No need for therapy

Here's my new discovery: The answer to the March blahs is...

Puppies.


These are not the actual puppies who effectuated my psychic rescue yesterday, just the closest approximation I could find online. But still, you get the idea, right? It is absolutely impossible to feel blah when you see creatures like this wrestling each other so enthusiastically that they don't notice the big hole THAT DOG dug, fall right in, and keep wrestling. Sigh :)

Happy Monday!

Simple or Complex?

I'm thinking about simplicity today. Not in the usual way--truth be told, the whole "live simply" thing drives me a bit bananas. I've spent most of my adult life looking for excitement. Exciting things are rarely simple, and I don't buy for a second the idea that organized closets really make us all that happy. Sure, we can find things easily when they're folded and labeled (we're selling our condo right now and have unexpected showings all the time, so I'm test-driving a pared-down and organized world that would make Julie Morgenstern proud) but how much does that really matter if we don't have interesting, captivating things to do, work on, fret or dream about? I think deep down, I like things complex.

And yet in small doses, I get the simple pleasure idea. I think yesterday's Barry Manilow post was part of that. But it can't be the whole thing--I mean, Mr. Manilow probably has a complex and interesting life, he doesn't just sit by the window all day singing "Mandy" or "Two Ships that Passed in the Night," right?

Not sure what my point is here, but that's today's deep thought of eternal significance :)

Maybe someday if I start a magazine, I'll call it Real Complex. (Although now that I see it in writing, that looks like something for people recovering from their inner child wounds. Never mind...)

Are you simple or complex? Do you like it?

At the Copa...

Those of you following me on Twitter know that I've been in a bit of a musical time warp lately, humming Barry Manilow tunes under my breath and thanking God I work at home where no one else can hear me. Mock all you want, but the guy knows how to pen a catchy tune, and in these gray days of March I'm all about anyone singing about Daybreak and letting the sun shine, shine, shine all around the world.

I received flowers on Saturday night--completely out of the blue--and I'm amazed by how much they've sustained me after spring hinted at it's arrival and then dove back under three days of weather than only the U.S. Postal Service enjoys. I don't know much about flowers; I can't identify many beyond a basic rose or tulip. But I'm really surprised by how happy this bouquet on my desk has made me over the past few days. It's like a visual reminder that this is just a gloomy season--it's not forever, spring ALWAYS comes--and that color like this will soon burst out all over the place. Let's just say that I'm ready for a burst of color.

The flowers are starting to get that musty smell now, so I think today is the last day of their reign in my office. But it's been nice having this pick-me-up to, well, pick me up.

In the midst of this, I'm reading a collection of essays by David Foster Wallace, who committed suicide last September. It reminds me that none of our pick-me-ups last forever, that we all need to find that thing that keeps us going long-term. I wish DFW had stuck around. I would have worked hard to finagle some sort of conversation with him--I mean, he conducted press interviews with big-name publicity outlets at his local KMart after one of his books came out. That's just funny. Instead, I'm reading everything he put to paper, and thinking about how capturing thoughts like this creates a legacy, no matter when or how your life ends. Grim, but strangely encouraging. Especially when I'm humming, Her name was Lola, she was a showgirl...

Okay, let's end on a happy note: What's your favorite Barry Manilow tune?

And she's back

I spent the weekend at a women's conference. It was one of those times I suspect I'll look back on in terms of "before" and "after," as I went there in one of those obnoxious, snotty moods that are almost ubiquitous here in March--frustrated, angry, certain that God had lost my file, wondering what on earth my life was about and quite sure that none of the scheduled speakers had anything at all helpful to say. You might say I was a bit attitudinal on that first night.

Then I spent three days having my attitudinal doors blown off. I'm a happier camper now, thanks to a host of of recalibrating realizations, wise words, and encouraging (and butt-kicking) conversations to get me back on track.

Today, the sun was shining, most of the snow had melted, and I'm looking at flowers some very loving friends surprised me with last night. It's good to be back :)

What do you do to get through the end of winter?

The Tax Man Cometh

I'm working on our taxes today. For writers, this is quite a process, especially in a year you have a book come out. The good thing is that there is income to report (YAY!!!) and expenses to deduct. The challenge is wrestling all those little receipts into some sort of order so that I'm not that frazzled woman with an overflowing shoebox full of paper when we head into the accountant's office.

I may download that Beatles tune to keep me company--both for the jaunty, stay-awake rhythm and the reminder that however complicated my taxes might be, Paul McCartney's are worse.

This is the one day a year where I voluntarily do math. Wish me luck :)

Spelling it right seems like the first step

I'm reading a book called A Resilient Life this morning. It's inspiring--a gentleman in his mid-60s talking about the way good, hard everyday decisions pay off in the long run, giving us the strength, stamina and overall je ne sais quoi that lead to that sense of liking who and what we are as we get older.

He talks about how a family friend once identified a "quitter gene" in his lineage, and how since that day he's spent a fair amount of energy resisting that tendency to give up. What's provocative (to me at least) is that all his hard work has been totally worth it, at least from his perspective. He's achieved many of the goals he set out for his life, enjoys good relationships with family and friends, and has a sense of overall fulfillment that we don't hear much about these days.

He asks this provocative question: What if satisfaction is more important than enjoyment in the long view of life?

The things that lead to satisfaction--discipline, forgiveness (asking for and giving), hard work, doggedness--seldom offer much in the way of immediate enjoyment. But they pay off in the long run with tangible results short term enjoyment can't offer. Books written. Teeth shiny. Body fit. Mind alive. (Okay, I know that's a strange list, but I'm just sort of blabbing this all out before I loose my grip on it and revert to something easy like how THAT DOG seems to be enjoying the new season of The Real Housewives of NYC).

