Can't win if you don't play...

Okay, I can't bore you all with this funky sinus thing anymore, so I've got a better idea: I'm gonna make like Rosie O'Donnell, and give some stuff away!

You can thank Holly and Lynette for this idea. Feel free to stop by their blogs and say (to Holly) "PLEASE send Trish a copy of your compass book--can't you see that girl needs direction?" and (to Lynette) "While it's true you could take Trish in 1-on-1 wrestling, if she whipped out a baton, you'd be meatloaf."

Okay, now that that's settled, here's the contest:

Like Holly, I'm going to give away a copy of HE LOVES ME, HE LOVES ME NOT every month between now and it's release at the end of April (or until this cold heals, whichever comes first). I'll have shiny, pretty (froggy) copies before you can get them online or in a bookstore, and I will mail them to the winners as soon as they come off the presses, complete with some lovely words of wisdom from THAT DOG, and perhaps a fun surprise.

All you have to do is drop a note in the comments, finishing this statement:

The best thing about me is that I'm _____________________________.

(For example, my answer might read: The best thing about me is that I've stopped blogging about my post nasal drip... Sort of. )

Wise words (not mine)

I'm still foggy, still in the land of the post-nasal drip, still wondering what the heck a histamine is and whether I need to be blocking it. How is it possible that I'm too unsophisticated to understand my own medicine cabinet??? ARGH.

On a brighter note, today is Super Tuesday, with primary voting going on all across the nation. I don't usually blog about politics, because it can lead me into an ugly pit of my own worst temptations: judgment, self-righteousness, delusions of grandeur...all rather inappropriate sentiments for a girl who can't tell the difference between Benadryl and Robitussin.

But I saw this post on David Kuo's blog today, and it made me happy. It's a wise reminder of what this election is...and what it isn't. So whether you're delighted with today's outcome or disappointed, here's some hope. And that, above all, is what I need when I think about what's going on in the world right now. Here's what David had to say:

"[T]he person who wins in November...will be powerless against the great challenges we really face. They cannot touch the emptiness too many Americans feel or the depression. They cannot touch broken marriages and broken people. They cannot stop obesity. They cannot touch loneliness. They cannot really stop abortions or domestic abuse and they cannot make broken people whole. They cannot touch the neighbor across the street who is old and who has no friends. The person who wins will not be America's savior.

This is an important thing to acknowledge for political and for spiritual reasons.

Politically it is important because if our expectations of the next president are too great we will only experience crushing disappointment and that man or woman will only be tossed out of office a failed president. We have to temper our expectations.

Spiritually it is important because we cannot fall into the tempter's trap of believing politics is the answer and that if we simply do politics better or with more passion we can save the world. Politics can't save the world. God can."

Lumpy Bumpy

I have a cold. My tonsils look like somebody chewed them. I'm heading back to bed in the hopes that all the grossness will just go away.

I'll be back tomorrow to gush about my new favorite TV show ever. In the meantime, though, check out this amazing NYTimes article by Laura Dave, one of my favorite authors ever.

I know this much is true

Wanting to stave off another night of counting my own heartbeat, I went out for a run yesterday to see if burning off some adrenaline might help. The sun was shining, the temperature was in the upper 40s--honestly, it seemed like the perfect day.

Have you ever noticed that it's the seemingly perfect days that end up teaching you the tough lessons about life? Now, I'm no Oprah; there's not much I can claim to know for sure. But yesterday I added one more pearl of wisdom to my string. Are you ready? Here it is:

Never brush your teeth with minty toothpaste before running in a high wind.

I'm adding this to my other bit of hard-won life understanding (Never apply lip gloss before eating a powdered donut). Pretty soon, I'll have a collection :)

No sheep, no sleep

I couldn't get to sleep last night. Or the night before that. My brain has been swimming with different projects I'm working on, and there doesn't seem to be enough time in the day to process all the input. So I lie awake in bed at night as a random succession of previously ignored questions wander through, demanding my attention:

Do Presidential candidates pick their own outfits?
If you let your cuticles grow, would they eventually cover your whole fingernail?
Could I make sushi?

I tried counting sheep, but stopped pretty quickly. Sheep are odd animals; they sort of freak me out. (I kept picturing them with goat eyes, which didn't help their cause.)

My four year old niece makes the most of her late nights when she can't sleep: she sings Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star, she teaches her stuffed animals to swim. I admire her spirit of carpe diem (or carpe noctem, as the case may be). But singing would wake Steve, and THAT DOG doesn't swim under any circumstances, imaginary or otherwise.

So I checked my pulse, because I couldn't think of anything else to count. It didn't make me fall asleep, but I have a new gratitude for my pulmonary system.

I'm not sure I can do that for another three hours tonight, though, so I'll ask:
How do you get to sleep?

Our "It Girl"!?!

I watched the Miss American Pageant last night on DVR. Now, just to be clear, I have no gripe with pageants. I've always thought they were kind of kitchy and fun. How else would we know that if you need to maintain a shiny, happy smile under bright lights and stressful conditions, the answer is to slick your front teeth with Vaseline? THAT's beauty news we can use.

Last night, though, the story was quite different. You see, they've modernized Miss America, trying to position the pageant as a search for the quintessential "It Girl" we'll all look to for inspiration. I'm not sure whose idea of modern they applied, though. Here were some of the scripted comments the contestants were forced to say while introducing themselves and their states (and no, I'm not making these up. Or even exaggerating):

Miss Delaware: "I'm from the birthplace of Henry Heimlich, the inventor of the Heimlich maneuver!"
Miss Wyoming: "We moved up our primaries, but nobody cared!"
Miss Nevada: "When you come here, your money stays here, and we thank you!"
Miss Utah: "We have the nation's highest birthrate...as long as the Osmonds don't move!"
Miss Indiana: "I'm here to prove that we have more than just corn!"
And my personal favorite:
Miss Texas: "We have a population of 21 million, not including the 60 million cattle!"

I guess that's one way to look at modern.

After that, the field was narrowed to 16, and we learned in little film clips that Miss Michigan can't ride a bicycle, and Miss Virginia's special talent is to put her foot behind her head (which she was then unable to do because of the tightness of her jeans.)

Up until this point, I was still captivated by the pageant, for one reason and one reason only: Miss Iowa was still in the running, and her talent is --wait for it!--BATON TWIRLING!!! You can imagine my excitement to see her sitting with the other top ten contestants, holding not one, not two, but THREE batons. People, let me pause here for a moment and explain that while there is much to make fun of in the world of twirling, you can't fake three batons. That's actual talent, and it's just incredible to watch.

So I fast forwarded through Miss Michigan belting out Somewhere Over the Rainbow because I couldn't stop giggling, imagining her true lyrics: "Somewhere over the rainbow, kids ride a bike! If kids ride over the rainbow, why then oh why can't I???" The next two contestants must have heard my laughter, because they sang in foreign languages I couldn't revise: Miss California performed an Italian opera piece, and Miss Indiana gyrated while singing in Spanish (You know, because there's more than corn in Indiana. There's Spanish!).

And that's when it happened, the worse decision in the history of my pageant watching life: They ELIMINATED Miss Iowa, right there in the middle of the talent segment!!! She never even got to twirl!!! I almost threw up. I mean, this was the ONLY one of the talent segments that had any sort of fun, any performance value, any spunky "It-girl" possibility. I hit the fast-forward button over and over and over again, hoping against hope they'd have some outtake from her planned routine, some farewell tribute to show us what we'd be missing. But NOTHING. Just Clinton from What Not to Wear (whose sole job was to placate the non-winners with a giant tray of donuts) ushering Miss Iowa offstage while commenting that earlier in the competition, her routine had brought the house down. Mmm Hmm. They allowed her to a tiny bit of twirling as they went to commercial, during which she threw in a triple toss turn around. That's the hardest trick I could ever do in my brief twirling career, and she threw it in as an afterthought in front of millions of people after being booted from the competition. I'm telling you, America, we were robbed.

I was too depressed to watch the rest, so I forwarded to the end. Miss Michigan won. If she hasn't chosen a platform yet, I'd suggest bicycle safety.

Sunday Salon (posted a few days early)

The pile of books on my nightstand looks like that wedding poem for brides: something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue.... I'm not sure why this strikes me as so funny this morning, but there you have it: a glimpse into the mind of Trish between her first and second cups of coffee.

