Better Living Through Chemistry, and a question

My weekend was made possible by the fine people at Robitussin, Benedryl, and Mucinex. Special thanks also to Kleenex for all 320 tissues in the box I just polished off, and to Brita for filtering the 19 gallons of water I've chugged down today. Sniff. Gulp. Sigh.

Aside from the cold, life is pretty good here in Trishville. I notice how good it is because of how un-good it used to be. I woke up this morning thinking of a conversation I had not too long ago that still cracks me up and brings me back to earth (with a thud) anytime I'm tempted to get too full of myself:

I was thirty-three, divorced, virtually unemployed, and living in a tenement-quality apartment with big holes in the walls. I'd just joined a group of people who were exploring questions about faith, where I made some cool friends and felt like my life might be on an upswing ("upswing" being defined as "I have someone to go to the movies with on Saturday afternoon") Kind of pitiful, but there you have it.

One day, one of the girls in the group who had graduated from college about a year earlier came up to me and asked, with great earnest, if she could talk to me. "I need some advice," she said, "I really think you're the person I need to talk to!'

"Sure," I said, puffing up a bit. It had been a rather long time since anyone had thought I might have anything useful to offer about making life decisions. "How can I help?" I asked.

"Tell me," she said eagerly, "What should I do so I don't end up like you?"

"Like me?" I asked, certain she couldn't mean that the way it sounded.

"Yeah," she clarified. "You know--divorced, alone, no real career or plan in life. Meeting you made me realize how wrong things can go if I'm not careful!" In her eyes, I was like one of those car wrecks they put out on the front lawn of the High School before prom night to warn what can happen if you drive drunk. (I've always wanted to be an inspiration to future generations; I guess I should consider this a starting point of sorts.)

The most frustrating part of this memory, though, is that I can't remember how I responded. This is quite possibly the funniest interaction I've ever had with another person, and I can't remember how the story ends?!?

(I DO know that she moved 3,462 miles away about two months later, which I cling to as proof that God hears and answers our prayers)

What would you have said???

Hangin' with the stars down in SoHo

I'm home! The trip was amazing, and I'm still processing everything I learned to try and make it into a coherent post. I picked up a head cold somewhere along the way which is has me pretty foggy, but I hope to have something up by the weekend.

To tide you over, though, two fun things: Over dinner Tuesday night (at a restaurant devoted to CHEESE...more on that happiness later) I learned how Julia Child separated egg yolks (with her hands...eww), and heard an impassioned plea for a mandatory national recycling policy that involves goats eating our garbage. I'm still not sure how this will work in the city, but I guess if they can make counter tops out of old beer bottles, it's not too much of a stretch to envision a mountain goat living on our back stairs, munching on my discarded boxes from Amazon.com...

And (to explain the title of this post before I dive back into the NyQuill): I went to SoHo for the first time, because the lovely Alison Pace told me that McNally Robinson Books is a great place to do a book signing. (And, well, because "I went down to SoHo this morning" is just plain fun to say). As I was wandering through the stacks, I heard a deep, familiar voice. It was not (as those of you who have peeked at my manuscript might suspect) the voice of God, but rather the voice of John Elder Robison, author of Look Me In The Eye, brother of Augusten Burroughs, and one of the most generous blogging-about-the-publishing-business authors ever.

I'm a dork, so I introduced myself. Not only were he and his wife extremely gracious, but when I mentioned that I was in town to meet with my publisher and (among other folks) their lawyer (memoirs are vetted pretty carefully to avoid litigation), John spent the next twenty minutes or so offering thoughts and advice on being a first-time author and how to avoid legal issues. Amazing.

I had no real camera, just the phone. But here's a picture:



And...John will be in Boston tonight! If you're in the neighborhood, come on out to Brookline Booksmith at 7pm. His NYC reading received the first standing ovation of the year at that store, so it should be pretty good :)

Live, From New York City...

I'm here! It's fun and fabulous and loud and exciting. The bad news is (for those of you who like your photos unfuzzy) is that I forgot to bring my camera. But I have my camera-phone, which enabled me to take the picture you see here, of my first moment of unexpected delight on this trip to the Big Apple.

Let me explain... You see, I'm not a light packer. Not at all. As I was bringing (okay, attempting to bring) my suitcase down the three flights of stairs to the car yesterday, I could barely lift it. There's a chance--slim, but possible--that I'd packed a few things I wouldn't need in my three days here. So, against my better judgment, I opened my giant green closet-on-wheels, and took out a sweater, a pair of jeans, a giant bottle of shampoo, and my flip flops. Then I heaved the suitcase down the stairs and into the trunk and was on my merry way.

I really missed the flip flops. From the first moment I arrived in my (lovely) room, I longed to slip my toes out of real shoes and into something cozy. THEN, a miracle happened. The lady came with turn-down service and handed me two chocolates...and a pair of flip flops! I was so excited, I had to take a picture :)

Now, early this morning, I actually broke my flip flop, which would have been sad if I hadn't been singing Jimmy Buffet's "Margaritaville" all morning:

I blew out my flip flop...stepped on a pop top...

A friend and I had an ongoing battle about this lyric my senior year of college--I swore Jimmy said, "stepped on a Pop-Tart." I was wrong. Josh, if you're out there and reading this, I stand corrected :)

Gonna let it shine

We went to a wedding on Saturday--a friend Steve grew up with and the girl he's been with for over six years. The whole thing was beautiful, but the most memorable, fun part was the priest who said the wedding mass. Now I was raised in the Catholic church, and I'm not sure I've ever used the words "mass" and "fun" in the same sentence. But there's no other way to describe the service this guy led.

Father Joe prayed for the bride & groom, and for all the people who in the world who are still waiting to find their soul mate. He suggested that we smile more as an act of community service. And then, in the most unusual part of all, he led us in several impromptu verses of "This Little Light of Mine, I'm Gonna Let It Shine!" It was fabulous. Nice job, Father Joe.

I'm headed off to NYC this morning, and that's the song that will be in my head as I board the train :)

The Color of Love...The Color of My Hair

I went to the hairdresser yesterday. Nothing too dramatic--the usual highlights, a chance to catch up with one of my favorite people (if you live in Greater Boston and need hair help, Andrea is the best hairdresser/cool friend combo I've ever found--love her!) I'd been baking in tinfoil under the lights for about thirty minutes when Andrea came over to check on me. We were chatting about whether the fact that neither one of us owns a scale is a sign of self-esteem or deep denial when all of a sudden she paused and said, "Wow--that's pink..."

I didn't believe her. "Hahaha. That's funny," I replied.

"No, I'm not kidding," she said, looking perplexed. "Check this out." She unwrapped the foils from a few strands of hair, and sure enough, some of them were decidedly pink. (I discovered this morning that pink has it's own Wikipedia page, so if you want to know what shade of pink my hair was, click here. My highlights were somewhere between "Web Color Pink" and "Nadeshiko Pink," making this the closest I've ever come to being culturally diverse).

Andrea remained surprisingly calm through all of this. I, on the other hand, was consumed with a fit of the giggles. It just seemed too funny that on the eve of what might be the biggest trip of my professional life (have I mentioned that I'm going to NYC on Monday to meet all the awesome people involved with publishing/promoting/marketing my book?) I have Web Color Pink/Nadeshiko Pink highlights. I started mentally rearranging my wardrobe choices to account for this new addition to my fall color scheme.

Andrea attacked the pink with some combination from the other side of the color wheel (I tried not to worry as she mentioned blue and green--two other shades I couldn't see working for me on a long-term basis) while I prayed silently for a chemical miracle. I earned D's in two of my four semesters of high school chemistry, so I wasn't at all certain I had any prayer leverage in the Science Wing of heaven, but I thought they might recognize me in the Bad Hair Day Division, so I lobbed my prayers upwards, hoping they'd land in the right place.

We washed my hair. We dried it. It looked fine to me. "Um, no," Andrea said, easing me back into the chair as I started to stand up. "It's still pink."

I called Steve to tell him I'd be home a little later than expected.