I want those things. But I battle the quitter thing, too. I'm not sure if it's genetics or simple laziness, but I can feel intertia pushing me, suggesting that perhaps tomorrow I might do this or that hard thing, but for today I should just relax...

Here's the question: am I willing to do the the hours of time in front of the computer with just a page and my thoughts (rather than my crew of blogger/facebook/twitter friends) that need to happen to write a third book? The gazillion treadmill sprints necessary for me to get back into my favorite jeans? The endless exfoliating, tweezing, flat-ironing and lip gloss application that keep me from feeling like the "before" footage from some makeover show?

I hope so. Because when I'm in my mid-60s, I want to write a book and say, "All that hard work was worth it. Every bit. Life is good." To do that, though, I need to do some hard work, right?

Today, I'm going to try. I'll let you know how it goes :)

Movie night

We tried to have a movie night last night. Complete failure. I borrowed movies from the library, feeling proud for being so frugal. But five minutes into the first one we realized we'd already seen it ("The dad fell in the well," Steve said, before there had been any mention of a dad or a well). And the second one was simply too bizarre to follow (apparently we lack either eternal sunshine or spotless minds.)

We switched over to DVR'd episodes of Leverage, a show that's ridiculous, but entertaining. I want to be the blond girl who can leap from high places, but I'm not sure a few highlights are enough to make that happen. Then we transitioned to Friday Night Lights. Holy misery, that show has gotten grim. It's good that they have so many low buildings in Dillon, TX or there would be a whole lot of jumping from buildings by non-blonds.

By that point, I was a little past tired, flying headlong into punchy. Steve and I actually had an entire conversation about creating THAT DOG a Twitter account, speculating about the multitudes that might follow. Truth be told, she knows the key to the happy life. Right now she's curled up in a ball on a pile of blankets at the foot of the bed. Later today she'll chew up a few tissues, chase a squirrel across the back yard, and engage me in a game of hide-and-seek with a rawhide chew (why does this ploy work on me? I don't even want the chew...) She's got leadership skills. If she only knew how to type...

(Missed) Photo op

I gave a talk at one of my favorite churches on Sunday. It was so fun. The topic was "Traveling Light"-- how we can walk out forgiveness and not be defined or weighed down by things from the past. As most of you know, this is a subject near and dear to my heart, and I'm always surprised by how sharing my messy, awkward history can be both funny and hopeful.

Our friend Moses was in the back of the room taking pictures while I spoke. The results were hysterical. I should have warned him, as it's not his fault: last year on my book tour, I learned the hard way that I make a bizarre array of weird faces when I speak, rendering me utterly unphotogenic. Put me in front of an audience and suddenly my face is like Jim Carey in The Mask.

Here's one of the "better" shots...


One can only imagine what the rest looked like!
(For those of you that know me--do I do this all the time when I talk??? Nevermind...not sure I want to know!)
Still though, it was totally fun.

What's the worst picture you've ever had taken?

Mauving on

He Loves Me He Loves Me Not has a new cover for the paperback edition (now available for pre-order on Amazon.) I didn't pick it, but I guess it's nice trip down memory lane for those of us who wore dusty pink to the prom.

In other news, I'm twittering now. Or trying to twitter. Struggling not to make internal jokes about how this makes me a twit.

Any advice? You can follow me here. So far we haven't gone anywhere yet, but I expect the bus to leave soon!

Going to the Dogs

We took the niece and nephew to see Hotel for Dogs this weekend. (Oh, to be under ten and have your whole body react to the sugar infusion of a few sips of root beer!) We had fun and they were very brave during the scary parts.

Me? Not so much.

WHAT is the deal with the plucky orphan theme in kid's entertainment??? (And don't even get me started about the sad death of that Golden Retriever at the pound...) THIS is why I my favorite movie is How To Lose A Guy In 10 Days. Nobody dies. Is that too much to ask for?

To All the Presidents, Everywhere

Happy President's Day!

I'll confess that this holiday doesn't make me think of our nation's top executive so much as it reminds me of my friend Ned. From the time he was a little kid, Ned wanted to be president. The best training for this, he believed, was to be president of smaller things so that when the time came to run the country, he'd be ready. So...

Ned was president of his junior high drama club, the math team, and his high school student council. As an adult he's been elected top dog of his local chamber of commerce and the committee to bring Christmas trees to kids in the hospital. He runs his condo association, a businessman's breakfast group, and the board of a local animal shelter. If you ever want to know who's in charge, look for the guy with the name tag that says "Hi, I'm NED."

I'm not sure he'll ever reach his ultimate goal, but still, I love what he's done. Setting his sights high inspired Ned to take on a lot of things he might not have bothered with otherwise, and I think the people who know him have benefited from his courage. I love the idea that we can still pursue wacky and outlandish dreams even once we're grown up.

So here's to you, Mr. President!

He's just that into her

Right now, as I type this blog post, there are two raccoons up on the three-story house across the street...balanced on top of the chimney...making the next generation of raccoons. It's like some bizarre, pay-per-view circus act. I mean, not only are they working without a net, they're perched over a 110ft. shoot that will plunge them into a fiery furnace if they slip. Yikes.

I called my sister, because she's the nature lover in the family (the only girl I know who did her bridal registry at L.L.Bean) She offered a different perspective: Valentine's Day is coming up, she said. Maybe watching the sun rise over the Boston skyline is the new "it" date in the romantic lives of small city mammals?

She has a point. The view must be spectacular. (Do you think they saw one of those articles about "keeping it hot" and took things a bit too literally?) And I thought the squirrel was strange...

One Random Thing

Have you seen that thing on Facebook, 25 Random Things About Me? I'm a fan of random things, so at first I loved it. But then the lists stared to pile up. Soon I had approximately 9,457,38 random things swimming in my head, and I lost track of who wants to join the rodeo, who eats cold hamburger for breakfast, and who went to kindergarten with one of the Backstreet Boys. So I decided to break this down into more managable information chunks:

Tell me ONE random thing about yourself. Funny, memorable, embarrassing, dull, obvious...you pick.