Since you don't care what I have for lunch here's a rundown of what I'm reading:

Something Old: Orthodoxy by G.K. Chesterton.
My friend Genius only reads dead authors. As a living author, this concerns me (I think we've reached a compromise of sorts that will allow his wife to read my book aloud from the next room when it comes out,"reading" and "overhearing" being two entirely different things) but the deeper I dig into Orthodoxy, the more I understand Genius' point. Chesterton--who possessed a fabulous, self-deprecating sense of humor--published this self-proclaimed "slovenly autobiography" back in 1908. In it, he describes all the same angsty struggles over faith and meaning and philosophy we think are so new today, revealing the truth: humanity has been staggering down the same dark roads for more than a century, so it's probably okay to stop worrying that the Da Vinci Code or some comment by Ann Coulter is going to topple civilization. God is bigger than we think, and he probably has a plan :)

Something New: Not that You Asked by Steve Almond
The piece about his attempts to care for his newborn daughter made me laugh so hard a high-pitched squeal came out of the back of my throat. The next time you're in a bookstore, pick up this book. (Just make sure you set down your double latte before you open it).

Something Borrowed: They're all borrowed, truth be told. Have I mentioned that I HEART my local library? I'm still astounded that a place exists where you can go in, pick ALL THE BOOKS YOU WANT and take them home for free. I'm quite grateful that my biggest obsession is books; I'm fairly certain no local municipality funds a program like this for shoes or purses.

Something Blue: Someday My Prince Will Come by Jerramy Fine
Okay, only the sky is blue on the cover....but this looks like a fun book! I mean, a memoir by a girl who has spent her life convinced she's going to marry the Prince of England? As a child who believed firmly that I was going to make a living as a professional baton twirler, I can appreciate this kind of story! As my new friend Chesterton points out in Orthodoxy (see how I'm bringing this full circle?), it's imagination and mystery that keep us sane. It seems like Miss Fine has a good dose of both, which makes her my kind of girl. I hope I get to meet her someday :)

Another clue in the mystery I don't want to solve (or be involved with in any way, really)

When I took the trash out to our backyard yesterday, I found this heavy, elegant tumbler (it might even be crystal) abandoned in the snow. It was just sitting there, as if someone set it down before dashing off to another appointment. The only thing I can think of is that The Squirrel is back, and now he's serving cocktails on the veranda. This is not good news

I'm not sure if this abandoned drink is a philosophical statement about his glass being half full (although now that it's frozen over I'd guess that message is lost), or a George Thoroughgood-style admission about why he drinks alone. Regardless, you'd think he'd want a more swanky place to toss back his single malt than the patch of grass next to our trash cans.

(On a marginally-related but no less horrifying note, as I Googled for the proper descriptors for this piece of abandoned glassware I found this delightful video. This should raise the sales Nalgene bottles exponentially).

Finding the fun

Two things that are making my day today:

1. David Kuo's blog on how his dog's persistent hope for treats--even when it's been a long time since that hope was rewarded--is a great model for prayer. (As THAT DOG will attest, you just never know when all that persistence will pay off and some yummy morsel beyond your wildest dreams will land on the floor right between your paws).

2. No One Cares What You Had For Lunch: 100 Ideas For Your Blog. The title alone has had me laughing for over an hour. I'm off to make a baloney sandwich (not that you care) and learn to write world-changing posts. I'll be skipping the suggestion that I blog entries from my old journals, though. Nothing good could ever come of that.

Birthday fun

Today is my birthday!

I woke up this morning to find yellow post-its stuck all around our condo, on which Steve had written things like "I love you!" and "I'm glad you were born!"

My favorite, though, was the one I found in the refrigerator, stuck to the bottle of milk he knew I'd be reaching for to make my morning coffee. It read: "Baton Twirlers are the coolest!"

You can't argue with the truth :)

Trish's messed up dishes

My dishes are falling apart. You'd think that would only happen if we were using them on a consistent, demanding basis, churning out the tasty options from Rachel Ray and Paula Deen with some sort of regularity. That, unfortunately, is not the case. And yet my dishes all look like somebody punched them, with ugly cracks in the glaze that turn a appalling shade of brownish gray when subjected to the heat or chill of actual food. Apparently, Steve and I must have been shopping in the "for decorative use only" section of Crate & Barrel when we made this choice. Except that we weren't; I checked.

We've learned to live with this. We're not fancy people, and a healthy serving of pasta covers most of the cracks right up. But this morning, things took a turn for the worse. I poured that all-important first cup of coffee, only to see my beloved, precious liquid seep out from a crack in the side of the mug, leak across the counter, and spill onto the floor. THAT DOG licked it up; she's been pacing ever since.

There, in my morning haze, the only two lines I remember from law school contracts class surged to the top of my brain (excited to finally--finally!-- be put to use): "What about the implied warranty of merchantability? " I demanded. "And it's all-important sidekick, the implied warranty of fitness for a particular purpose?" Clearly, C&B should have known that I was buying these mugs to hold coffee, and it doesn't seem to be too much to ask that their product be up for the task.

(That's right, folks: ten years after such quick legal thinking might have been helpful, mine kicks in. That's $100,000 well spent, if you ask me.)

Of course, the mere fact that I've linked to Wikipedia to explain what these two warranties mean makes it rather clear that I'm unlikely to take legal action over my disappointing dishes. I'm not sure what I'll do, actually, other than swing by Target later today to buy a new coffee mug. (Gotta keep the basics covered before moving on to the bigger issues.)

I'd write more, but THAT DOG is jumping back and forth across my lap in a caffeinated frenzy. Thanks Crate & Barrel. The next time my young & exuberant niece and nephew come to visit, we'll be stopping by one of your showrooms to say hello. Count on it :)

Snowed In

We're hosting a blizzard today, here in New England. With seven inches of snow and counting, I suspect there will be many opportunities for the locals to demonstrate that chivalry I was bragging about last week.

On the writing front, I had my very first official book interview this morning! It was so much fun, and kind of surreal, too. I'm still struggling to hone in on the exact right answers to questions about why I wrote this book, and what I hope readers will get from it. There just doesn't seem to be a savvy, sophisticated way of saying, "I want to meet all the women out there who are feeling hopeless about life and love, give them a giant hug, and say, 'Don't give up! God's got more for you!!!'"

But between you and me, Blogger friends, that's the answer :)

(And for those of you who aren't all that fond of giant hugs from authors you've never met, feel free to view my book as a cordial--albeit enthusiastic--handshake, with similar words of encouragement.)

There's no place like home

I've been tagged by the lovely Larramie to share 7 local knowledge facts with you, my wonderful readers. I stalled for a day when I read this meme, stuck on the word "local"--what exactly does that mean?

Were I to share 7 facts about my immediate locale, it would include the giant fuzzy cat who just arrived in our neighborhood (who I'm hoping will take care of the squirrel problem) and the new gas station that just reopened, replacing the one that blew up. Not all that interesting.

If I went a bit broader and included all of Greater Boston, we'd probably end up with an mix of stuff you already know from American history class about tea parties in the local river and a guy named Paul who rode a horse across town in the middle of the night and saved our country from being snuffed out by people wearing red coats. And I might mention a certain baseball team, a controversial (but winning) football team, and a phenomenal basketball team, along with the important truth that every last one of those teams has been HORRIBLE BEYOND BELIEF for most of my lifetime and that their recent victories still make me all amazed and tingly inside.

But I think I'll go even broader, and offer up some unknown facts about life here on the New England Coast. An intrepid visitor can cover the whole thing in a single visit, so you might as well know what the real treasures are:

1. Chivalry: New Englanders will stop and help you if you're stuck in snow or have a flat tire. They may not make much small talk, but they'll pull a rope out of the back of their Ford F-150 and tow you out of a ditch without asking anything in return. (I realized how rare this was when my car was stuck in the L.L. Bean parking lot a few years back and nobody--nobody!--offered to help this damsel in distress. I was baffled until I looked around and saw that all the cars had licence plates from...well, let's just say, not New England.)

2. Entrepreneurial Spirit: We like to sell things by the side of the road. In the past year, I've seen signs for everything from homemade jam to freshly taxidermized animals on wooden stands at the end of driveways, along with a little can where you can leave the money, honor-system style. If you need baby bunnies, four cords of firewood, or a hubcap for your Nissan Sentra, you'll find it here.

3. Understanding of What One Needs for a Good & Happy Life: All New England citizens are required to prove ownership or access to a pickup truck and a black labrador retriever. Two degrees of separation are allowed (which is how Steve & I still qualify--my sister has the dog and Dad has the truck) but go much beyond that and you're frowned upon as someone who doesn't quite get the way we do things around here.