One hour, two chemical processes, and a whole bunch of fervent, giggly prayer later, my hair was restored to it's usual shade of girl-next-door brown with blond highlights. And if you see me on the streets of NY next week...you probably won't even notice, because I'll look like everybody else :)

Wild Hope

In my frenzy of lip gloss happiness, I forgot to mention the OTHER exciting thing that happened last weekend...I saw Mandy Moore in concert :)

Her new album, Wild Hope, is just incredible--totally different than anything she's done before; much more Indigo Girls meets Joni Mitchell than Britney meets Christina. Love it, love it, love it.

When I bought the tickets a month ago, my dear husband--in a gesture of overwhelming chivalry--said that of course, he'd love to accompany me to this celebration of girly-ness. Mandy Moore + Paula Cole...it doesn't get much more angsty and anti-boy than that, but he wanted to make me happy. Good guy, that Steve.

But as the date approached, I realized with horror that the concert directly coincided with the Biggest Sports Night In New England This Year. No exaggeration. It wasn't just that the Red Sox were playing the Yankees, but Curt Schilling was pitching against Roger Clements. It wasn't just that the Patriots were playing the Chargers, but that the Patriots coach was just fined a cool half-mil for cheating, and this was the team's first chance to prove that those Superbowl victories were not tainted. Big stuff, here in Beantown. And my husband--the consummate sports fan--was going to be at the Mandy Moore concert through the whole thing.

Gulp.

Now I'll give it to hubby--he manned up and said, "Don't worry, Honey. The concert will be fun. Not a problem..." But when I told him my friend Kristina could come with me, he actually gasped in happiness. "Really?" He asked, eyes wide with hope, not sure he could believe this turn of fortune. "You'd be okay with that???"

Kristina and I entered the super small (I think "intimate" is the word they use for venues with no seating?) club where Mandy's show was moved after Paula Cole bailed at 7pm; Mandy took the stage at 10:00. All I can say is THANK GOD Steve wasn't stuck there in the middle of this small sea of Mandy Moore fans for three hours--I'd have been walking the dog every night for the rest of my life, trying to repay him :) Instead, Kristina and I had hours of fun girl talk, and I have no doubt that the world is now a slightly better place.

And after all that waiting, the concert was great. I think Miss Mandy may have been a little buzzed up there on stage (she kept gulping from a giant travel mug) but I think I'd have needed to be a lot buzzed if I was singing in a place so small that the audience was right up to the lip of the stage, almost underneath me. She can really belt, and her band was great, too. Good stuff.

The Red Sox lost. The Patriots won decisively. Hubby walked the dog :)

Holy Customer Service, Batman!

Remember how, a few Fridays back, I was singing the praises of Tim Gunn's new show and lamenting the loss of my favorite Trish McEvoy lip gloss (the one that fell in that nasty puddle years ago, never to be replaced)?

GUESS WHO sent me an email a few days later??? Trish McEvoy! The other Trish (or T-McE as I'll be calling her now) sent ME an email, offering to send me my favorite lip gloss if I could remember the color! I was, to put it mildly, flabbergasted (as you can see by my extravagant use of italics in this post).

And then (as if I wasn't wowed enough) the Fed Ex guy showed up on Saturday morning with a priority package for me. (This touch seemed even more remarkable in light of the fact that I ordered books from Amazon.com two weeks ago, and they haven't even put them on a truck headed in my direction...not that I'm frustrated by this or anything...)

But wait. It gets better: When I opened this wonderful package, I found not just the compact and gloss I'd lost in the puddle, but also the matching lip liner with the little brush on the end that you use to apply the gloss! Yippee! You don't have to know me long to know that a core part of my definition of happiness includes having the right lip gloss. Not many people mention this, but in my experience, it's essential for any sort of life success.

Not wanting to be outdone, I have a secret plan to thank T-McE and her awesome staff. You see...I recently saw the specs for my book cover (hee!) and while I can't give too much away until everything is finalized, the cover does feature a pair of glossy lips that (must) match one of the T-McE colors perfectly. I'm sure there's a fun tie-in to be made somewhere, and I'm gonna tie it in.

Wouldn't you buy a new book if there was a lip gloss included in the deal somehow? I can envision my book signings now...I'll read for three minutes, and then we'll all play with makeup! By the time I'm done, there will be an army of us nationwide, all decked out in Trish McEvoy lip gloss, ready for our close-up :)

Ethical question

If you accidentally grab the wrong scent of fabric softener in Target, use it on one (smallish) load of laundry, and discover that the scent so overwhelms your entire house in musky waves of unrelenting awfulness that you're compelled to poke around under the porch in some pitiful hope of disturbing the neighborhood skunk for a better scent to clear the air....

Do you think it's okay to return the rest of the bottle to Target?

(Late breaking addition: I should have been clearer...I would definitely tell Target I'd used the fabric softener; I was trying to gauge the odds of them letting me exchange the scent as a gesture of goodwill and customer service. And the skunk showed up last night around 9pm and sprayed down the whole neighborhood. So today's plan is to be careful what I joke about...)

A philosophy of stuff

One of the malls near where I live opened up a whole new wing of stores last week. Naturally, I had to check it out (because, well...I might write something about it someday...so it's part of my job! You know, research. Right...) This new wing includes a Mac store, which made me happy, along with a whole host of super-upscale stores not formerly found outside the city: There's a Nordstrom, Neiman Marcus, Gucci, Ferragamo, Kate Spade, and a bunch of others. (Now, by way of full disclosure, I was at the mall to exchange a blouse at Ann Taylor, but that doesn't mean I can't appreciate having a higher level of window shopping to peruse than the usual Aldo and Claire's Boutique options). The new parking garage was open, well-lit, and filled with soothing music. There was a guy playing piano. You get the picture. All elegant, all lovely.

The only problem was the people. Without exception, every single person I passed in that section of the mall looked miserable. (I haven't seen that many pinched faces gathered in one place was since I was a lawyer.) It was bizarre. I saw three generations of this unhappiness in Nordstroms, as two parents and a grandmother hovered anxiously around a bored teenage girl trying to decide between two gorgeous designer handbags. What's up with her? I wondered. Why isn't she squealing with glee? I met three women on the elevator, probably in their mid 40s, talking about the outfits they'd just purchased. Again, none of them seemed excited or happy. It was like one more day at the office.

That's when it dawned on me: shopping is really only fun if what you buy fills a real gap in your life. If your sneakers are worn out or covered in paint, you'll enjoy having a new pair. If you don't have a suitable outfit for a party your friend is throwing, it's fun to find just the right thing (and some cute earrings to match). Your new stuff may cost $20 at Target, or $2,000 at Gucci, but if you get the chance to use it, that's what brings the squealing-with-glee part to complete the shopping experience.

I guess I'm just making the connection that owning things isn't fun. Using the things we own is what makes them fun. Maybe this is why I've always balked at mugs and bumper stickers encouraging me that I should be grateful just to be alive. Not that I undervalue life, but living, in and of itself, can be rather a mixed bag. It's using the life we have that makes it fun. Otherwise, it's just one more afternoon on the couch.

(I should probably have mentioned at the beginning of this post that I've been thinking about this whole rich misery thing ever since I saw The Nanny Diaries a few weeks back. Steve and I talked all the way home about what AWFUL PEOPLE those Upper East Side mothers were, and then realized, "Wait a minute...if those characters hadn't been wealthy, we'd have said that they were hurting people, struggling to figure out their lives. But because they have money they don't get compassion?" Jesus said that it's easier for a camel to get through the eye of a needle than for a rich person to get to heaven. Those seem like pretty long odds. Nothing in the Bible indicates that wealth is bad, but there does seem to be a way in which it can distort our attitude, and if we're not really careful it will suck the enjoyment out of both buying the stuff we need and using it. It has me thinking that perhaps I should be praying for the family I saw in Nordstroms, rather than judging them???)

And if this is all to serious for you on this lovely sunny day, let me just add that THAT DOG pooped squarely on her leash this morning. It won't come clean. So I anticipate that the new leash I buy at Target will bring me great squeals of glee...

Able to leap small dogs in a single bound...

Behold, my "back-to-school" sneakers! Can you see the gold glitter ribbon on the sides???