Here's mine: I just read this article by Peggy Orenstein about how paranoid we've gotten as a society about trying to keep kids "safe." It made me realize how glad I am that I grew up in a time before bike helmets, car seats, and the sad belief that salt and fat are bad for us (I still think they're delicious gifts from heaven designed to make our lives happy, but I know I'm in the minority....)

What's your one random thing?

Thinking Long Term

I meant to put up a new post yesterday, but I kept seeing the bit about Gladys and it made me laugh so hard I couldn't think of anything else to write. Steve and I agree that at some point, we're going to get a puppy or a fish or a gerbil and name it Gladys, so we'll think daily of this woman. "I love Jesus, but I drink a little..." Priceless.

(Okay, I'm pretty sure we won't get a gerbil. Rodents gross me out.)

I'm reading this book right now, which is a pretty amazing piece of work. The author, Caroline Knapp, lived here in Cambridge. When I first discovered her writing I was thrilled about this, and immediately began plotting ways to meet her. You can imagine my sadness to discover that she died several years ago, at the age of 42. But as glum as this made me--when you read a memoir, and then discover the person is no longer with us, it's a bit like losing a friend-- I was astonished by the productivity in her life, and how her work has outlived her. She has four books still in print. (And one you can get for $19 from "certain sellers" on Amazon). That's impressive.

So what's my point in telling you this? I'm not sure, exactly. Except perhaps that Gladys and Caroline have me thinking about what makes life--however much of it we have--work. I think a key for me is keeping a sense of humor, and building towards something that matters on most days. (Last night I attempted to make meatloaf for dinner, and I'm counting it in both categories.)

What would you add to the list?

The Gospel According to Gladys

"I love Jesus but I drink a little."



What can I possibly add to that? Now I know what to write for "religious preferences" on my Facebook page.

Truth In Marketing

I was at the hairdresser's the other day when the rep for their new hair care line came in to check on inventory. I mentioned to Andrea, the genius who wrestles my hair into submission every six weeks, how I liked the smell of the shampoo. She told me something about the type of protein in this product, and how it's better for your hair because it comes from humans, rather than vegetables. Overhearing us, the Rep came over and joined our conversation, describing how vegetable protein can build up on hair and damage it. "It's much better to use protein that comes from humans, so you don't have a problem with overproteination."

"I've never thought to worry about overproteination," I admitted, struggling to keep a straight face. Then I asked what seemed like the next logical question: "How do you get the human protein?"

Silence. A panicked look crossed his face.

Me: "Are there rooms filled with women in third-world countries, all sitting over bowls and wringing the protein out of their hair to sell to Americans?" He didn't find that funny. Then the lady next to me said something about boiling hair to get the protein out, after which another hairdresser piped in with, "I thought they harvested it from dead bodies?"

The poor rep looked like he was going to pass out. I'm pretty sure he spent the weekend memorizing his fact sheets for "Answering Tough Product Questions." Really, though, he shouldn't worry too much. My favorite moisturizer "Contains the proteins found in young, healthy skin!"

Makes you wonder what they mean by "found"...

Back to basics, I guess

A real estate listing I saw today:

"This exceptional home features a fully-peaked roof and sheet rock walls."

Seriously, walls are a feature now? And a roof with a point on top? (As my brother in law pointed out, what does it say about the floors in this place that they're not even mentioned?)

I'm calling our realtor first thing tomorrow to ask him to add "sheet rock walls" to our condo listing.

Chicken a la Trish

We're in the midst of keeping our condo really, really spiffy-clean so our realtor can show it to prospective buyers. There's a chance I'm finding this a little stressful. There's a chance I just pulled a container of chicken stock out of the refrigerator, only to have the top fly open, sending eau de poultry ALL OVER the kitchen. There's a chance I uttered an expletive. There's a chance I uttered five.

(And there's a chance THAT DOG now hears swear words as a call to arms...she came flying into the kitchen and set to work immediately, licking at the floor and cabinets...)

I'm taking the My Big Fat Greek Wedding approach to this fiasco, trusting that Windex will make everything better. It will, right?

Wise Words on Writing, Part 2

Here are the other pearls of wisdom Heather King shared with me about her writing process (and the questions they raise for me):

I might spend an hour at my desk, another day I might spend eight, but in a way, I’m always writing, even while I’m asleep. I’m pondering, sifting, experiencing, observing, making connections.

I just spent 10 days in New England with my family, for example, during which I didn’t write at all. I don’t keep up with the news much, and when I arrived home I read something about NY Times reporter David Carr’s Night of the Gun, which others are apparently touting as “saving” the memoir and which I, after reading a bunch of stuff about it, decided was complete bullshit. With my pent-up energy I went into a kind of fugue state, and spent probably 15 hours writing a 1600-word piece about truth in memoir, which I sent off the next day to the first place that came to mind, the L.A. Times op-ed page, and which was promptly rejected because they’d already run a piece about the book two weeks before. Which was disappointing, but it was 15 hours well-spent: hours of absorption, challenge, and joy. The ideas I honed will stand me in good stead.

The point is, something moved—in me, in the universe. And though that might appear on the surface to have been an impulsive act, I’m very aware of and controlled about my resources and energy. I have a pretty strict discipline of prayer, Mass-going, exercise, etc., which is exactly what has given me the freedom to write about exactly what I want, and, I believe, why I’ve been able to make a living (amazingly, and however meager) these last few years from my writing.

I particularly love two things about this:

First, the idea that we're writing even when we're not, as our mind sifts through all manner of stimuli, connecting things in unexpected ways. And second, the idea of being aware and in control of our resources. I'm great at the first part--writing even when I'm not writing. But the discipline part drifts in and out of my life like the tide, which is a bummer because I'm SO much happier when I'm in some sort of good routine.