4. Unique Genius: If you wander out to a pier and don't try to catch the lobsters with a fishing pole, you might meet a lobsterman who will explain his amazing profession. It will be the highlight of your trip.

5. Seasons: If you come here between January and May and don't have friends to visit, there's a good chance you'll leave wondering why anyone would ever live here. Unless you ski, and then you'll be to busy perfecting your Bode Miller impersonation to care about the lack of leaves on trees.

6. Other Seasons: If you come to New England between July and October, you'll want to come back as soon as possible, and you'll probably have a renewed faith in God. Who else could have created such a gorgeous place for us to inhabit?

7. THAT DOG: The New England coast is awe inspiring, gorgeous, and different from anywhere else on earth. It's also the home of THAT DOG (a Philly native, truth be told, but she doesn't remember that) which is as much of a tourist attraction as anything else you'll find here :)

The joy of giving

I'm heading north to my home state this morning, bringing my Dad the receipt for his Christmas present so he can return it. He returns all presents; it's gotten to be a bit of a family joke. Many years, if he can swing it, he sends you out at the end of the day with the same gift you came bearing that morning. One of my brothers has a collection of crock pots and super-massage shower heads that I think he just wraps up on rotation for odd and even years. Last year I thought I was in good shape with a biography of the New England Patriot's football coach, but Dad not only returned it to Borders where I bought it, he didn't know I'd used a 40% discount coupon, so he returned it for a profit. Hysterical.

This year as I was shopping, I kept this in mind. So, in addition to the gigantic remote control I found with super-sized buttons for folks in their senior years (for which I'll be driving 100 miles at $3.11 a gallon to bring him the $9.99 receipt), I got him a gift card to his favorite store: the grocery store. That, he's not returning.

As far as holiday victories go, I'll take it :)

If you're happy and you know it...

The sun came out today, after what feels like weeks of grim gray skies. I don't think so well in the grim gray; it's as if some primal part of my body understands that when the weather is cold and frightful, a fire might be delightful--but after the flames die down the only sane response is a long nap. You know, until April, when the sun comes out again.

But today is one of those faux-April days and my mind is up & running again. I'm thinking about this post I found on Kristin Nelson's blog about a soldier who blogged his goodbye. I'm thinking about this article I found on Carolyn McCulley's blog about how studies show that keeping our options open doesn't lead to happiness the way we think it will (and about the book cited in the article, which clearly makes the point that most of us have no idea what will make us happy). And I'm thinking about the astounding fact that I've been happy for more than three years now (albeit in a determined, amazed sort of way) and I don't want that to stop.

Not much doing going on right now. Just lots of thinking.

And the squirrel left the remains of a nectarine in the driveway. Apparently, he's having fresh produce flown in.

Real squirrels do eat quiche

We have acquired a squirrel.

This audacious, gluttonous rodent waltzed boldly onto our property two weeks ago, and has set up shop like some crazy distant relative, prancing around like he owns the place. Last week, I saw him scoffing down a cinnamon raisin cookie on our front porch. Friday, there was a nibbled slice of quiche on the upper back porch railing (where does a squirrel get quiche???). And this morning, I found the wrapper and a few remaining pieces of a McDonald's breakfast sandwich outside of our front door. Unbelievable.

THAT DOG is beside herself. She keeps running at the kitchen window in unrestrained fury, howling at this interloper, only to have the squirrel stare back at her unfazed, as if to say, "What? You want a piece of me?" He has a point. THAT DOG might outweigh him by a pound or two, but in paw-to-paw combat, my beloved pup would be cowering in the corner. She's a lover, not a fighter.

All this leaves me wondering why squirrels exist at all--Do they eat mosquitoes or keep down the rat population? Does their breath somehow cleanse toxins from the environment? This one, at least, doesn't seem to have much in the way of redeeming qualities. He's lucky he's a city squirrel; where I come from folks keep BB guns in the kitchen for just this kind of encounter. Not that I know how to shoot a BB gun or anything, but it sure is fun to think about when I'm cleaning up his leftover quiche.

This is our country!

While the rest of you were glued to the Iowa Caucuses last night, expanding your knowledge base about civic duty and our bizarre but democratic election process, I was stretching my mind in an altogether different direction. I watched approximately four hundred episodes of a reality show following auditions for the Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders.

The Three Stages of immersing myself in this slice of the American pie:

1. Horror. I spent four years at a college that made sure I insisted everyone call me a WOMAN rather than a girl, so my first reaction to six-hundred sweet young things shaking their ha-has at some guy dressed like a drill sergeant was not, "Oh, what fun!" I mean, these girls can't even claim they do it for the scholarship money. My righteous indignation was short-lived, however, nudged out by the stronger force of...

2. Total Understanding. Dancing + Cute Costumes + a Gigantic Cheering Crowd? I am so there! Let's be honest--I was not only a cheerleader during my formative (pre-college, obviously) years, I was a MAJORETTE...If the Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders had ever thought to hold auditions in Maine (and I can't understand why they didn't) I would have been all over it. Of course, our cheering and twirling was pretty understated up there in the frozen North, but that's not to say I wouldn't have been a contender. I bet I'd be the only one doing my little tour-jete's to the tune of Frank Sinatra singing New York, New York...

Eventually, though, I came back from my "what might have been" fantasy, and found myself in...

3. Cultural Awe. Okay, we may be one country, but let's be honest--our United States are made up of several different planets. Planet Texas is altogether different from Planet Maine, and even different-er than my current home on Planet Massachusetts. By the fourth episode, I longed to go to Planet Texas (with my noble tour guide Nashville Girl, who grew up in Texas and knows her way around) and beg them to teach me how to do my hair and makeup. I mean, those girls look good all the time--how do they pull it off? And they had a level of poise and, to use a southern word, polish that would be great to have in the repertoire. Because the truth is, we've all known since Gloria Steinem that it's easier to be a successful, intelligent woman if your hair looks good and you're not riding your emotional roller coaster in full view of the world. Texas girls know the secret!

The whole thing made me wonder if we don't each know our own little bit of what it takes to be a fabulous woman--brains, beauty, graciousness, wit, wisdom, discipline, vision, optimism, love--and God wants us to bump into each other, go hang out for a chocolate martini or two, and exchange information?

(If you're a guy reading this, please ignore all of the above and comment instead on how embarrassed Kobe Bryant and the Lakers looked the other night in their retro 1980's uniforms with short (short!) shorts).

Steve & Trish + Dog

We had a particularly glamorous New Year's Eve this year, celebrating the transition to 2008 with party supplies like Kleenex, NyQuill (Day and Night capsules for colorful variety), and the gross green dude from the Mucinex commercials. We were decked out in the pajamas we'd been wearing pretty much nonstop since Christmas, sprawled out on our sectional couch with blankets and pillows, saying sexy things like, "Hey Babe, do you know where the remote went???" and "I think THAT DOG wants you to take her out!"

The highlight of our night was a marathon of "Jon & Kate + Eight." Have you seen this show??? Omigosh. Nice young couple, can't get pregnant, tries IVF and has beautiful twins. Three years later, thinking the girls might like a younger sibling, they dive into the science lab once again, and end up pregnant with SIX kids. Yep, SIX! Can you imagine? That's like here's a kid, and here's a kid, and here's a kid, and here's a kid, and here's a kid, and here's a kid. ACK! Now, I was too wimpy to consider IVF before I saw this show...I'm just not into all that mysterious poking and prodding. But six hours of watching what might happen confirmed our resolve that we'll pray for the one (or at most, two) at a time route and trust that that will suffice. I mean, we live in a 900 square foot condo!

At one point I ended up in a fit of giggles, imagining where we'd put six babies. The shelving unit in the living room would work while they were little if we put up some sort of barriers to keep them from rolling off. As they grew, we'd have to convert closets and unplug major appliances to create extra sleeping space. Someone would have to live in the basket under the bathroom sink. Or perhaps we'd let them all curl up in the corner with THAT DOG on her cushion, until she waded out indignantly and demanded to be let up onto the bed with the grown ups.

The warning of this show was not lost on THAT DOG, by the way. Fifteen minutes into the first episode, she spread her little body out full-length between Steve and I, and has pretty much maintained this vigil ever since. It's as if somehow she knows..."If I can keep them from touching, this can't happen to us..."

