach out and grab them. That’s my existential take on almost-but-not-quite cursewords.

Some people look for recipes that are kid-friendly. I look for expletives that I can say in the car.