How do you find the best shape for your days?

Heather King on motivation

You've heard me wax poetic about Heather King and her amazing memoir. A few months ago, I emailed her, asking (although I may not have put it in quite these words) for a kick in the butt--thoughts on how to keep on keeping on as a writer. Now, on the eve of REDEEMED's paperback debut , I thought I'd share her wise words. Here's part 1:

An interviewer asked me recently if I had any advice for aspiring writers, and I replied, “No. Either you have to write, or you don’t. If you do, you won’t need my 'advice'; and if you don’t, you’re doing something other than writing as I know it." I return again and again to this quote from Rilke’s Letters to a Young Poet:

"In the deepest places of your heart, acknowledge to yourself whether you would have to die if it were denied to you to write. This above all--ask yourself in the stillest hour of your night: Must I write? Delve into yourself for a deep answer. And if this shall be affirmative, if you may meet this earnest question with a strong and simple I must, then build your life according to this necessity; your life into its most indifferent and slightest hour must be a sign of this urge and a testimony to it."

So it’s not a matter of staying motivated: do you have to “stay motivated” to want sex with the person you love, to breathe? Rilke’s point is that you have to go inward; the motivation, if that’s the word—I like desire better—has to be to take writing literally as a matter of life and death, and to arrange your life accordingly. The way you arrange your life isn’t going to be the way I arrange mine, but that’s the beauty of it; our entire lives, each precious and unique, become an act of ongoing creation. I think what makes writing “hard” is when your goal is to get attention and praise for yourself, or some variation of that—which, trust me, I am as prey to, if not more prey to, as the next person. But if you’re burning to tell something, out of love for the world, for God, to give glory to Him; because you’ve gotten a taste of the “living water” and you’re on fire with astonishment and wonder, then nothing can hold you back. Your life will order itself, and so will your writing day."

What matters to you so much that you arrange your life around it?

My story of stuff

We're selling our condo. Which means we've spent the past three weeks decluttering, just like the folks at HGTV suggest. They have a point...when I start to think of this as someone else's future home, it just seems rude to leave my junk all over the place.

I'll tell you--nothing makes you realize your hidden pack-rat tendencies like preparing for a move. For example, I have suits I haven't worn in more than a decade. I don't want to wear them again--they were uncomfortable back then; I can only imagine what a day in them would be like now. But I save them because--say it with me!--What if I need them someday???

We have a blender, but we don't blend; a Pampered Chef gadget designed to stomp on veggies and cut them up, but our knives work just as well and are easier to clean; a pile of plastic plates and cups (who even knows where they came from?), but in the rare instance where I manage to cook something other folks might eat, real plates are clearly called for. Don't even get me started on the abandoned electronics that might work again someday, or the 72,496 plastic hangers I keep crammed into a bag in the basement.

My friend Opera Girl just moved. She told me, as we packed up her stuff, that she never realizes what she doesn't need until she moves into a new place--that her Goodwill drop is always after the move, rather than before. I can see her point. Who's to say I won't learn to love a blended smoothie in a plastic cup, as I suit up everyday to I craft brilliant prose on that electric typewriter? Stranger things have happened...

...but not that often.

Help me! What are your secrets for sorting, moving, and/or dealing with stuff?

Big Dreams Come True

I have an embarrassing admission, here on the eve of inauguration day. I was just reading my friend Dave's blog, where he talks about how powerful it can be to have a big dream, and to tell people about it (even if sometimes those people think you're nuts). This is what my whole life is about, in some sense--the idea that God gives us these audacious, crazy dreams than can only happen if we let Him help and guide us. Given this, I am stunned and mortified to realize that until just now, I've never read the full text of Martin Luther King Jr.'s I Have A Dream Speech. (Maybe I read it, but I've never READ it, if you know what I mean...)

If this is you, too, I'm posting it below. READ it. Think about how much of what MLK saw back then--in his heart, rather than with his eyes--has come true. Consider the possibility that the dream God put in your heart might be true someday, too. And then tell someone about it.

"And so even though we face the difficulties of today and tomorrow, I still have a dream. It is a dream deeply rooted in the American dream.

I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal."
I have a dream that one day on the red hills of Georgia, the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave owners will be able to sit down together at the table of brotherhood.

I have a dream that one day even the state of Mississippi, a state sweltering with the heat of injustice, sweltering with the heat of oppression, will be transformed into an oasis of freedom and justice.

I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.
I have a dream today!

I have a dream that one day, down in Alabama, with its vicious racists, with its governor having his lips dripping with the words of "interposition" and "nullification" -- one day right there in Alabama little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls as sisters and brothers.

I have a dream today!

I have a dream that one day every valley shall be exalted, and every hill and mountain shall be made low, the rough places will be made plain, and the crooked places will be made straight; "and the glory of the Lord shall be revealed and all flesh shall see it together."

This is our hope, and this is the faith that I go back to the South with.
With this faith, we will be able to hew out of the mountain of despair a stone of hope. With this faith, we will be able to transform the jangling discords of our nation into a beautiful symphony of brotherhood. With this faith, we will be able to work together, to pray together, to struggle together, to go to jail together, to stand up for freedom together, knowing that we will be free one day.

And this will be the day -- this will be the day when all of God's children will be able to sing with new meaning:
My country 'tis of thee, sweet land of liberty, of thee I sing.
Land where my fathers died, land of the Pilgrim's pride,
From every mountainside, let freedom ring!

And if America is to be a great nation, this must become true.
And so let freedom ring from the prodigious hilltops of New Hampshire.
Let freedom ring from the mighty mountains of New York.
Let freedom ring from the heightening Alleghenies of Pennsylvania.
Let freedom ring from the snow-capped Rockies of Colorado.
Let freedom ring from the curvaceous slopes of California.