Mea (or Us-a) Culpa

To my (beloved, wonderful, forgiving) sister:

Steve and I really, really, really didn't know that the make-pretend coffee maker in the "Yay! It's Time For Breakfast!" set we gave your children for Christmas used REAL WATER. We thought it was sufficiently exciting that the battery-operated toaster popped up two pieces of plastic bread that the kids could stick together with velcro to make a breakfast sandwich. We never imagined that our gift would turn your living room into an Aquaboggan Theme Park on Christmas morning, or leave your children marveling, "Wow, water tastes totally different when you run it through this machine!"

We didn't know. We're not parents yet. And if you decide to bring THAT DOG four pounds of the fancy organic dog treats that make her leak from both ends the next time you come to Massachusetts, we'll understand.

On the bright side, your kids are one step closer to part-time jobs at Starbucks which might score us discount Caramel Macchiatos! (Maybe next year Santa will bring a toy cappuccino machine that foams real milk???)

Garmin: The reason for the season

If you're feeling like you've lost your spirituality during this holiday season, there's good news: some folks in Florida put a GPS on baby Jesus to make him easier to find.

Merry Christmas!

The end of my sports career

The Celtics lost last night. According to Don (who stood up for us at our wedding and took my author photo, so he's a guy we trust with important things) I'm banned from live Boston sports until further notice. Oddly, knowing that my staying home will play a key role in the season makes me feel like an integral part of the team. I'm hoping that if the Celts win the championship, Coach Doc Rivers will remember my contribution. (My ring size is 6 Doc, in case you need to know).

Our favorite Michiganders were amazing, out-nicing us at every turn. (Not that that's really a challenge, but they did it with style). Mark didn't complain as he folded his tall body into the little Prius taxicab we took to the restaurant, and Kathy offered me the seatbelt hook when it seemed like there weren't enough to go around. And in the final moments of the game, when the Celtics surged to a comeback and the ref called a bum foul, Mark and Kathy politely ignored Steve and I when we jumped to our feet screaming, "No way!!! Rip his head off!!!" I love these people.

If I get go to Michigan when my book comes out this spring, Kathy has offered to be my author escort. Accordingly, I plan to spend the entire month of January cold-calling every book group in the state to try and earn an invite to take her up on this. I'm not sure she knows what she's in for, but I hope that the State Council on the Maintenance of All Things Nice will give her a stipend for her efforts. Who knows, maybe we can bring some of it back to New England? Folks like these make the world a better place.

But the next time Mark and Kathy visit, we'll have to get tickets to the local High School production of A Chorus Line or something--any event where my presence doesn't end a record-breaking winning streak!

Big Green Fun

We're going to the Celtics game tonight! Now, I'm not too excited about this or anything...except that I totally am. I've only seen them play one other time, and the circumstances were quite different. The Celtics weren't exactly in top form that year (or any form, really). Indeed, they were SO BAD that the president of the venture capital firm where I was temping (the the one the arena was named after at the time) gave away box seats--right at half-court, with the complimentary bar & buffet--to me (his lowly temp) because it was just too painful to watch the Celtics play. (That was the night I learned that even free hot dogs and melon wedges lose their luster when your team is down 103-47).

Tonight, I think things will be different :)

We get to see the great tall men play because our awesome friends are coming in from Michigan, and they invited us to join them. Now, I have to say (and this isn't just the basketball excitement) that I have a bit of a crush on the entire state of Michigan. I've been there twice, and I don't think I've ever met so many nice people. There's no reason or motive to it, but you can feel the niceness, just hanging in the air. It made me want to do things like help old ladies across the street and recycle. Perhaps I'm overstating it a bit, but Michigan seems like the kind of place you could live for a long, long time and never hear people debate the relative merits of soy underwear.

I never dreamed I'd come to define happiness this way, but there you have it.

Well, that and Celtics tickets--Go Green!

Soy it ain't so

I was reading a magazine this weekend and came across an entire article devoted to the merits of various brands of soy underwear. That's underwear--briefs and boxers and thongs and all manner of other unmentionables--made from BEANS.

Why, in a world plagued with starvation, are we turning our legumes into what Amazon.com calls "Mens' contour pouch briefs"???

Then again, there's a good chance I don't want to know.

A New Standard

On Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, my sister forwards me the photo report from my four-year-old niece Glamour Girl's nursery school. It keeps me up to date on what the little fashionista is wearing, but more importantly, it's given me a new understanding of the basic learning standards of my home state's educational system.

Each report includes a three-point outline of what the wee ones learned each day--the secret agenda behind all the macaroni necklace making and super-special circle time. These Early Childhood Education Standards have changed the way I view my day. What if my life was more like nursery school? I asked myself. I mean, if these things are important when you're four, shouldn't they be even more so now? I set out to evaluate how I'd do. (If you're a writer looking for something other than word count by which to evaluate your personal development and contribution to society, I highly recommend this system)

Here are today's three points:

SOCIAL STUDIES: Defined as "Spending time and interacting with the community." Did you call the operator to find out what time it was? Yell at the Fed Ex guy for leaving your Amazon.com box in a puddle? Order new slippers from the L.L. Bean order line? If so, give yourself a pat on the back!

CREATIVE ARTS: Defined as "Participating with increasing interest and enjoyment in a variety of music, movement, visual arts, and drama activities." Just the explanation I needed for those three hours spent learning the choreography from Britney Spears' "Oops I Did It Again" video. Another A+!

APPROACHES TO LEARNING: Defined as "Initiative and Curiosity." The kids got credit for this by "gazing in awe" as a model train went around the track, which set the bar pretty low. So I'm giving myself credit for "staring in rapt attention" as the coffee maker churned out my Starbucks House Blend this morning. I lose points though, for "failing to comprehend what was happening" as THAT DOG streaked through the house when we got back from the park today, leaving mud all over the floors, several walls, and even the bed. And I suspect some demerits for "ignoring much-needed clean up" aren't far behind.

Still though, I think APPROACHES TO LEARNING might be my thing.

All Dressed Up

We went to an amazing Gala last night. (Isn't "gala" a fun word to say? I'm done with birthday parties; from now on, I'm throwing galas.) It was called "Warmth Under The Stars" and was a fundraiser thrown by my friend Pascha and her nonprofit organization, The Possibilities Factory. You'll meet Pascha--and understand why I love her--in the book. She helps kids, inspires creativity, and gathered volunteers to sew over 100 quilts for local women and children who are homeless because of domestic violence. It was an incredible night.

One of the most striking things, beyond all the charity and goodwill, was how GOOD everyone looked. We're a pretty casual bunch here in Cambridge, and our standard uniform for all but the most important occasions typically involves denim, wool, and fleece. So it was fun to see the heights of elegance we're capable of when given the opportunity. And it's nice to know that not only can we New England girls drive in snow, we can walk across an icy parking lot in high heels without landing on our butts.

This is how I console myself when I talk to my friend Lynette in Austin, Texas--sure she's warm, but is she developing any useful skills???

In other news, if you need a feel-good story to sweep you away, grab Holly Kennedy's THE TIN BOX. It is so good that I'm tempted to make cheesy comments about how much money you'll save on heating oil when her story warms your heart. But I'm pretty sure New England girls don't say things like that.

The Gaping Hole in My Education

We had friends over for dinner last night. It was a festival of lasagna and meatballs, wine and laughter. THAT DOG pranced about adorably with her new bone, I made a pot of coffee at the end of the night without blowing up the kitchen. All in all, it was a huge success.

But evenings like this make me aware of a gaping hole in my formal education. I followed the typical path: I spent my high school years learning things that would get me into college, and my college years learning things that would make me sound pithy and erudite in interviews and at cocktail parties. (We'll leave out my law school years, where I learned little besides how many Miller Lights it took to fend off a panic attack.) The thing is, though, nothing in my eduction prepared me for the mundane, practical aspects of social living: that someone needs to cook, and someone needs to clean. And sometimes, that someone is me.

I blame feminism. Now granted, I'm grateful that my college moved beyond it's historical tradition of teaching women only the domestic arts. But the result is that I never learned any of the domestic arts. And contrary to what I haughtily said to my mother when she suggested it might behoove me to learn, my years of training in how to think about a problem and tackle it effectively haven't helped me figure these basics out at all.

Now don't get me wrong: it doesn't all fall to me. Steve is a great team player in our attempts to sustain life here in the Ryan Hood. He can Swiffer abandoned dog fur into submission like no one I've ever seen, and he came home at 4:30 yesterday to make the lasagna. But still, it took me SIX HOURS to clean the rest of our 900 square foot condo. And it hasn't been all that long since we did it the last time. Six hours??? Clearly, either there are some tips I'm missing, or this is the reason so many couples stop having marital relations once they move in together--they're too busy trying to stay ahead of the creeping crud.