I wore them yesterday for the first time. I had to make coffee for 1,000+ people, so I knew I'd need special skills (running fast, jumping high). My new sparkly sneaks did not disappoint. And they emerged unscathed from the big, wet pile of coffee grounds I accidentally dumped on them. (For those of you who are new to the blog, here's a quick primer in the economics of my fashion world: Fun new sneakers? $40. Stain-resistance? Priceless.)

Brown. It's the new black. And white and pink and cerulean blue....

Are you treating yourself to new sneakers for fall? Keep in mind what you spill most when selecting colors. (Should I send this suggestion into Tim Gunn for his show, or do you think he already knows this?)

Bravo for Tim!

I know Swishy beat me to it, but I have to chime in and share my utter adoration for Tim Gunn's new style show on Bravo. I mean...it made me cry. He is like an updated (male) version of Cinderella's fairy godmother.

I'm not certain about all of the advice, though. I mean, I believe everything Tim says...when he stared into the camera and declared, "Every woman should be properly fitted for undergarments!" I knew he meant: "That means you, Trish Ryan!" But then the lady in the lingerie store said that the bottom of your bra should start at the crook of your elbow??? I don't know if my arms are unnaturally long, or the rest of me unnaturally short, but the crook of my elbow is only a tiny bit higher than my belly button...that's means I'd need a corset, rather than a bra...

(I should also say that the whole segment where they made her clean out her underwear drawer took on a special significance, given that when I went out this morning to walk THAT DOG, we saw that one of our neighbors had cleaned out her drawer overnight...and thrown her discard pile out into the middle of our street. Not sure what that's about, although I'm sure Tim would be pleased to see that there was both a thong and what appear to be full-coverage briefs lying there on the pavement. Variety is important)

Anyway...

I'm not at all sure about the "Life Stylist" dude. Is that a real job? And even if it is, I'm not sure I'd trust this guy... He looks like somebody's unemployed little brother.

The jury is still out on Veronica Webb. She must have been mean to some of the behind the scenes people--the person in charge of wardrobe, the hair stylist--because they made her look really severe and frightening.

And Trish McEvoy is just gorgeous. My favorite lip gloss ever--the perfect shade of slight-sparkle plum--was from her line. I loved it like a best friend until it flipped out of my purse one day and landed and in an oil-slicked puddle in Montreal. I still haven't found it's equal. Trish, if you're reading this, can you help me???

My favorite take away point from this first episode? When shopping, start with the shoes. This is great advice! How many times have I searched for shoes AFTER the outfit, only to end up with a great dress that isn't nearly as cute as I'd hoped because the shoes aren't quite right, or pants that would be the right length,if only my heels were 1/2 inch higher or lower? Wise words ladies. Shoes first!

Now I'm off to my closet to see if I have "ten items which make up the core of my wardrobe." I'll pretend Tim is there with me, giving me strength to throw away the shoulder-pad infused paisley blazer that seemed like such a great idea ten years ago. But I'm not going to show him my favorite faded jeans and Red Sox T-shirt...it might not be the done thing in NYC, but here in Greater Boston, there's not really anyplace I can't wear that :)

The hills might be alive, but the graveyard shouldn't be

I live right on the border between two towns, neither of which is particularly hospitable to a newbie runner. (Especially a runner whose primary motivation isn't improved fitness, but rather an article I read in Glamour magazine about the creeping scourge of muffin top.)

If I don't want to log time on a treadmill, though, the choices for scenic running here are a bit daunting. If I run in one direction (as I did for the first time on Tuesday), I have lots of time to contemplate the fact that "Belmont" means "beautiful hill." Now if you'd asked me to describe the topography of Belmont on, say, Monday, I would have said that it's rather flat. Oh, how very deceptive. I can now say with some hard-earned authority that the entire town is one long, slow, upgrade. It's could be a place in a Harry Potter story: "the Land of All-Uphill." The chances of me completing the Swishy 5K Challenge in this town are slim-to-none.

If I run in the other direction, though, my most likely destination is a cemetery. America's first garden cemetery, as the web-site will tell you..."An active burial place and a vibrant cultural institution." (It was even listed as a "neighborhood feature" when we bought our condo.) People meet to walk and run there all the time. Am I the only one who finds this slightly horrifying? I mean, Steve has family members who, well...own property in there, so I guess I have as much right as anyone to make use of the grounds. I could look at it like being a guest at his great uncle's tennis club, right?

Well, no. I can't run in a graveyard. I don't care how vibrant said graveyard might be. (I'm pretty sure a graveyard shouldn't be vibrant, but that's another post...) I'm no stickler for etiquette, but I'm pretty sure Emily Post would say, "It's just not the done thing."

So I guess I'll head for the hills. If you're nearby, I'll be the one gasping for air and clutching my iPod, muttering, "cute in jeans, cute in jeans" over and over again.

Highs and lows...like skateboarding, kinda...

Thanks all, for your wonderful reassurances about my niceness. You guys rock :)

It was a bit of the agony and the ecstasy for me this Labor Day weekend, as we head into what is my favorite, favorite, undeniably most favoritest time of year. I love September--the idea of a fresh new start, dreaming of what might be possible once I get down to working hard after a summer of relaxation, shopping for cute back-to-school clothes (who says you can't look good while applying your nose to the grindstone?) New England is, in my humble opinion, the best place in the world to be, come September. And yet the weekend, for all it's greatness, left me with one big question as I head into the fall.

First, the ecstasy: I ran 2.5 miles on real ground (not a treadmill) without hurling into the bushes. The nice checkout lady at Ann Taylor used a 15% off coupon on my purchases that I didn't know existed. The US Open is on. (Tennis is the game I would have played, had I not made that wise decision to pursue baton twirling as my primary sport back in the forth grade. ) Next year on this awesome weekend, Steve and I are hoping/praying that we will be at the US Open, buzzing around to check out the action live on a grounds pass.

But then there is the agony: THAT DOG has allergies (???) and has been hopped up on Benedryl (per her vet's instructions) all weekend. I got food poisoning at a famous chef's restaurant downtown. And worst of all, I've been utterly busted by a book called TO BUSY NOT TO PRAY. It sounds like a nice book, doesn't it? I was reading along happily until the author asked: "Do you believe that God answers prayer?" Yes, I thought. Of course I do. That's where he got me: "Do you regularly and diligently, every single day, bring God your worries and hopes and dreams--all the places you need help--trusting that He will intervene in you situation?" Um. Hmmm. No.

Yikes. What a realization. I mean, I'm in the middle of publicity strategy for a book about, among other things, how God came through and answered my audacious prayers for a husband. My face is up on posters all over Boston--on taxi-cabs and in subway stations--in an ad for my church's fall kickoff, with a link to a video about how praying changed my life from totally disappointing to (in the words of our church motto) Impossibly Great. For this week at least, I am literally the poster child for how God answers prayer, and I'm not asking Him for the things I need!?! ARGH. Unbelievable.

Well, at least I know what goes on the top of my "To-do" list for tomorrow :)

How about you? Do you believe God answers prayer? If yes, are you asking God for everything you want and need, trusting that he will intervene in your situation?

(Sorry for the deep questions...you know I get philosophical when I have a few days off!)

Patti says I'm nice!

This has me laughing so hard that my morning coffee practically came out of my nose. The very awesome Patti-O awarded me the "Nice Matters" Award (there's an icon, but I can't figure out how to post it, what with the lost coffee and all), celebrating the way I and several others spread niceness through the blogsphere.

I'd be flattered and touched by this declaration of my niceness, if it hadn't come right on the heels of a longish series of discussions with my agent, editor, and publicist about whether or not I should leave the F-word sprinkled through my manuscript. In the end, we decided that those F-bombs weren't worth going to the mat for, and substituted something more, well...nice.

I never dreamed I'd win an award for our decision! Thank you Patti-O!

(Now I'll step back from the keyboard and await the long stream of comments protesting this award and demanding that Patti reconsider :) )

Trans Fats: A hidden beauty secret?

Up until about a year ago, my grocery list read like this:

1. Cheez-Its - 1 box original, 1 white cheddar
2. Oscar Meyer baloney
3. American "cheese" individually wrapped slices
4. Velveeta Mac & Cheese
5. 2 loaves of bread (wheat, if I was on a health-kick)
6. Assorted pasta: spaghetti, linguine, fettuccine
7. Butter
8. Taster's Choice Instant Coffee (Don't judge. It's good!)