But not only that:
Let freedom ring from Stone Mountain of Georgia.
Let freedom ring from Lookout Mountain of Tennessee.
Let freedom ring from every hill and molehill of Mississippi.
From every mountainside, let freedom ring.

And when this happens, when we allow freedom ring, when we let it ring from every village and every hamlet, from every state and every city, we will be able to speed up that day when all of God's children, black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics, will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual:

Free at last! Free at last! Thank God Almighty, we are free at last!"

What's your dream?

Tough Love on Memory Lane

Omigosh, I cannot wait to see the movie version of He's Just Not That Into You! I don't even know why--maybe I'm a glutton for punishment? It will probably be two hours of torture, a chance to relive all the times I refused to see that various hes just weren't that into me. You'd think, given my book and all, I'd have had enough of that by now. Apparently not.

I feel like this movie might mark some sort of turning point for women and dating and relationships. And let's be honest...we could use a turning point. I wonder, though: as much as the book launched a whole new vocabulary around male/female interactions, how often do we use the title phrase in the way it was intended?

Have you ever told a friend, "He's just not that into you?"
Has anyone ever said it to you?
How'd that go?

Salt doesn't make me light

Last March, I came out of the closet as a salt-a-holic. I confessed my weakness, threw out all the little packets of soy sauce lurking in our fridge, and went cold-turkey. Hooray for salt-free me.

For months, it went well. Admittedly, I never reached that fabled point nutritionists all insist is possible, where my taste buds "adjusted" and realized that the true flavors and textures of my food were subtle, wonderful, and oh-so-much more enjoyable without the salt enhancement. That, my friends, is simply a lie. But I lost that puffy look and regained my peripheral vision (which disappears when your eyes swell up--have you noticed?) So all in all, it was worth it.

Then last week, on a cold day when I was at home feeling gray and hungry, convinced there was nothing worth eating in our entire house, I found something bizarre in our cupboard: a small bottle of Lowry's Seasoned Salt. (And the fact that someone took the time to make a video review to sing this product's praises suggests that I might not be alone with my salt issues). I have no idea how the bottle got there--I didn't buy it; Steve has never heard of it. It's as if some salt demon showed up at our house and booby-trapped our kitchen.

Well, it worked. I was off to the races. Over the course of the next thirty-six hours, I had myself a salt extravaganza. I've made popcorn, butter & pasta, grilled cheddar cheese wraps...all liberally enhanced with LSS. Worst of all, through a mortifying process of self-justification, I convinced myself that Lowry's Seasoned Salt isn't really salt...it's Lowry's. Pitiful!

Today, I look like someone punched me in both eyes. My fingers are so swollen I can barely type. You don't want to know about my feet (Most people have "fat jeans" they keep for these sorts of days, but "fat shoes"???)

So here, before you, my blog family, I'm climbing back on the wagon (as fast as my swollen arms and legs will let me). I'm going out to the kitchen right now to throw away the Lowry's...lest succum to temptation and bake up this recipe for Hot Dog Casserole that popped up when I Googled Lowry's!

Tell me something you've successfully given up--coffee? chewing gum? exercise?

Chinese Woman, 107, Seeks First Husband.

What advice would you give this 107 year old aspiring bride about life and love?

Problem, meet solution

If you've been reading for awhile, you know we have an extra resident who likes to hang out on our deck. He's a bit of a party-boy, and has a way with the ladies.

I'm going to leave this article out there this afternoon, just to make sure he knows how good he's got it. (Still, he should be careful-I've got English blood somewhere in my family tree...)

Would you eat squirrel?

Important questions, important answers

I'll admit, it never once occurred to me over the course of the 2008 Presidential election to wonder about Sarah Palin's lip color. Which is odd, as I'm someone who wonders about these sorts of things (believing as I do that lip gloss is a gift from God and tangible evidence that he loves us).

But apparently everyone else on the planet was having this discussion, because I found the super-secret lipstick combination in perhaps the least likely of places...page 19 of this week's New Yorker. I'm fairly certain this is the only makeup tip I've ever found in it's austere pages:

"For a full day of wear, cover your (entire) lip with L'Oreal Automatic Lip Pencil in Nudes, soften with a brush or smudge it with your finger, and add a thin coat of Carmex. Top with a swipe of Chanel Glossimer in Giggle, and you are good to go."

Now we know.

THAT DOG Loves A Parade

I found Don Miller's new blog after hearing through the grapevine that he had a new puppy. There's not much that provides better blog material than canine hijinks, so naturally, I had to check it out. I got more than I expected, in the best possible way. His most recent post, about how friends of his started a neighborhood New Year's Day parade because their kids were bored and whiny, was too fabulous not to share. Enjoy!

(If it weren't garbage day here on my street, I'd be tempted to round up my neighbors right now...)

This got me thinking about THAT DOG'S first parade. It was Memorial Day, and a certain former President with a summer residence in my hometown was slated to speak when the parade stopped in the town square. THAT DOG was about five months old, and I'd brought her with me to "socialize" her (which is dogspeak for "do your best to make sure your puppy doesn't freak out around strangers." That I ever thought this necessary seems hysterical to me now.)

Right before the President's speech, THAT DOG made a lighting-fast move on a Reece's Peanut Butter Cup dropped from a passing toddler's hand. Before I could stop her, it was gone; she licked her chops and looked at me as if to say, "What? She dropped it...it was fair game..."

Chocolate is poison to dogs. I freaked out, trying frantically to calculate the ratio of chocolate to peanut butter in an RPC, wishing I'd paid some sort of attention in high school math class (or science class, or any class that teaches you how to eject swallowed food from a living creature's body), and watching THAT DOG for signs of convulsions.