It makes me wonder--might the whole course of my life have been different if all students at my college had been required to take a semester or two of Home Ec? Think of what a great place the world would be if every History, Math, and Poli Sci major came out of school armed with a good oatmeal cookie recipe and an understanding of the difference between 409 and Windex? If I'd known I'd someday live in the city with a furry dog, I might even have declared an official minor in dust management.

THIS is what I'd like to see on HGTV: a reality show where they reveal other people's pathetic attempts to fight mold and mildew, and then give them Home Ec makeovers so they don't have to re-route their 401K contributions to the Merry Maids. We could call it Clean Eye for the Dirty Guy.

Just a thought.

Words to live by (or not, depending on the circumstances)

"There is a microscopically thin line between being brilliantly creative and acting like the most gigantic idiot on earth. So what the hell, leap."

- Cynthia Heimel, author of If You Can't Live Without Me, Why Aren't You Dead Yet?

Not much I can add to that. Just wanted to share :)

Weekend update

We had some big, Big, BIG events here this weekend.

First, Saturday was THAT DOG'S birthday! To celebrate, we--being the ultra-cool, yuppie chic people that we are--decided to...forget completely. Yep, there it is. After her twelve years of faithful puppy devotion, I still didn't remember to let so much as a green bean fall to the floor for THAT DOG to enjoy in celebration. Sigh.

There's a chance her birthday could be rescheduled for February, along with Christmas, as that's the month when her adorable eight-week old, four pound self came to live with me and light up my life. We could even reenact that super-fun day when I called the vet hysterical at 7am, looking frantically at the mini-load she'd just deposited on a busy Philadelphia sidewalk, asking, "What does it mean if there are little tan things in her poop?"
"Do you live in an apartment?" the vet asked, a serious tone in her voice.
"Yes..." I admitted.
"Then it probably means she's been eating your rug."

Good times.

What were we doing when we weren't celebrating THAT DOG'S birthday? We were trying out a new toothpaste! Our grocery store had Arm & Hammer Super Whitening, Brightening, Ultra-Enlightening toothpaste on sale, buy-one-get-one-free. (Apparently, the good people at corporate headquarters feel we New Englanders need an extra dose of these qualities as the holidays approach. They might not be wrong.) Steve brought the toothpaste home, and I decided to give it a try. It was quite an experience. Not only did it fizzle in my mouth like pop rocks, but it FOAMED--out of my mouth, down my chin, onto my shirt-- giving me, at the precise moment Steve walked in asking, "How's that new toothpaste?" the appearance of a rabid dog. Sexy!

New Turf

We switched gyms. Our old fitness center (the one that featured Paula Deen's nutritional wisdom on the tv in the cardio room) wanted twelve gazillion dollars for us to renew, so we decided to forgo the fancy "club" with the spa we never used and the restaurant we never ate at, and jog ourselves over to "Joe's Gym," which charges something like thirty-nine cents a month.

Working out at Joe's Gym is rather like landing in an NFL retirement home--it's a giant open room filled with every type of old-school weight equipment imaginable, all being hefted and pushed and swung around by men who have no visible indent between their ears and their shoulders. Most days, I am the sole patron claiming estrogen as my dominant hormone; I've never once had to wait for the treadmill or the eliptical machine.

My favorite part about Joe's though, is the Zoomba class. I've never taken it, but wow does it make me happy. You see, the class is taught by a guy (possibly Joe?) who is somewhere in his 60s, I'd guess. Joining Joe are seven to ten other Italian men ranging in age from 40-70. Up goes the volume on the stereo, and Joe shows the boys how to shake their thang (thangs?) to remastered club tracks that range from Depeche Mode to Kool & The Gang. It's like watching Tony Soprano and his gang doing aerobics. (In my head, I call them Paulie, Silvio, and Vito).

Add to that the looming seven-foot presence of a former NBA All-Star's brother, and a guy who looks like the punching bag Mike Tyson trained on, and I feel like I'm in the six-degrees of separation hall of fame. Granted, it's the mob division, but hey, for thirty-nine cents a month, I'll take it.

I mean, how could Paula Deen compete with that?

Bigger, better, faster, stronger

The Ryan house got rewired yesterday, with the help of a very nice guy named Mike who installed a new Fios system--internet, phone, cable, and DVR--that costs the same as our dodgy Comcast internet/cable plan that failed frequently and included no phone and no DVR.
Apparently, Comcast was under the impression that their much-heralded "On Demand" programming would keep us in the fold even without the other extras, and were shocked--shocked!--to learn that round-the-clock access to movies like "The Last Mimzy" and exercise shows from the 1980s featuring Wayne Gretsky's wife weren't enough to secure our devotion. After three years of lost calls on my cell phone (not so great for business) and missed seasons of So You Think You Can Dance, the Fios people knew just the way to my heart.

The one problem with this delightful new arrangement was that Steve and I didn't own a phone. We've never had a landline; it's one of those things we just never got around to doing. But when Fios Mike asked for our phone so he could test it, we did what most people do--we went down to the basement, assuming we had one in storage. Doesn't everybody? Now mind you, this assumption had no basis in reality. Neither of us had a phone before we got married, and no one thought to add one to our gift registry. So we probably shouldn't have been quite so surprised to discover that our basement hadn't been sequestering one all this time, just waiting for us to come and appreciate it.

I dashed out to Best Buy with cash in hand, eager to rectify this situation. What I discovered was surprising. 90% of the cordless phones featured three or more handsets. Which is lovely and generous, but our condo is only 900 square feet. Multiple handsets seemed like a sure path to us becoming one of those couples who conducts all phone conversations in tandem, each weighing in from a different line. We're at least three decades away from that being practical (I think you need to be a grandparent) rather than utterly annoying, so I searched for other options.

Over in a corner, I found one lowly cordless option that came without brothers or sisters. It had approximately the same power (GHz?) as a small calculator. Sitting next to it was the other lone ranger, a sleek silver-gray model. That would look nice in the living room, I thought briefly, reaching to pick it up. Then my eye caught the tag below it. The price for the sleek phone? $1,000.00

Here's the deal: unless a phone can 1.) read moods and block you from making phone calls you might someday regret; and/or 2.) MAKE a guy call when he says he will, it's not worth $1,000.

So if you're someone I chat with regularly on the phone, expect a call from me from my new calculator. I'll hit "record" on the DVR and we can chat :)

What's in a name?

Three things I learned this Thanksgiving Week:

1. The pies at Whole Foods go on half-price sale at 8pm the night before Thanksgiving. That's 8pm, folks. I've marked my calender for next year (it's the closest I thing I have to a holiday recipe).

2. Matrimony is a great book. I read it in four hours.

3. I have the same middle name as Alanis Morrissette. Future parents take note: the middle name Nadine may destine your daughter for a career entertaining the world with stories of her numerous dating failures. (Behold, my Jagged Little Pill.) I think the baby name books should note this, no?

Holiday Logistics

Stacy has finished all of her Christmas shopping.

I, on the other hand, haven't figured out where to buy the one pie we've been asked to bring to Thanksgiving dinner. (We haven't been asked to contribute something home-cooked to these family meals since the Great Squash Debacle of 2004. WHO KNEW that if you put nutmeg on squash when it comes out of the oven and then drive it across town, that somewhere en route it turns newborn baby poop brown??? I could have used a warning from the kind folks at Recipes.com before I brought that bowl of tasty goodness to my brand new in-laws...)

Anyway, there's a chance I'm a little behind. Is it possible, do you think, to reschedule Christmas for sometime mid-February? Would that be so wrong???

Giving Thanks

THAT DOG and I saw the first flakes of snow this morning. It wasn't exactly a magical Gilmore Girls moment, what with the ominous gray sky and the poop to be scooped, but it felt special, nonetheless. This has been the longest, most beautiful autumn (not just fall, which sounds rather negative when you think about it, but autumn) I can remember. I can't really begrudge the snow when there have been gorgeous, just-ripened pear colored leaves outside my bedroom window for almost a month now, which is kind of a miracle here in the city. That makes the top of my thankfulness list this year.

THAT DOG is thankful that I can't cook without dropping food on the floor, and that the cozy winter comforter is back on the bed for her lounging pleasure.

How about you?