This diet served me well for my entire adulthood. I felt good, I looked fine, my jeans fit. My food life was simple, yummy, and overall quite satisfying.

But last year, after working a desk job for a bit longer than I'd anticipated, I had to admit that I'd put on a few pounds. And that's when it happened...All the warning words of dread and fear well-intentioned people have chanted at me over the years started swirling around in a threatening storm in my head: "You won't be able to eat like that forever, you know..." "Someday, you'll wish you'd made smarter choices..." "Eventually, all that salt and fat is going to catch up to you..." (And let's not forget the lady in the yoga pants who looked at my shopping cart at the grocery store and gasped, almost involuntarily, "But baloney has no life force!" )

Last year at about this time, I collapsed under the pressure, terrified that these folks--not to mention every magazine article I've read in the past decade-- might all be right. So I repented of my ways, and walked away from foods that spell cheese with a "z." I started choking down lots of chicken (the whole idea of eating bird just creeps me out, but if it's what you have to do to be healthy...). I snack on smallish handfuls of almonds. I "splurge" once a week with a small bowl of pasta & olive oil. I've been doing this for a year now. It's fine--I don't really mind it. But it's made absolutely no difference in how I look or feel.

So about a month ago, I faced the awkward truth that I must not be doing this right. All that chicken eating just isn't enough. I could hear Oprah whispering in my ear, "You need to work out more--a couple of times a week ain't gonna cut it!" So for the past month, I've been doing hard time at the gym. I run three miles (approximately two-and-a-half miles longer than I've ever run before) 3-4 times a week. I life weights. I do ab work.

And I've lost...are you ready??? One-and-one-half-pounds!!!!

Now, I like the exercise--running is great for a writer. But I'm seriously wondering if we've been sold down the river on this whole nutrition thing? What if it's all a lie? What if my body is dependent on the "z" in cheez to keep me up and going? What if I need trans fats? What if baloney is the anti-aging miracle we've all been searching for???

I think it's time to stand up to the Organic Farmers of America and say, "Bring on the baloney!"

Anybody with me?

(A note to the promotional folks at Cheez-It: if you'd like me to do a commercial, write an essay, or go on a nationwide tour to promote your product, you can reach me here).

New Kid On The Block

Hey everyone--Check this out: The Accidental Admin. Stephanie is a new friend of mine (she's at my old job, at my old desk, probably wondering why the file cabinet has four boxes of yellow highlighters, but no files...) She's had me laughing all day as we've swapped emails...I'm glad to see her taking her material to a wider audience! Stop by and welcome her to the blogsphere...

:)

On the road again...I can't wait to get on the road again

I've caught the travel bug. Heidi is coming to Boston next week, Stacy makes Michigan sound like more fun than Disney World, and my hubby and I watched a ridiculous movie last night (don't let the funny trailer fool you--this movie is pretty dumb) redeemed only by the gorgeous scenery that made me long to see the Pacific again. Plus, it's almost Fall. And everybody knows that Fall is when big, new, fun adventures happen (which, of course, requires shopping for new outfits, because one shouldn't look shlumpy on a big, new, fun adventure...)

Last week, I got my Fall 2007 adventure assignment: This September, I get to travel to two of the most creative places on the eastern half of the country: Nashville and New York City!

I am beyond excited. I've never been to Nashville. All I know is that some of my favorite music was recorded there, and some of my favorite singer/songwriter types (you know--the ones I'm not allowed to quote in my book) live within the city limits. It will take every last bit of restraint I have not to grab a phone book and taxi-cab around to introduce myself to all my favorite artists. (I realize, however, that this would probably be a great way to get a tour of Nashville's local jail facilities, so I'll try to keep myself in check. ) Still though--how exciting for a writer to go to a city where so many amazing lyrics have been written? (Lorrie Morgan's classic country hit, "What Part of No Don't You Understand?" is the only song that has ever made me laugh so hard I had to pull over to the side of the road in my car so I didn't cause an accident...)

And then there's the Big Apple. Creative ideas just hang in the air there, like fruit waiting to be picked. New York brings it's own behavioral challenges though...it will be awfully tempting to pack my collection of Red Sox t-shirts :)

I love to travel, especially in the Fall. And, oddly enough, my favorite trips are usually within the United States. I've had great opportunities to visit other countries, and yet there is something awe-inspiring about landing in a place that is still America, but feels a bit like a different planet. I'm not one of those people who longs to spend hours in a museum or admiring the local architecture to understand a city. I'd rather hang out on a beach or in a bar or at a little table outside the local coffee shop, and talk to the people who live in this new place. That's my idea of happiness.

What is something unique about where you live? The people? The places? What is the best thing you've seen in our great country?

What's your big adventure for Fall?

Some things are just fun to say

We were hanging out with friends last night and couldn't help noticing that our friend Dan walked in with a bit of a gimp. Concerned, we asked if he was okay. "I'm fine," he assured us with a sheepish grin. "I've been playing a little too much Wii..."

Have you guys heard of Wii? I had, but only in the vaguest sort of way (sort of like how I've heard that that raising llamas is now a popular and lucrative pastime, and that our cars may soon run on corn).

Dan glowed as he told us about his new toy. "I played tennis for an hour yesterday" he said. "I made it to the pro level!" He was rubbing his arm as he told us; apparently he was nursing a Wii injury. "Tennis pros get tennis elbow," we acknowledged. "But not usually in their living rooms..."

This Wii thing had me laughing all night. First of all, it's just fun to say. And second, it makes me wonder why on earth I've been toiling away with the plasticine girls on The Firm video (watching them smile at me with those bizarre life is fitness faces as they heft dumbells to the sound of low-grade porn music) when I could be using that same time and space to become a tennis pro? What if my true athletic talent is household bowling?

I'm quite relieved to know that it's not to late for me to become a professional athlete...there just might be a Nike endorsement deal in my future :)

What sport would you play, if Wii was in your living room?

My Personal Trainer: Paula Deen

I'm quite certain I belong to the only gym in America that thinks it's a good idea to broadcast the Food Network in the cardio area. Today, as I slogged through my three miles, trying to convince myself that adding an incline to my workout would be fun, fun, fun, Paula Deen was looking out at me with that coy Southern smile, as if to say, "You silly girl. Get off that treadmill and get yourself some vittles!"

What was Paula making, you ask? Was she perhaps doing a segment on "Healthy Home Cooking" or "Low Cal-Carbs: A Girl's Best Friend"? Um, no. While I ran and ran and ran my way to nowhere, Paula made a big pan of baked macaroni and cheese. Then she cut the mac & cheese into squares, and wrapped the squares in bacon. Then she covered the bacon-wrapped mac & cheese squares in breadcrumbs and--I'm not making this up--FRIED the suckers in a vat of boiling oil. 375 degrees, according to the temperature gauge on the fry-o-later.

I'm guessing they don't invite Paula into the gym on the set of The Biggest Loser...

One odd, one end

Of all the things I've contemplated while imagining the world-wide publicity extravaganza for my forthcoming book, I never once thought of faking an appearance on Oprah. This guy, however, did.

Incomprehensible. I mean, sure, he was trying to generate buzz...but if you don't actually go on the show, you don't get the signature Oprah coffee mug! Why else would anyone write at book, except to get the mug??? (One of my professors was a guest on the O show. She got the mug. There's a chance I coveted it each and every time I was in her office. Just a chance.)

In happier news, we saw Music and Lyrics this weekend. Honestly, if you haven't laughed in awhile, the opening scene alone will change the direction of your life. The storyline did some damage to my dreams of writing my own music and lyrics so I can quote myself in future books, though. I mean, if the ability to keep plants alive is an integral part of being a good lyricist, I may well be out of a job...

Happy Birthday Blog!

My blog is one today!

In honor of this milestone, here is a repost of my first-ever blog entry. I'm pretty sure only my sister saw this tribute to my dentist the first time it appeared (and I'm believing there won't ever be another post involving me and the dental profession), so I hope you enjoy!