I needn't have worried. As it turns out, THAT DOG is built for culinary danger. Her digestive system is essentially just one long tube passing from one end of her to the other. Four minutes later--just as the President began his speech--THAT DOG assumed the position...and deposited the peanut butter cup (along with whatever else was in her) in the middle of the town square.

It was her first (and thusfar only) act of political protest.

How about you--have you ever been in (or disrupted) a parade?

To meet or not to meet

Author Joshua Henkin (whose book, Matrimony was one of my favorite novels last year) just sent me a link to this article about his experience visiting book clubs as they discuss his book.

I did a few of these when my book came out. The ones where I visited in person were SO much fun--it was like discovering a roomful of new best friends (because honestly, what bonds women faster than discussing our romantic hopes and failures over a nice Chardonnay?) The phone in calls were a mixed bag, though. Some groups were open and friendly, and I felt like I was right there with them, laughing and considering different perspectives. But others were incredibly awkward, as if I'd somehow found out they were discussing my book and called in without warning to crash their party. I wasn't sure what to make of this, until I had this interesting conversation with a young mom I sat next to on a plane.

We were making the usual small talk. I was on tour for the book, so that came up, and I (trying to spare her from making the obligatory "Oh--I'd love to read your book!" comment) segued into my favorite conversational topic, asking "What do you like to read?"

She told me about her favorite authors, and recommended a few titles she'd really loved.

"Which author would you most like to meet?" I asked next, caught up in her obvious enthusiasm for escaping into stories.

"None of them," she said, a baffled look crossing her face. "I don't want to meet authors, that would give me too much information. What if I decide I don't like them? Or they see their stories differently than I do? That could ruin everything. If I like an author," she said, "what I really want them to do is stay home and write more books..."

This got me thinking. I LOVE meeting authors. The vast majority of them have exceeded my expectations in terms of how openly they share about their inspiration, their struggles, the funny little things that happen in the course of writing. And the ones who aren't nice are not nice in such a memorable, over-the-top way that it's still worth the time to drive out to meet them. When my book came out, I was excited to join the ranks of the fun, open authors, and excited to meet the people who had read my book. It never crossed my mind that they might not want to meet me...

But as I sat there on the plane, pondering the young mom's comments, I could totally see her point. And even Henkin admits that his scenic tour of book clubs has delayed completion of his next novel.

How about you? Do you like to meet authors (or other people whose work you've either loved or hated)? Or do you prefer to keep a wall between those worlds?

Another way to say: Game On

I just found this gem of a New Year's post on the blog of awesome author, Holly Kennedy. I'll link to it, but I wanted to quote her here in full because it's just so fantabulous:

"Whoop! 2009 is finally here.
A fresh start.
Time to kick away the stool and take some risks.
Time to focus on what's ahead vs. the puddles we may have had to jump in 2008.
If you're a reader, I hope you're in the middle of a gem of a book you didn't see coming.
If you're a writer, I hope the characters you dream up this year make your [work in progress] stand out from the masses.
And for everyone else, I hope 2009 is a year you'll never forget, in the best possible way."

Amen to that!
Time to kick the stool away, friends...happy January :)

(And when you find that gem of a book, let me know...I'm always looking for a new read!)

2009 !

Happy New Year!

2009 is off to a fun start here in Ryan land. I'm fighting off a bit of a cold, but it's the good sort of cold, if you know what I mean: I feel just woozy enough to spend the day curled up on the couch with a blanket, but not so bad that I'm forced to down knock-me-out meds 24/7. The upshot of this is that I've already read two very cool books on spirituality and life that have broadened my little horizons, which is for me the happiest way possible to start a new year. (I know, the cover on the second book looks incredibly grim...trust me, no one was more surprised than me to find such great stuff inside. If you like your spirituality straight/no chaser, these books are filled with stuff to keep you thinking for months to come.)

I realized yesterday that New Year's Day might just be my favorite holiday. It's a day of both relaxation and possibility, where we actually have the time we always say we want, to sort out our lives and decide who and how we want to be in the days to come. As someone who loves to think about the future, this is my kind of day off! And I'll confess, I'm pretty excited about 2009, both because of some fun things I know about (the paperback of He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not comes out in April, and we're planning a move to a new house between now and then) and some stuff I'm hoping for, but not sure exactly how it will all play out.

A friend of mine defines happiness as "when life exceeds your expectations." That's the kind of year I'm praying for in 2009--for me and for you, my fine blog friends. Happy New Year :)

Not today, apparently

My wonderful husband put out the recycling last night. He was SUCH a trooper, hauling it down three flights of stairs. There was lots of it, because we'd emptied out our fridge last week before traveling, opened a few presents, etc. Plus, I'm trying to be less of a pack rat, so I decided I could probably part with a few of the 14 early drafts I still had lying around of book #1. I hemmed and hawed about recycling these because--as any writer knows--you don't really want people seeing your first attempts at something; they're usually pretty embarrassing. BUT I'm also trying to care more about the environment (which sort of goes against the whole "be less of a pack rat" goal in ways I've yet to reconcile), so I couldn't throw 42 trees worth of paper into the trash (and yes, before you ask: I had printed on both sides). I reassured myself that no one would ever see them because they'd go straight into the truck the next day before dawn, and stuffed pages upon pages into that blue container.

I just got home from running errands. When I pulled onto my street, I made a grim discovery: today is NOT recycling day. What today is, on the other hand, is windy. Very, very windy--like a tornado in Chicago. Because of this, our stuff--including every page of those 14 early drafts--is now strewn out across our sidewalk, down the street, and into the lawns of all our neighbors. Given our peculiar location, it's entirely possible that our abandoned paper now covers three different cities in the greater Boston region.

It's going to be a longish afternoon.