The Cooth Cooth Chronicles

As some of you may know, one of my larger challenges since I embarked upon the wife life has been cooking. Or figuring out how to cook. Or, more precisely, even remembering that dinner is coming AGAIN tonight and we're probably going to want something to eat.

The truth is, I spent the first three decades of my life doing very little that involved the combination of food and heat. Sure, I learned to whip up mac & cheese from both Kraft (everyday) or Velveeta (for special occasions), and my baloney sandwiches are the stuff that lunchtime dreams are made of. But my Italian husband was raised on meals that came from INSIDE the oven, a place I rarely ventured near. Today, I decided that things were going to be different--I was going to go all out and whip up a gourmet meal for my man.

Dreaming of America's Next Top Chef, I boldly bypassed the potatoes, the rice, the pasta...even the mac & cheese...and pulled out a box of couscous to accompany our basic steak dinner. It sounded so exotic! Now, I'd never made couscous. I'd never even eaten it. I watched my four year old niece wrestle it down once this summer ("I don't think I like cooth cooth," she admitted sadly as she pushed the bits of grain around the bowl). But it came in the same type of box as the rice pilaf I know and love; I figured, "How bad could it be?"

Well. Hmm. Here's the thing: It tasted like the little rocks at the bottom of a fish tank might taste if heated and covered with salt and butter. And it went EVERYWHERE. Under our plates, on the rug, in my hair...honestly, they should sell this stuff in the pet section of the grocery store, because without a dog I can't imagine how you'd clean it up. We were tempted to lift Kylie right up onto the table and just let her lick up all those tiny grain dots. Guessing that this would unfairly raise her expectations about family dinner etiquette in the future, we instead opted to leave the room for a few minutes. And miraculously (?!?) the table was clean when we returned!

(Don't judge! If it wasn't for THAT DOG, we'd be picking up amber waves of grain until Thanksgiving!)

Eight words

I've been finding inspiration in some unexpected places lately. Sometimes I feel like a giant idea collector--as if the only way I can make sense of the world and figure out who I am inside it, how to negotiate the path from A to B to Z--is by gathering all kinds of thoughts and opinions, other people's stories, really, and then letting them knock around inside of me for awhile to see what sticks and what falls away. It's like some process inside me synthesizes them, and I await the "Ah-ha moments."

But sometimes I come across something that just strikes me as compelling, funny, and true enough to accept on its own, no synthesis necessary. Jerry Seinfeld's interview in Oprah's magazine this month falls into this category. He has some great things to say about creative process, but what jumped out at me was his basic advice for life. I think he came up with these for a commencement speech he gave. Whatever the genesis, I think these are just dang good thoughts to keep in mind as I wander around trying to make my time on Earth count for something. So here, for your consideration, are Jerry Seinfeld's Three Rules For Living:

1. Bust your ass
2. Pay attention
3. Fall in love

Check out the interview (Nov. 07 issue) for Jerry's elaborations if you're curious, but I think these eight words say a lot, even without embellishment. (And I fibbed about the no-synthesis thing; I've been mulling these over all week!)

Big Fun

Very cool weekend. My groovy new friend Kristen (thank you, Lynette for the great connection) invited me to see these guys in concert, which was awesome. I'm a sucker for good music combined with a good cause, and these guys brought both. "Can You Feel It?" (the song they have on their MySpace page) is a happy addition to my jogging playlist. And the band is collecting socks & towels for local homeless shelters in every city they visit--how cool is that? It got me thinking: Could we do something like that?

So here's a question for you guys: if there was a way to make a donation to a local women's shelter at book signing events--say, for example, a collection of toiletries and makeup items--would you bring a lip gloss and a stick of deodorant to contribute to the cause? Just a thought :)

In other news, we saw Dan in Real Life (fun, although I didn't really buy Juliette Binoche and Dane Cook together) and took THAT DOG for a walk in the woods (where she showed her country-dog prowess by sniffing out the poop of small woodland creatures and rolling in it).

That, my friends, is a weekend!

One thing, but then quite another!

Okay, so I had this whole post planned in my head about the bizarre sign I saw on my way home from the library today, advertising that the senior center here in our fine town is holding a MEAT RAFFLE to raise funds.

A MEAT RAFFLE???

I have all sorts of thoughts about what it means for humanity when our elders need to entice us to bid on beef to keep themselves in bingo chips...

But that's gonna have to wait. Because when I logged onto Amazon just now to add Rosie O'Donnell's latest book to my "Books read in 2007" list (yes, I've finally emerged from the weeds...THANK YOU for all the awesome words of support), I saw this and had to share!

Now, if you're wondering, "Does it bother Trish that her Amazon ranking is #1,588,799?" The answer is, Nope....that just means I HAVE AN AMAZON RANKING!!!! Which to me is pretty cool, especially as the manuscript is sitting on my dining room table right now as I go through the final proofread. (I guess that's why they're offering the extra 5% discount for pre-orders; they've seen my last attempt at editing and figure there's a good chance I might miss something...)

2 random thoughts

1. No one told THAT DOG about daylight savings time, and she is NOT happy. She kept staring at us last night, pacing between the living room and the bedroom, trying to herd us off to bed. She'll be 12 next month, so I guess we're approaching the moody teen years...

2. Jesus has a cooler MySpace page than me. I guess it goes without saying that he has more friends. I've resolved to put more effort into Facebook.

Low visibility

I'm still in the weeds. Still in my pajamas. Still mainlining coffee and hiding my phone so I don't answer it and lose my grasp on the narrative thread holding my new proposal together.

I'm reminding myself of the wise words of my law school friend Jon, who'd watch golf in his bathrobe all day while the rest of us studied for finals. "Things tend to get done," he'd say, "things tend to get done."

I got an extra hour Saturday night thanks to daylight savings time, which I promptly lost on Sunday morning when I gave in to the need to eat and shower. None of that wussy stuff today, though, not until I'm done...

Slipping Standards

Am working very, very (very, very) hard on the proposal for book two. I've spent most of this week in my pajamas, which sounds far more lovely and relaxing than it actually is, especially as I live in the city and have a dog that often needs to be taken outside and emptied at times when the rest of the world is not in pajamas (I think she sometimes holds it until Steve gets home, just to avoid being seen with me).

I didn't realize how long it had been since I'd had a normal day until yesterday, when I was up and dressed by 9:00am for a haircut. I was absolutely GIDDY as I was driving to the salon--you'd have thought I was going out for chocolate martinis. I felt all swank and together, being dressed like other people at that hour. Sigh.

Today, not so much. It's pajamaland for me (I've noticed that THAT DOG has been steering clear of food & drink) until this evening, when we'll be going to an author event for this hysterical guy.

I'll have to look at my blog photo when I'm getting ready tonight for reminders of where the makeup goes...

The Heat is On

We finally turned the heat on tonight. Our goal was (as it is every year) to wait until November. We talk about how we come from hearty New England stock and how it's really perfectly warm if you just bundle up. We try to ignore the way THAT DOG seems to cling to us in the final days of October, always lying as close as possible to to keep her short-haired little body at a temperature that will sustain life.

But tonight, Steve walked in as I was dumping boiling water from the kettle into our bathtub. "What are you doing?" he asked, wondering (hopefully, perhaps) if I'd spent my day looking up new cleaning techniques on the internet. "I'm preheating the tub," I answered, as if this was the most normal thing in the world.

You see, when cold weather approaches, it hits our bathroom first. And whatever the material is that bathtubs are made out of (porcelain? ceramic?), it freezes like an ice-cube. So by the time the water from our not-so-large hot water heater makes it up here to the third floor (through cold copper pipes that inexplicably take it OVER our living room ceiling), it's not all that hot anymore. And once it hits the ice tub, forget about it.

I thought my answer to this problem was rather clever. I remembered how, in the Little House on the Prairie books, Ma would boil water on the stove to fill the bathtub to keep the family happy and warm. I thought I'd give it a try. And guess what? It worked! The pre-warmed tub filled with nice toasty water, and soothed my chilly bones.

(Unfortunately, the boiling water also peeled off some sort of casing on the drain, and may have compromised the long-term viability of the soap dish. I may need the number to one of those Bathfitter outfits that comes and refurbishes damaged tubs...)

But the good news is, the heat is on!

Humbled by the British Phone Salesman

This video is amazing. It makes me cry every time I watch it. Paul represents the opposite end of the spectrum from the bespangled pageant contestant I blogged about last week--he doesn't command the spotlight with either his beauty or his costume; he just sort of shuffles on, almost apologizing for taking up space in the world. The thing is, though, he has a dream; a dream that pushes him out there in front of all those snickering faces who can't imagine he has anything valuable to offer, people who think his appearance might be their best chance to dash to the restroom before the next big star takes the stage.