The First-Ever "Golden Saucer" Award: Dr. Baine

I am maniacally afraid of the people who poke at our gums for a living. Years of torture at the hands of two sadistic orthodontists and a vicious tool called “the bopper” left me unwilling to submit myself to the semi-annual cleaning and “you really should floss” lectures recommended by the ADA. I did enough time in that chair between the ages of five and twelve to last a lifetime.

But recently, I felt a sharp pain in one of my upper molars. Sort of like the pain I felt five years ago, the one that meant I had a big fat cavity crying out for a shot of Novocain and a long half-hour of quality time with a drill. Fraidy-cat that I am, I know that when you ignore a cavity you end up with an appointment for a root canal instead, so I called my husband’s dentist like a brave girl and told them I’d be in in a month.

Yesterday was the day. All morning I chatted with God, asking him to make this event go well – for the dentist to be in a good mood, for pleasant background music to distract me from the grinding. Right before I left I added, “You know God, if you want to just make it so I don’t have a cavity at all, that would be great too.”

I slid reluctantly into the chair and opened my mouth a half a centimeter, and the very nice Dr. Baine started to poke around. He told me to let him know when it hurt, so I grabbed the arms of the chair and prepared myself for a blinding pain to shoot through my skull. It never came. After five minutes or so, Dr. Baine rolled his chair back and asked, “This pain – is it up by your gum line?” I nodded.

He handed me a tube of Sensodyne and sent me on my way.

So my now-beloved Dr. Baine gets the very first “Trish's Dishes Highlight of My Week” award - I think I'll call it THE GOLDEN SAUCER - in the unexpected/never to be repeated category of Dental Treatment. And Yay God for the answered prayer :)

She writes the songs that make the whole world sing...

...but you still can't quote her in your book.

This is what I've learned this week. (Last week was the em-dash, this week it's dashed hopes.)

I listen to a lot of music, and I've read Elizabeth Wurtzel's PROZAC NATION more times than I can count. This is, it turns out, a dangerous combination for a new memoirist. You see, Wurtzel used lots of song lyrics. Dozens, possibly even hundreds of little snippets from this or that song litter her chapters, capturing whatever mood(s) she might have swung through at the moment she was writing.

I liked this idea. So as I wrote, and my moods swung, I took note of what was getting heavy rotation on my playlist, and which lyrics encapsulated the precise question or dilemma or fear I was trying to describe from some section of my life. I found some gems. Cindy Morgan singing about the years she spent trying to find herself: "I put a call out to Buddha, but he never called back..." The Indigo Girls admitting, "Ran as hard as I could, still ended up here...." Nicole Nordeman asking God, "Help me believe, cause I don't want to miss any miracles..."

I love these songs.

Now I understood, when I sprinkled these lyrics across my manuscript, that I'd need permission to use them. And when the time came, I emailed the "permissions" people at each artist's label, confident that they'd be excited for the extra exposure. Unfortunately, though, I misunderstood how the system works. So here, because I know that some of you are writers too, I'll pass along what I've learned:

Quoting songs costs money. Sometimes a lot of money. This isn't the artist's decision; it's governed by the licensing division of the record company. And while everyone I spoke to at the various labels was extremely nice and helpful, that didn't change the fact that the way things work in that industry doesn't lend itself to authors quoting lyrics freely as we write, thinking, "Won't so-and-so be happy to see her song raved about in my book!"

So the songs are gone from my manuscript, crossed out by my freshly-sharpened purple pencil. They're still getting heavy rotation on my playlist, though, which makes me think that perhaps I could put together an official iTunes soundtrack for the book?

If the last year of YOUR life had a soundtrack, what songs would be included?

September 9th, 9th Baby...

I'm still knee-deep in copy edits, but I had to log on real quick and share some sources of inspiration that have made me smile:

First, if you're wondering if anything really fabulous could ever (ever) happen to make your artistic dreams come true, check out this story about singer/songwriter Lori McKenna. She's a Boston girl, so I love her automatically. But she's also a mother of five kids who has been doing the local music scene for years. Then...she gets discovered by Faith Hill. Yep, THAT Faith Hill. I'll let you read the rest, but trust me, it will pick you up if you've hit that place where you're certain your life is far too mundane to ever be fabulous and exciting.

Then, if you need a giggle, check out this YouTube video, starring three of my favorite kids. Part of what makes me laugh is that this was filmed while the boys' parents were on vacation. My friends returned home and couldn't figure out why their young sons kept talking about "Rolling in my 5.0" Hysterical. This is all part of a video contest promoting our Fall Kickoff, so if you think the little Vanilla Ices are entertaining, be sure to leave them a comment, as the video with the most comments wins...cash. $500 (or 5G's as the boys would say).

Okay, back to my purple pencil!

Happy Weekend!

I just finished Alison Pace's latest book, THROUGH THICK AND THIN, and I have to say...she had me with the dog on the cover. I've never been one of those people who will buy any book about any subject if the publisher simply includes a photo of a Great Dane or a Cocker Spaniel on the front. But the pointy-nose creature on the front of TT&T looks, ever so slightly, like THAT DOG when she was a puppy. (You know, before her front legs grew longer than her back legs and we spent eighteen months or so wondering about her genetic heritage. And her stability while running.) Anyway, all that to say, I might have grabbed TT&T off of that front table at Borders even if I hadn't read Alison's two other great books. But I'm okay with that...

Because this is, in my humble opinion, her best yet. I loved this story--I loved the way she developed the characters slowly, so it was like meeting real people; I loved her descriptions of Meredith's disappointing dates (it's like a primer on the concept of "show, don't tell"); and I loved the descriptive one-liners she tosses in at the end of scenes that sort of sum the whole thing up--not just what the characters are thinking, but what I've thought, when I've been in those kinds of situations myself. (I'd offer an example of this, but I failed to fold down the corners to mark all the lines I loved. Why don't I fold corners? I own the book--I'm allowed to fold the corners!) Suffice to say that my copy of TT&T will look a bit like origami after I read it again.

This also, furthers my theory that dog ownership is an incredible helpful facet of successful writing, right up there with having a sharpener for your colored pencils! Do they teach these important things in writing programs???

If the shoe fits...that still doesn't mean you can run in it

A few of you may remember that about this time last year, in the early days of this blog, I ventured out to City Sports to get new running shoes. I posted about how surprised I was by the whole "do you/don't you pronate?" conversation, and how I was then told that the only shoes that would make it possible for me to even walk down the street were so ugly that I felt compelled to sprint every time I left the house. It was an interesting strategy, as far as fitness goes.

Well, the good news is, I ran in those ugly shoes. Not very far, and not very fast. But I ran. You might even say that I'm in training. You see, I have a dream... My dream is to do Swishy's 5K challenge (provided I can do it on a treadmill, or in a place like Kansas where it is very flat...) Not just because she's promising awesome prizes (okay, maybe a little) but because I've never run this far in my whole entire life. Pitiful, huh? The truth is, I've always been a sprinter, not a distance girl. My events were the ones with the word "dash" in the title. And as I look back on that, it occurs to me that as much as my dashing ability was celebrated in my school days, it might have been nice if some grownup, at some point in time, had taken me aside and said:

"Sweetie, here's the hard truth about running: No matter how much you love it now, eventually, you'll need to branch out beyond the dash. Dashing will be of almost no help when you're older and need to fit into tight jeans. To fit into the jeans, you've gotta go the distance. Not only that, but for the majority of your twenties and thirties, you will be surrounded by well-intentioned people who will tell you, as a means of encouragement, 'Remember--life is not a sprint, it's a marathon...' They will think this is helpful. They will have no idea that essentially, they are telling you that your particular skill set is unsuitable for adult life and that you should just give up..."

That's okay though, because I'm finally catching on. Life is not a sprint...it's a 5K! I even went back to City Sports to get new sneakers. (There was a new guy there...he assured me, in direct contradiction to his colleague from last year, that I am indeed a pronator, and I need all the support I can get. To which I can only say, AMEN!)

Swishygirl, get my prize ready!!!

:)

Smarter than when I woke up this morning...

The manuscript of my book arrived this morning, with copy-edits for me to review. Yikes. Let's just say that I owe the production staff at Hachette Book Group a round of drinks the next time I'm in NYC....