Hibernating

Put a laptop in this bear's paws (and a giant mug of coffee by his side) and this is me for the next month. I keep telling myself that a publishing deadline is a gift, not a chore, and it's the truth. I LOVE having this opportunity, even though it feels risky and impossible right now. Like almost anything I've ever done that mattered, the work standing between me and my goal seems insurmountable. I've been here before--final exams in college, studying for the bar exam the summer after law school, trying to plan a wedding in two months. It's usually the most important things that seem completely unattainable. But here's what else I know: in the words of my friend Jon from law school (who used to nap while watching televised golf while the rest of us studied frantically), Things tend to get done.

I may have blogged about this before (probably around the time of my last impending deadline), but I'm happy to report that this maxim has never failed me. I'm leaning on it now. And in the moments I start to doubt, I remind myself of another bit of smart advice I heard from a guy I know: What is impossible with people is possible with God.

(When I woke up this morning, I told God that if he wants to stop by the cave sometime soon, I'm happy to squish over and make some room...)

With 2009 on the horizon, what are your impossible possibilities?

Good News, Great Advice

I found this yesterday, and it's kept me singing ever since:



Seriously, how fun is this song? I loved this movie when I was a little girl (although I can't help but wonder about how differently things might have gone for me had Kris Kringle mentioned--even in passing--that the direction we walk in makes a HUGE difference?) and it's interesting to see it through new eyes now that I am officially a grown-up. I think I'll make it my theme song for 2009.

Feel free to sing along :)

The second most exciting news I've received this week.

Have you seen this? THE BEDAZZLER IS BACK!!!!!!!!!!

When I was growing up, the Bedazzler was the one gift I longed for more than any other. It was a Christmas-only offering, part of a line of products by a company called Ronco. With Ronco, anything was possible: you could make elegant glassware from old soda bottles, scramble an egg inside its own shell, fashion potholders from worn-out sweaters...every craft dream you never had was within reach at Christmas, for just $19.95 + shipping and handling. But the best of all was this plastic gadget that allowed you to let your sparkly self shine through as you added rhinestones and sequins to your very own jeans, sweaters and jackets. I wanted one in the worst way.

Year after year, though, my parents told Santa to ignore this item on my wish list. We lived in Maine, and I was plenty bedazzled for those parts as it was. Mom and Dad saw how I'd be ostracized if I added sequins and rhindstones to my Fair Isle sweaters and plaid flannel shirts, and tried to head me off at the pass.

Ultimately, though, sparkle prevailed. My teen years were the late 1980s, which were the height of bedazzling, and once I was old enough to earn my own money, there were many catalogs willing to send me clothing that was pre-bedazzled. (Once in high school English class, my friend Matt put down my name as the definition for one of our vocabulary words. The word? Festooned.)

I'm heading back to Maine for Christmas, and the only sparkle will be in my eye. But who knows...maybe THIS year, Santa will bring me the Bedazzler? And in these economically challenging times, shouldn't we all ask ourselves: "Why buy new clothes when you can Bedazzle the ones you have?"

Here's to sparkle power...have a Merry Christmas :)

Playing Tag While I Ideate

My fabulous Jersey girl Jen tagged me. So here, for your reading enjoyment, are seven things you might not know about me. I'm a little baffled about what to write, given that I share almost everything here--once you've admitted to pulling your favorite hair clip out of the toilet, really, how much more is left to tell? But I'll give it a try.

1. I used to have nightmares and walk in my sleep. My sister was a trooper about this, always cheerful when I'd wake her at 3am to check my closet for evil intruders. (Once, I even asked her to investigate a giant pile of laundry in the middle of my floor. Because that's what evil intruders do, right? They burrow down in the laundry...) I am happy to report that this doesn't happen anymore--either the sleep walking or letting the laundry pile high enough that someone could hide there.

2. I'm listening to a podcast right now about male/female relationships, and the speaker just said that it's now common for junior high boys to have a picture of their girlfriend, in the natural, on their cell phones. I know this is supposed to upset me. But thinking back to myself in those days--the braces, the home perm, the strange pockets of chub bursting forth all over my body without warning--I can't help but wonder if that particular picture might have curbed teen "exploration" for at least a decade? Just a thought.

3. THAT DOG has acne. Not on her face. On her leg. What creature gets leg acne???

4. Toilet paper must come up over the top of the roll. I'm fairly certain the rotation of our planet depends upon our getting this right.

5. I stopped eating wheat the week before Thanksgiving because I was tired of buying Excedrin in bulk to fend off a never ending sinus headache. It's gone pretty well so far, but WOW, there are some scary websites and blogs out there on this topic. Apparently, wheat particles lurk everywhere--even on doorknobs. I'm not sure what to make of this.

6. A little sticker on our car says we next need to get our oil changed at 59,740 miles. Which is totally amazing, given that the car only has 7,514 miles on it. THAT, my friends, is some serious oil they gave us! (Or alternatively, there's some other Toyota driver cruising around greater Boston wondering how they're 52,000 miles past due...)

7. I took this cool test last night to determine my strengths. If you're looking for a fun change of pace to get you thinking about what's possible in your life, this is well worth the $14. One of my strengths is that I'm an "ideator," which reminds me of the IBM commercial where the executives cleared all the tables out of the conference room and are lying on the floor trying "to ideate." I know the commercial was meant as a slam, but every time I see it, I think, "That would be a GREAT way to work!"


I'm asking Santa to bring me one of those cozy neck pillows for Christmas :)

A purely theoretical question

Say you accidentally flushed your favorite hair clip down the toilet...
But, miracle of miracles, the toilet sent it back to you (almost like you were meant to have it!) with the new water. Would you:

a.) Wash the clip in your favorite antibacterial soap and thank God for plastic-resistant plumbing? or
b.) Throw the clip away and lament its loss forever?

(Did I mention that it's your FAVORITE hair clip?)

An Absurd Dilemma

There's a book I want to buy. Through a weird set of circumstances involving bookstore supply and coupon opportunity, I can get this book in either hardcover or paperback for the exact same price.