And then he opens his mouth.

He sings, and it's so clear that this is what God created him for, his gift to us here in this world. My eyes filled with tears as I watched and listened to him--partly because it was just so beautiful, but more because I know that if I'd been in the audience that night, I'd have missed it. I'd have been one of those people in the ladies' room, touching up my lipstick while out there on the stage this guy was living one of the magnificent moments when God shows up IN one of us, changing EVERYTHING for all who stick around to witness it.

I don't want to miss these moments. I want to be there for every one of them, because they force me to remember what it looks and feels like when our talent connects with God's timing. Amazing.

Late (oh-so late) breaking addition: Speaking of fabulous moments I wouldn't want to miss...

THE RED SOX JUST WON THE WORLD SERIES!!!! Squeeeeeeeee!!!!!
(For a girl who grew up having people LAUGH at me when I'd say, "I think they just might win it this year," watching the Red Sox celebrate still feels like a big gigantic miracle. Well worth three weeks of missed sleep :) )

Just like Oprah...

...This I know for sure:

If I lay out my newly washed BLACK sweater in an out-of-the-way corner of our condo to dry, THAT DOG will wait till I'm not looking, place her slightly chewed rawhide in the middle of said sweater, and then curl up on top of it all for a nap.

Is it too soon to put extra-strength lint rollers on my Christmas list?

Good, Evil, Imagination, and Sparkle

I'm finally reading Harry Potter (I'm just starting book 6 now, so PLEASE no spoilers!) which has me thinking about good & evil. Rowling's depictions of this ongoing battle resonate in a way I haven't found since I read the Chronicles of Narnia. The whole idea of a personal evil--an actual being who takes the time to get to know us, feels out our weaknesses, and dreams up temptations specially designed to get us off course for God's best for our lives--is a profound one, and pretty accurate, in my experience.

I'm also reading this book, in which the author--a longtime Harvard professor--inadvertently offers an interesting battle plan to fight off these temptations. He writes about the class he developed for a program Harvard started back in the 1980s to make sure all students had some basis in moral thinking (I guess the faculty was a little upset that so many alums were ending up in prison, which probably cut down significantly on annual giving). This prof was asked to guide students through what Jesus offers along these lines. Some of his conclusion are surprising.

He points out that there aren't all that many do's & don'ts in the New Testament (the second half of the Bible, where Jesus comes on the scene), because most of the rules for daily living were already established. What Jesus does, he argues, is press us toward a more creative way of thinking that enhances our ability to live within those rules and resist the temptation to veer off on dead-end adventures. Jesus, he claims, challenges us to develop our imagination, which is the key to not just knowing what we should do, but actually pressing through to do it; to walk away from the bright shiny opportunity that is actually a pair of golden handcuffs in disguise.

He says that stories, like the parables Jesus is so famous for, teach us to use our imagination, stretching our brains in new directions that might just come in handy later.

I know many of you are writers, so I thought I'd run this by you: how do the stories you read influence your thinking? More importantly, what do you think of the idea that as a writer, you are a KEY PLAYER in the battle against evil?

What if you're a SUPERHERO???

(And yes, for those of you who are wondering, this is all part of the grand strategy I alluded to earlier this week to make sure we can all wear sparkly costumes to book signings)

Sparkle Power

So I think I'm the last person on the planet (aside from perhaps my Mom, who owns a computer but refuses to turn it on) to see Star Wars Trumpet Solo on YouTube. But it made me laugh so hard that I had to write something about it, if only to immortalize this moment in my own little cyber journal so I can access it again later on days when I'm feeling down.

You see, when I watch this video, I'm not laughing AT her, I'm laughing WITH her. I too have spent my share of time in the public eye doing some sort of performance or another, truly believing deep in my heart that the best possible attire included silver fringe dangling from my knees and elbows. (There are days when I still believe this, just ask my sister).

Now my spangled appearances never included musical instruments; I'm not that talented. But hand me a baton lit on fire, or the story of an angst-filled girl trapped on a tropical island dancing for her life (angst-filled girls trapped in dungeons don't get to wear sequins and sparkles, so there's no way I'd ever take that part...) and you'd have quite a show. The first time my father saw one of these extravaganzas, he was trying so hard not to laugh afterwards that all he could say was, "I've never seen anything like it!"

Now that I think about it, maybe the reason God sent me to law school when he did (within six months, I'd lost my sparkle, and every item in my wardrobe was some shade of black, navy, or grey) wasn't because I was destined to be a lawyer. Maybe it was part of a larger "Spangle Protection Program," where those of us with a flare for shiny costumes were hidden away before our early moments could be captured forever to be posted on YouTube?

But I'm telling you, if I can figure out a way to incorporate baton twirling into my book tour, I am SO making some sparkly elbow-ties to complete the look!

For the Love of Gourd

This weekend, aside from a spot of rain on Saturday, was the perfect example of fall in New England. The sun shone through leaves of gold and auburn; a slight breeze blew along making it just cold enough for a light sweater; the Head of the Charles regatta enticed thousands of otherwise smart students to risk getting dumped in our murky river...and I got in touch with how much I love the humble gourd.

A gourd, for those of you who live in places where they don't appear outside the grocery store every October, is a hollow, dried shell of a fruit in the Cucurbitaceae family of plants of the genus Lagenaria. (Those Latin terms mean, essentially, "Not so good for eating.")

(The Gourds are also a country music group, but I'm not nearly so inclined to see those guys in a decorative pile on my dining room table.)

As I was food shopping yesterday. I passed row upon row of pumpkins, harvest corn trios, and dried stalks to tie on the front porch. I felt a stirring deep inside me, and realized, "I would like a gourd. Or perhaps three or five or twelve to place around the house as a tribute to the glory of fall." I tend to get a little grandiose in my decorating dreams around this time of year, and typically the ridiculousness of my thoughts--i.e. "A tribute to the glory of fall"--is inversely proportionate to the disappointment I'll feel when I realize a small pile of squash-like objects isn't much of a tribute. But hey, it's part of my creative process...

What I love about gourds is that they're bizarre--they look like something you'd find in the dumpster behind Harvard's science lab. People grow them, knowing full well that they have no purpose. The glory of the gourd is that it places almost no expectation on me as a consumer. I can buy one or ten or twenty, and everyone understands that all I'll be doing with them is decorating--I'll place them on shelves, in bowls, artfully tumbling down some stairs, perhaps. Eventually, I'll throw them away. There's no annoying recipe book at the checkout counter pressuring me to MAKE something of my gourds, like a pie or muffins or a tureen for soup. I don't need to crave it into some creepy face that will scare small children. The gourd is complete as is, with no reassembly required. I like that.

The sad thing is, there were no gourds to be had yesterday. All the good gourds ("good" being defined as bright orange or green or yellow, with a nice assortment of weird bumps and bulges) were gone. There were just a few scrubby ones in a anemic shade of yellow-ish, truly pitiful little fruits that failed to live up to the minimal gourd standard of looking interesting enough to take home.

Wandering forlornly back to my car after grabbing coffee and milk and cereal, I found myself singing the Counting Crow's version of that Joni Mitchell song:

Don't it always seem to go
that you don't know what you've got till it's gone?
They paved paradise, and put up a parking lot.
(Ooo, sha la la la...)

I'm sure they had NO idea

The Red Sox kept the dream alive last night!!!

It says something about the precarious nature of life as a Red Sox fan that even though they were up 7-1 in the middle of the 9th inning as the clock moved past midnight, I didn't dare go to bed lest I wake up in the morning only to learn that the boys had staged yet ANOTHER spectacular meltdown and lost 219-7. Thank God (and yes, I'm one of those people who prays about baseball), this didn't happen.

The funniest revelation of the night (for me anyway) was the singing of the National Anthem. Not usually a giggly moment, but it turns out that the Cardinals brought the ex-girlfriend of the Red Sox pitcher to belt out the Star Spangled Banner. They said they had "no idea" of the former connection between the two. Mmm hmm...right. Sure.

I've gotta hand it to them, though--this is the funniest bit of gamesmanship I've heard about in a long time. I SO hope that the Red Sox are planning something for tomorrow night's return to Fenway Park.