It wouldn't be so embarrassing, actually, except for the blasted em-dash.

What's an em-dash, you ask? It's a stylistic little piece of punctuation which I used--incorrectly--on almost every page of my manuscript. ALMOST EVERY PAGE. I'm surprised the copy-editor didn't put a hit out on me.

There is, apparently, a bit of debate between proponents of the em-dash and fans of its lesser-loved cousin, the spaced EN-dash. But I can't even claim to be a victim of this cross-fire. No. My chosen way of setting off my random thoughts - the open-space-en-dash - (which I just demonstrated, for what I promise will be the very last time) is used only in Germany, and certain parts of France, neither of which I visited while working on this book.

I am duly humbled.

To cheer myself up, I went to Staples to buy colored pencils for my editorial notes. I found a lovely box of twelve different colors, and rushed home to my manuscript, ready to get to work. I pulled the plastic off the box, debating if I should make my marks in purple or orange (green and blue were already taken by the aforementioned production editors for whom I'll soon be buying drinks), when my momentum came to a horrible standstill...

The pencils were not sharpened. None of them. Unlike the picture on the front of the box, which featured several SHARPLY POINTED, READY TO USE PENCILS, all of my new pencils were flat-bottomed and artistically inert. Sigh.

Steve and I do not, so far as I know, own a pencil sharpener. And while THAT DOG has eaten a pencil or two in her day, she's not exactly noted for her precision. I might have an eyeliner sharpener from a Clinique promotional lying around somewhere; if not, I probably won't have time to post tomorrow. You know, because I'll be whittling.

From Massachusetts to Maine, by way of Chicago

Did I mention that before I went to Maine, a friend and I went here?

I'd identify said friend but she was too embarrassed to admit that we were going to see Oprah's digs...She asked the doorman at our hotel, "How do we get to 1735 Washington Street?" (or whatever the address is - I don't remember). He looked at us like we were from mars until I fessed up that we were headed for HARPO.

Anyway, we found O-land, snapped some quick pics to remind us how one really should shower and nap before going out into the world after a long flight, and then we even got kicked out. But that's another story...

:)

Great Expectations

(WARNING: Philosophical Musings ahead...)

When we drove up to Maine for vacation last week, I brought along some pretty big expectations. Not of me or Steve or my sister or her family - I knew we'd have fun just hanging out and making each other laugh (Meg, by the way, gets the credit for the comment in Monday's post about how that turkey vulture must have sensed our hopes dying - she's easily the funniest person I know). Instead, the "Great Expectations" I had were of God. I needed to hear from him on a few specific matters, and I fully believed that if I was going to drive five hours into the mountains to meet with him, the least he could do was show up with some answers.

Yep, that's me - all reverence and piety.

On our first morning on lake Mooselookmeguntic, I walked down to the water with coffee balanced precariously in one hand, Bible and notebook in the other, and sat down on one of those folding chairs, waiting to HEAR FROM THE LORD. I prayed something to the effect of, "Okay God. I'm ready for my epiphany!" then waited for a flurry of activity to hit my spiritual in-box as God downloaded his directions and plans for my future.

At first, I heard nothing. I stared up at the fog-covered mountains, waiting for wisdom to come. Then the wind picked up and waves lapped noisily against the shore, and some bird started chirping - incessantly - from the birch tree over my head. A chipmunk ran by. I wondered if one of these was a sign - you know, if symbolically "the tide was coming in in my life," or "wisdom would be chirped forth from above." But I gave up on this silly idea before I got to the chipmunk; it seemed like one more example of the many ways I try to shove things that aren't what I wanted into a shape that doesn't suit them at all.

A day or so later, God finally checked in. His profound message? "Live." He told me to put down my pen and paper and go play Jenga with my nephew. He told me to challenge my sister to ping-pong ("In this game, we're all losers!" we exclaimed with glee as our flailing shots bounced off the ceiling, the walls, and the dog). He told me to engage in some marital relations with my handsome hubby, float in the lake until my fingers pruned, and then read a book that wasn't something I could write off on my tax return as "research."

Now I'd love to report that all this living ultimately gave me the answers I was looking for that first morning on the dock; that I returned home with a new confidence about which direction to head off in as I wrestle with whether there will be a Book #2, or how many dinner plates will be set around the Ryan family table in the future. But nope. That's not what happened. And yet in some strange way, all this living bolstered my great expectations of God, trusting that he has answers to these questions, and I'll know when I know that I know.

Until then, I've got a bunch of laundry to do, all caked with sand and mud from a lake in the middle of nowhere.

It's time to live.

What are your great expectations?

Mooth Looking

I think it's a fair indication of how much I needed a vacation that I left two posts about my deodorant difficulties up for ten days and thought nothing of it...what a treat for folks visiting my blog for the first time! (I'll have to check Statcounter to see if I got any hits from people Googling The Secret who found themselves in the midst of my Ocean Breeze/Glacier Mist dilemma).

Anyway...vacation was AMAZING. What a week. I woke up in Chicago Sunday morning, flew to Boston, then Steve and I drove further north into the woods of Maine than I ever thought possible.

My sister and her husband (both of whom are much more nature-savvy than I am; they even registered at L.L. Bean for their wedding...) found a house to rent on Mooselookmeguntic Lake. And yes, it took me the better part of the week to figure out how to pronounce it. The area is known for beautiful sights, scenic hikes, and amazing waterways, all of which recalibrated my inner world into a much more balanced place. We spent hours floating around on Styrofoam noodles, looking up at mountains and miles of ice-blue sky (my sister and I also worked hard on our synchronized noodle-swimming routine, but that will remain our little secret until someone in the family learns to use Youtube).

But the big fun in Mooselookmeguntic - the wild nightlife, so to speak - is, as the name implies, moose-looking. (Or, as my four-year old niece says, mooth-looking. I made her say it over and over again, just because it made me smile). Now, we were nothing if not dedicated mooth-lookers. The journal in the cabin we rented told amazing tales of people who had seen 8, 10, even 12 moose in their visit; my humble goal was to see just one. (EVERYONE in my family has seen a moose, except for me. My father even saw one once on the golf course). We drove for miles up and down back roads, country roads, dirt roads... And yet for all our efforts, we saw nothing. It got to be a running joke, as we wondered if perhaps the Moose were attending a convention in New Hampshire?

My sister took this picture of me towards the end of one of these trips, where the closest we came to encountering nature was when I made her pull over so I could pee. (The term "scenic overlook" has new meaning in our family). At one point we thought we saw a bald eagle circling above us, but then Meg said, "Oh. Hmm. No - that's a turkey vulture." A turkey vulture. "I bet it's preying on our dying hope..."

That night, Meg and her husband went out to dinner. Steve and I had just put the young-uns to bed when we heard tires screeching into the driveway, and my sister flying up the stairs. "Come on!" She yelled frantically, "There's a moose!" "Let me get my shoes," Steve said. "No shoes!" Meg said, herding us into the X-Terra, "There's no time!" We jumped, barefoot, into the truck (leaving my brother-in-law standing in the yard holding two cartons of leftovers) and Meg took off down the road. And there, standing in a ditch munching grass, looking a bit bewildered by the headlights and semi-hysterical squeals of glee coming from our vehicle, was a moose!

It looked like God's first draft of a horse.

Now, like all good nature watchers, I had my camera at the ready, and snapped several pictures so I could share them with all of you. But as it turns out, you can't really take pictures in the dark through the windshield. So my hard-won souvenir looks like a piece of black construction paper. Oh well. The moose knows I saw her :)

But then, as the crowning touch on what was already a pretty fantastic week, Steve and I saw this as we started back home to Boston yesterday morning:



Yippee!!!

More fallout from the Target failure

I ran out of deodorant this morning when I was, um, halfway done, I guess you'd say. This is yet another item I failed to find at Target yesterday. In a stroke of relieved genius, I remembered that there was another almost-empty container of Secret in my travel bag, so I grabbed it. So today, if you stand to my left, you'll smell "Glacier Mist;" to my right, "Ocean Breeze." I guess that gives you choices, which is always a good thing. At the very least, this approach should confuse the bears.

(Again - If I categorized, this would be filed under "TMI")

Of Bears and Bullseyes

I just got back from Target. I went in with a list of approximately thirty-seven things I needed, and came out with a bottle of dishwashing liquid. Now, it's been a long time since I spent only $1.22 while visiting the Big Red Bullseye, so I probably shouldn't complain. But at the same time, I'm not sure the few ounces of Palmolive were worth the dash through the rainy parking lot (especially once I got home and realized that we use Dawn to wash our dishes).

Anyway...on a happier note...

We're going on vacation! We're venturing into the woods of Maine, further north than I've ever been. My sister just sent me a warning about bear sightings - how you need to wear bells to fend them off and not get eaten. (Target didn't have any bells, but I guess I could squirt the bears with Palmolive...) I'm not too worried about it, though. I spent the winter taking singing lessons from a friend who is a trained soprano. Sometime around week three, she kind of gave up. She stopped charging me, and made a point of singing extra loud so I wouldn't hear myself and get discouraged. So next week, if we see a bear, I'll just belt out a few lines of "You Are The Wind Beneath My Wings," which should be enough to create a nice little zone of safety around us. As a matter of fact, I bet that's what they used to do in the olden days! :)

(If I was savvy enough to categorize my posts, I'd totally call this one "wildlife management.")

Ways to embarrass myself that don't involve coffee

My amazing friend Dave sent out an email yesterday, announcing that he will be doing the Pan-Mass Challenge again this year to raise money for cancer-fighting research. (Some of you met Dave in a recent post by Lynette - he is one half of Impossibly Tall Rowing Couple.) When I read the email, I forwarded it to hubby Steve, saying something to the effect of, "We should make a donation," followed by bit of mushy stuff about how much I love him. All good.

Except that as it turns out, I didn't forward the email to Steve - instead, I hit "reply" and forwarded my thoughts of love and devotion to Dave. Sigh.

Fortunately, Dave has a good sense of humor. He agreed that we should make a donation, and assured me that he loves me too....I could almost hear Dave, his gorgeous wife, and their adorable daughter (aka Impossibly Tall Toddler) laughing from the other end of the Charles.

All that to say, if you want to support a great cause, and/or be motivated by one of the most athletic people I've ever met in person (he's actually doing an extended version of the race - you know, so he'll bike the FULL width of the state, rather than just 9/10ths of it) check out his site and make a donation. I'll leave it up to you whether or not you send him embarrassing emails intended for your significant other.

All you need is love...and some upscale wine & cheese

Check this out. Amazing.

Might it be possible?

I've been pitiful in terms of writing production lately. I have all these ideas - snippets, really, like tiny pieces of a much larger map. But so far, I'm not going anywhere. I'm certainly not coming up with anything substantive enough to generate 1,000 or 1,500 words per day (you know - so when Oprah asks me how I'm such a prolific writer, I can tell her about my "disciplined approach to my craft"). This morning, as I sat on my usual place on the couch, staring at all my favorite books on the shelf across the room, it occurred to me that perhaps my little shrine to other people's writing wasn't doing me any favors; that I'd made a bit of an idol out of all those pretty covers and stories that move or inspire me, which means that I start each day thinking about all the great writing other people have done, rather than what great writing I might be supposed to do. (Let that last sentence be an example of how far I've strayed from the goal...)

So I dismantled the shrine, leaving only the Dictionary, our wedding pics, and the baseball Steve caught off a foul ball pitched by Daisuke Matsuzaka at a Red Sox game earlier this season. My beloved books are now in piles on the floor of the office. It will be fun to see them up again in a few weeks, once I'm free of whatever misguided thoughts I had that being near other people's finished books would help me get started on mine :)

I'm also coming off a long reading dry spell, filled with books I couldn't bring myself to finish (don't worry, author friends - none of them yours! I was attempting to read some of the classics I missed along the way; apparently, I'm still not insightful enough to be swept away by their wonder...) But yesterday, I found some inspiration as I read another AMAZING novel by Anna Quindlen: BLESSINGS. I read her recent RISE AND SHINE last month, and loved it equally, if not more. What astounded me most about these stories was how detailed they were, in all the right ways. Her words captured the essence of the places, scenes, and people with exactly the right balance of show-don't-tell. And she gets the emotional pitch of family dynamics exactly right. Beautiful stuff. Not to mention that the stories were so good, I forgot to be a writer-in-training and was totally caught up in the characters.

Quindlen started out (and still makes a living) as a nonfiction writer; my parents have used her savvy Newsweek articles for years to initiate conversations with my sister and I to figure out what we think about everything from the latest political kerfluffle to the role of family in our growing lives. I'm amazed that Quindlen can write fiction AND nonfiction at the same time, all of it good enough to stand on its own merits rather than on her accomplishments on the other side. Talk about raising the bar!

I've always felt that fiction was beyond me as a writer - partly because I made enough dumb choices in my 20s to give me plenty of material for nonfiction, but also because I'm in awe of those of you who plot storylines on a big board with post-it notes, create people who aren't real (and yet by the time you're done with them, they totally are), and weave sub and sub-sub plots effortlessly through it all, tying everything up in the end. How do you do that? I feel like Anna Quindlen's little sister, following her around trying to learn to be a grown-up writer :)

Quindlen's example makes me wonder if there might not be more room than we think to write freely if we don't box ourselves in.

Feeling like Sally Field at that awards show...

The past twenty-four hours have brought some amazing, surprising highs. Thank you Allison, for this. Thank you Lynette, for this. It's stuff like this that comes along when you least expect it, changing the shape of your day from a flattened pancake to a round, sunny smile. For lack of a more elegant way to put it, I'm flabbergasted.

And, but way of full disclosure....my "Lord & Taylor" ensemble came from Target :)

The key to life (mine, anyway)

Yesterday's low point: Walking out the front door to drive to the gym and realizing, just as it locked behind me, that I wasn't holding my keys. Lamenting that we live in an area that's too citified (read: of uncertain safety) to leave an extra key hidden somewhere outside for just this type of circumstance. (My wise (and ever-so-slightly wise-ass) sister suggested that we hide a key in someone else's yard...I'll look around for possibilities when I go out later today, but the place with the Doberman is out...)

Yesterday's high point(s): First, the realization that this could be much worse. That on the scale of Trish's embarrassing mishaps, this might not even make the list... the weather was warm, I was fully dressed (it wasn't one of those January mornings where I take the dog out in my PJ's & flip-flops, looking like I'm on my way to a casting call for What Not To Wear) and Steve would be home in an hour or so. Second, deciding to take a walk to fill the hour. I found a secluded place at a nearby park (much prettier than the gym, I have to say) where I sat and looked out over the water, trees, birds, and other call-of-the-wild scenery. It was so relaxing. It helped me get past the whole "why do we live in the big scary city?" rant, and reminded me why this place is home.

Lemons, meet lemonade.

How about you? High? Low? (If you're searching for a High for today, just remember your keys when you leave the house. At least then you can say, "I'm more organized than Trish...")

Looking for definitions

Today, we'll start with a confession: when I put up the picture of Steve cleaning up my spills and splotches yesterday, I just thought the whole thing was funny. Embarrassing, but funny. But your comments made me see that more than that was going on; that Steve was appreciating what it means to be married to me - "counting the cost" as some might say - and deciding that it was worth it, even if we'll never be a wall-to-wall white carpet kind of couple. Thank you for the reminder :)

It came at a good time. As your comments trickled in, I was hip-deep in books about failed or failing relationships. I'm working on the proposal for Book #2 again, specifically a chapter about disappointment and betrayal (which is approximately as much fun as having a cavity filled. Necessary - even interesting at times. But not the most delightful way to spend an afternoon). I got all snarled up in a book about a woman who left her husband for a year to find herself, as if you can ever have a "self" wholly apart from the person you're married to, be he good, bad, or somewhere in between. (I know that isn't the prevailing sentiment in women's studies these days, but in my experience at least, if you're sharing a bed, a refrigerator, a mailbox and a TV remote control with a man you've pledged to love, honor, and cherish in sickness and in health, you're sufficiently intertwined that individuality becomes an almost silly notion. You can find your talents, your dreams, even your fabulosity, but you probably can't find your "self"). Anyway...