And if you're wondering WHY it's still worth it to be a Red Sox fan even though every season is like seven months of skiing Olympic moguls, check out this video. This is how our superstar team celebrated winning the division, lead by first baseman Kevin Youkilis and closing pitcher Jonathan Papelbon (who might be interested in an off-season appearance on "So You Think You Can Dance")

How can you not love a team that's this weird???

Let your voice be heard...or read, as the case may be

Not much going on here, which makes it kind of tough to blog. I missed blog action day, which is probably okay because I'm not sure I have much to say on issues like "sustainability." I'm still trying to live by the old motto, Recycle/Reuse/Renew, which is why I was so upset when the bag boy at Stop & Shop gave me such an evil look yesterday when he heard my response to "Paper or plastic?" He even said, "Are you sure you wouldn't prefer paper?" as if there were no possible way a thoughtful, sane person could still request plastic bags in this time of dire environmental catastrophe.

"I have a dog," I said, squaring off with him, unwilling to be told by a complete stranger that I'm not doing my part to save the planet. I AM doing my part, considering that as I continue to feed THAT DOG, she will continue to produce what one might artfully call a "stream of revenue" that requires picking up and throwing away for me to stay within the ordinances of our fine city. Said ordinances specifically request that plastic bags be used for the job. So take that S&S bag boy.

Now you know why they don't ask me to speak on Earth Day :)

Anyway, in the midst of all this not-much-happening (clearly demonstrated by the fact that I'm blogging about my right to procure plastic with which to scoop poop), I'm wondering what to blog about. What do you want to read when you click on Trish's Dishes? Stories about the writing/publishing world? Antics of THAT DOG? Random musings about faith? Let your voice be heard, so I can stop scanning the Comcast news page for stories like this...

Big Question for a Monday

So I'm sitting in church yesterday and I felt like God asked, "So Trish...what would life be like for you if you were sure that all this stuff you're praying for--things you hope will happen, people you love who need help, world events that seem insurmountable--was taken care of? If you knew for sure that I ANSWER your prayers?"

I was a little stunned, and not sure how to respond. I've often thought of how much more fun my early adulthood would have been if I'd just TRUSTED that God was bringing me a husband (the lack of which was the biggest hope/need/world catastrophe I could think of at that time). But what about now?

So that's my challenge this week...to pray the prayers for the things that seem like they need God's help (which for me is pretty much everything from getting a decent parking place--this is Boston, after all--to miraculous healing for my friend's daughter) and then live as if I know God will do it.

Yesterday, this new attitude involved taking a two hour nap on the couch while watching the Redskins/Packers game. God says to rest on Sundays and let him do the heavy lifting; the least I can do is comply :)

How about you? What would life be like if you KNEW God heard and was answering your prayers, even the secret ones deep down inside that you don't even dare to mumble because they're so preposterous? How would that change how you live right now?

Boston in January--what could be better?

I just got an email from the rockin Lynette, announcing that she'll be coming back to Boston the third week in January...just in time for my birthday! (Now, she didn't mention my birthday in her email--she said something about coming for business--but I know that's just a cover up for the only REAL reason anyone would brave the New England cold in a season where almost anywhere else on the planet is more hospitable, right?)

It's turning into a bit of a party (as tends to happen when Lynette is in charge of programming) even though I only jest when I say that my survival of another year is the reason for the gathering. Kristen will be here, along with the awesome Alicia (who needs to start a blog). And Jane will be traveling from lands far away to join us. As I was reading Lynette's message, I had a vision of her as the Pied Piper of Blogging, with everyone from our blog rolls following her to Boston so we can all meet in person, drink chocolate martinis and eat tiramisu (maybe I could even learn to spell it). The picture made me smile :)

Sporting News

Steve and I drove 100+ miles this past weekend to watch Glamour Girl and Yes We Do Eat Fig Newtons For Breakfast Boy (AKA our four year old niece and seven year old nephew) play soccer on their town's local league. Honestly, you haven't lived until you've watched dozens of small children with no sense of team sports set loose on a giant field to chase a ball.

Glamour Girl's team is called The Duckies. Picture thirty five (or three hundred and fifty; at times it was hard to tell) tiny people in light blue shirts and little shin guards, and one determined man with a whistle trying to organize them. The impossibility of getting one's ducks in a row has never been clearer to me. The high point was when he taught them the "superhero" move where you lay with your chest on the ball, arms outstretched, pretending you can fly (watch for it in the next World Cup). After that, he blew the whistle and announced "Water break!" at which point his small charges ran full-throttle off the field and into the crowd, searching for parents and then gulping down water to quench the thirst they'd worked up in their five minutes of superhero soccer skills.

But my favorite moment was when, about twenty minutes later, the coach blew the whistle again and called the Duckies back to the pond. They were gathered in close around him to hear the secrets to the next big soccer trick, when an excited little girl yelled, "Coach--look!"
"What is it Ashley?" he asked.
"That cloud," she said, turning and pointing,"it looks just like a UNICORN!"

The Boy's game was next. There were no unicorn sightings, but that doesn't mean we didn't have fun. His team scored six or seven goals, only half of which were for the other team :)

Do you? If so, HOW?

The very creative Jane posted this quote in the comments section yesterday: "One of the most common causes for not getting to an important activity is that you haven't set aside a specific time in which to do it."

I laughed when I read this, because I'd logged on to ask you guys a question about a common activity that I pretty much NEVER set aside a specific time to do anymore, which is keeping a journal.

When I was in law school, lonely and miserable and wondering "Oh, what have I done?" I kept a journal. Journals, actually, because my misery couldn't be condensed into one or two daily paragraphs. When I look over those lined books now (each one covered with some deceptively cheery looking fabric) I see that in hindsight, the theme for those years can be summed up thusly:

It has to get better. It simply has to.

I'm happy to report that it has. But life is still interesting. There have been incredible highs, along with wild free-falls that I haven't scrawled out on to journals or notebooks to look back upon in a decade or so. (I'm not sure my collection of half-thoughts jotted down on post-its counts.)

But yesterday, my friend Nashville Girl sent me a book by an author she adores. I ripped open the package right there on my porch and started reading. The first lines had the author looking back over her journals. She saw patterns there, patterns that gave her hope and inspiration about how far she's come and where it seems like God is taking her. "I want that!" I thought. I mean, who wouldn't? But to get there, I think it will take a tad more structure than just me thinking, "Hmmm...that might be a fun idea...."

So here are my questions: Do you guys journal? How often? Do you write about everything that happens, or just the big stuff? Do you worry that your journals will be found one day? And (most importantly) what do you do when your hand cramps up and you still have more you need to say???

Finding What Works

Allison Winn Scotch had an interesting post yesterday, about the things she needs to write productively (coffee, order, and--if I remember correctly--an absence of footwear). It got me thinking about the different types of writing I do all day that I don't "count" as writing, where I don't need things to be lined up in a certain way to churn them out: emails, lists, notes to Steve about where I've jogged off too in case I get too winded to jog myself home.

I think blogging falls into this category. Right now as I type, I have no coffee (although I'd love another cup), nothing is organized, and THAT DOG is giving me the look that says, "Don't get too involved in whatever you're doing there, cause it's time for my walk...." I've been more faithful to blogging than my other writing over the past few months. It's easier, and the gratification of comments left by people like you guys--who I feel like I know through your own daily posts--comes in hours, rather than months or years. It's just a little bit seductive for a writer looking for a quick hit of approval.

All this has me wondering this morning if we (okay I--I'm sure none of you have this issue) don't need some sort of delay in the gratification to get to the real writing? You know, where we wrestle with sentences until they are as right as we can get them, or rush home from work because we've finally figured out how to fix a problem in a scene that's never been quite right.

I guess I'm fishing around for input here from those of you who are better at this balancing thing...how do you balance blogging and your OTHER writing? How do you resist the urge to post every cute or funny thing that happens to you on your blog for a quick laugh, and hold on to a few of them to mull over and craft into something a little more lasting (or at least available in 3D form by people like my Mom who don't have computers)?

(Speaking of instant gratification, this is the first post where my spellchecker responded "No Misspellings Found." Honestly, I'm not sure I've ever seen that line in relation something I've written...)

A new career path...

I've spent the past half hour wondering if I can fit a completely unrelated chapter into my next book about how my dog makes me laugh. Why? Because then it would be my job to keep up with blogs like this.

(Here you see Miss Kylie--aka THAT DOG--up in Maine on vacation this summer. I'm not sure if it's the cocker spaniel or the afghan genes that make her such a vigilant watchdog ...)