It made me wonder (to take us back to a happy place), what do we mean when we think of being loved, honored, cherished? What does that look like? For me (and I never would have guessed this), it looks like a man with a bottle of Multi-Purpose cleaner and a paper towel, seeing where his wife spent the day and laughing about it.

What does it (or might it) look like for you?

A Map of My Day

People who know and (claim to) love me say that I'm a little foggy in the morning. They suggest, with only the smallest of smiles, that the moments between my emergence from the bedroom and my first sip of coffee are the absolute best time to get me to agree to try camping, become a vegan, or to buy new iPhones for the entire family so none of us ever get lost again (or, if we can't figure out the map feature, at least we'll have music to make the wandering more pleasant). These seem like fine ideas to me first thing in the morning, because really, all I care about at that point is coffee.

My morning routine is quite predictable: Once I have my coffee, I shuffle back into the living room or bedroom, where I sip contentedly while God and I talk over the coming day. He reassures me I don't have to vacation in a tent or subsist on plant life; he tells me to wait a few months until the kinks have been worked out of the iPhone. This is my favorite part of the day, and not much keeps me from it.

Last night, my dear husband told me a secret: when he gets home at night, he can tell where I shuffled with my morning coffee, because I leave a trail of drips on the hardwood floor from the kitchen to wherever I wandered off to. I told him he was wrong. That's silly, I said, slightly indignant. I can't possibly spill that much. Then he lead me on a guided tour of little brown splotches all over our condo, like a google map of "Trish's favorite places."

"Yesterday, you had coffee on the porch," he said, wiping a splash off the back door. Sigh. Busted. Hee :)

Inspiration

I'm working on a new page for my web site, a page of inspiration I've found in unexpected places.

This past year of blogging has made me realize that there are different types of inspiration. Some things - the egg on our car, my love of chicken decorations, my niece's certainty that baloney comes from God - make me giggle. This is blog inspiration, the stuff that has me formulating posts in my mind as I'm brushing my teeth or logging time on the treadmill. The little things that make life fun.

But there are bigger things I come across, things that make me stop for a moment (or a week) and wonder if my perspective on life might need to stretch just a bit. These things don't just make me giggle, they change me somehow, or push me into some new way of approaching whatever it is I'm here to do. Those are the things I hope to capture on this new page, because let's be honest...when we're most in need of inspiration is when it seems most difficult to find.

And as I've spent the past few weeks immersed in the business side of publishing, the other side of my brain (left? right?) is agitating for pretty things, for quality time with artistic brilliance that isn't quantifiable. It wants to read poetry (I don't want to read poetry; I'm not that patient. But my brain, it wants some couplets, a haiku, and maybe even a new take on the classic, "There once was a girl from Nantucket"). It wants to spend an hour on iTunes pulling up old Crosby, Stills & Nash songs, remembering how I used to drive around the beach trying to harmonize with "Our House" , wondering if I'd ever find real love. It wants to get TiVo so I don't ever have to miss another Mia Michaels piece on So You Think You Can Dance.

What does your brain want?

Scrambled Egg

A bird laid an egg on our car the other day.

There are no trees near where we parked (unless said bird shot-putted the egg from the branches of the maple across the street) so we're not entirely sure how this happened. All I know is that we walked out our front door and Steve said, "Aw man - some bird yatted all over our car!" (aside: yatted just might be the funniest word I've ever heard for this) and when we went to clean up the damage, there were tiny, speckled bits of shell, right there in the yat.

When I told my sister about this, she made several (funny) comments about the loose morals of big-city birds. We wondered if perhaps the naive lady bird didn't even know she was pregnant (how else could an egg just fall from you when you're flying? In late June?) Now that the weather is cool enough to leave the windows open, I might just spend some time reading aloud from a book on the facts of life so that these chickadees don't end up in this kind of trouble again...

It's also possible that a gang of birds has decided they don't like us (or the way THAT DOG gleefully sprints for them like a scene from Born Free the minute I open the door, forcing them to scatter in every direction) and have targeted us for retribution, trying to drive us from the neighborhood. You'd think they'd love us - after all, we're the people who held up traffic on a four-lane road while a flock of Canadian geese and their fuzzy little offspring strolled across the street the other day. Of course, we had Chicken Romano for dinner that night, so perhaps these two acts cancelled each other out...

I'm in love

I am listening to Wild Hope this morning, the amazing new album by Mandy Moore. It's breathtaking. I saw her singing Extraordinary on TV last weekend while waiting for our flight to DC, and I couldn't believe it was the same pop princess who used to compete with Britney & Christina - her lyrics are gorgeous and real; entirely different than anything she's done before. If you've ever picked yourself up after a heartbreak, trying to put back all the pieces like Humpty Dumpty, this album is for you.

As I type, I'm listening to Latest Mistake:

There's part of me that wants an answer
And part of me that doesn't want to know
Part of you that I am in love with
And the part that I am willing to let go

This is a delicate unraveling
Now and then I find pieces on the floor
Tiny little bits that tell me
Maybe I shouldn't do this
Or love you anymore.

This is the real deal. Totally worth your time, attention, and $9.90 at itunes :)

Now I'm off to check out Kelly Clarkson's latest. Breakups are horrid, but wow - nothing fuels creative genius like that particular kind of pain. Projects like these remind me that God will use all the mud we've slogged through for something good, something we'll look back on and say, Now I get it. Now I understand...

Today's post, brought to you by the number 8

The lovely Alyssa has tagged me for a meme, so today you get 8 random items about me:

1. Hubby and I switched the bedroom around last night, to see if being on the other side might help me sleep better. The look on THAT DOG'S face when she wandered into the corner where her bed used to be and found only bare wood was priceless. Her furrowed puppy brow glaring at me, as if to say, "What have you done now?" I struggled not to giggle. Eventually we returned her majesty's bed to it's original location.

2. THAT DOG and I have moved 9 times and lived in 6 different states in her 11 years of life. You'd think she would have been okay relocating to the other side of the room.

3. When I meet new people, I can never remember what they do for a living. I remember every detail they tell me about their interpersonal relationships - if you hated the flower girl dress you were forced into for your Great Aunt Matilda's seventh wedding, I'll think of your story off an on for years. But I'll still have no idea what you do all day when you go off to work.

4. My first concert was Shaun Cassidy. Da doo run run yah, Da do run run.

5. On my wedding day, my hairdresser was so hung over that my updo looked like a third-grade art project. All I could say was, "Um, I guess let's attach the veil towards the top so it will cover it...." By the time of the ceremony, though, I didn't really care :)

6. I was born with WAY too many teeth. I'd had 13 teeth pulled by the time I was in 4th grade. Thinking about this now, I should be calling my parents HOURLY to thank them for investing in orthodontia.

7. I once wrote to a famous author who was leading a trip to Europe to ask if she'd take me with her as her assistant. The next thing I knew I was in the International Departures section of JFK airport, passport in hand.

8. I once won a trophy for walking in a T formation while smiling. It was part of a baton twirling competition, but I wasn't carrying a baton. I just walked and smiled. (I think "gifted & talented," is what they call it now when a child shows that kind of promise...)

My version of "The Office"

I woke up in the middle of the night last night thinking about superheroes and superpowers. Not sure why (maybe the buzz of being in DC makes one think about saving the world?) but it was fun to drift back off to sleep murmuring, "Wonder Twin powers - Activate!"

If you've read the "My Story" section on my website, you know that this superhero dream isn't new to me. Ever since I was a little girl, I've wanted a business card that listed the Hall of Justice as my work address. A nice office on the 7th floor, perhaps. Lunch with Wonder Woman. Aqua Man giving swimming tips at the office Christmas Party. Hearing the female interns swoon over Superman's muscles. That sort of thing.

The best part of the job, though (aside from the defeating of evil creatures seeking to destroy humanity, that is) would be seeing the resumes that came into the office from rogue superheroes looking to connect with a good firm. You know, the ones who had recently married or had a super-baby and needed a good benefits package to support the family. What a great way to spend the day, reading about other people's super powers, and getting to meet them.

Today's question: if you were to submit an application to the Hall of Justice, what would your superpower be?