Here's where it gets embarrassing: Last night when we were out shopping, I was so stumped by this "predicament" (and I know: how big a problem can it be if there's no downside?) that I left the bookstore without buying either copy.

(And admitting this is in keeping with what I told a blogger friend recently about how I come up with something new to post about each day: "I just think of the stupidest thing I've done in the past 24 hours," I told him, "and write about that...." With this system, I never lack material.)

What would you have done?

Philosophical Thursday

Question: If you had these two choices about how your life would go, which would you pick?

Life #1: Leisurely, luxurious & slightly dull

Life #2: Adventurous, fulfilling & filled with people and situations that drive you up a tree

Now we know

If you're a Facebook friend, you know I had a little culinary learning experience yesterday. One should not, it turns out, mix cottage cheese in with scrambled eggs. There are few things grosser than CURDS (which are rather gross on their own) subjected to high heat.

The results were sufficiently disgusting that I think some sort of legal duty to warn attaches to my actions, so consider yourself informed.

I'm off to make some oatmeal. It might be bland, but at least it's not dangerous.

A rectangular package tucked under the tree = Christmas happiness

If you're looking to give books as gifts this year (and really, why wouldn't you be? A book is simply the best gift EVER) Borders is offering a buy one/get one at half-price deal this week that rather rocks. I suspect that if you Google "Border's Rewards" it will link you to the coupon.

I have big plans for my coupon. On my great-gifts shopping list:

DON'T YOU FORGET ABOUT ME: A NOVEL by Jancee Dunn (for friends who lived through the 1980s with me)

THE GEOGRAPHY OF BLISS: ONE GRUMP'S SEARCH FOR THE HAPPIEST PLACES IN THE WORLD by Eric Weiner (for someone I love who loves to travel and loves to laugh, but doesn't actually get out much)

LOTTERY: A NOVEL by Patricia Wood (for everyone who needs hope. This may just be the best story ever written about the unlikely triumph of the good over evil.)

TIME OF MY LIFE: A NOVEL by Allison Winn Scotch (for my friend who thinks Mr. Right got away)

LIFE'S A CAMPAIGN: WHAT POLITICS HAS TAUGHT ME ABOUT FRIENDSHIP, RIVALRY, REPUTATION AND SUCCESS by Chris Matthews (for an entrepreneur I know who wants to understand people and teamwork better).

DREAMING WITH GOD by Bill Johnson (for a spiritually-inclined friend who needs reassurance that how things are today isn't how they'll always be).

THE MIDDLE PLACE: A MEMOIR by Kelly Corrigan (if the funds allowed, I'd buy this for every Irish person I know. Given that my maiden name is Patricia Clark, though, you can see why I'll need to make some choices).

THE CURE FOR MODERN LIFE: A NOVEL by Lisa Tucker (for my friend who lives in Philly and will recognize all the landmarks, AND be encouraged by a story of how unorthodox choices can lead to good things)

In this spirit of Christmas book glee, I'm wondering if I can't offer something even better than Borders?

The other day I met a woman who said she'd given my book to a friend who had lost her hope of happily ever after. This got me thinking: if you know someone like this (or you ARE someone like this) and would like a copy of HE LOVES ME, HE LOVES ME NOT for Christmas, email me your address (Trishryanonline AT gmail DOT com). I have a few author copies left, and it would be fun to add them to the Christmas cheer :)

What's on your Christmas book wishlist?

Increasing the cost of air

The good news is that we bought a humidifier this weekend, so when I woke up this morning I did not have to use my fingers to forcibly open my dried-shut eyes.

The bad news is that through some strange twist in the economy of home appliances, humidifiers now cost about the same as what I paid for my first semester of law school.

What's up with that?

There was one choice with a lower price tag: It was a cute pig humidifier, with an .08 gallon tank that shoots steam out the pig's nose. It was only $40, and I'd have named it Baloney, which would have made me giggle on and off for at least three days. But I suspect that refilling Baloney every 45 minutes would have shortened the duration of his charm, and winter is LONG here in Cambridge. So we went with the more expensive model--it has no name, and no nose; it's altogether devoid of comedic value. Today, instead of giggling, I'm breathing deeply of our newly moistened air, seeing dollar signs of how much we paid per breath...

I still might name the thing Baloney. That's the first non-expletive that comes to mind when I consider the new cost of steam.

How not to be annoying

Gretchen Rubin, my favorite happiness expert, has a post on her blog called, "7 Tips to Avoid Annoying Other People." It's priceless, in no small part due to Gretchen's acute recognition that it's tough to be truly happy if everyone who meets you feels the immediate urge to roll their eyes and complain. But the best, best, bestest line in the post--the one that makes me want to claim Gretchen as my new BFF--is this self-aware statement: "As a person who scores low on Agreeableness, I'm not naturally very considerate."

How can you not love someone this forthcoming? I'm afraid to take the test, but I suspect I'm a low-agreeableness girl myself. Gretchen gives me hope.

So lets dish: what's the thing you find annoying...about yourself?

The secret life of girls

I just read this provocative article by social commentator/controversial boat-rocker Caitlin Flanagan. It made me fall in love with being a girl all over again. I haven't read the Twilight series yet, and probably won't get to it for awhile (I'm still recovering from last weekend's Lord of the Rings marathon, and I just spilled oatmeal on my computer. It hardened like a rock and will likely take me the rest of the day to clean off...) But this article makes me see why my friend, Up With People Girl loved these stories. It's not so much that we're curious about vampires; it's that we're curious about love.

I might be Enchanted, but I don't want that ring

We watched the whole Lord of the Rings trilogy this weekend. It was both spectacular and completely exhausting. (I'll go out on a limb and say that Peter Jackson could have used some editorial assistance on the third installment: four and a half hours is too long for ANY movie...especially when every emotional moment is dragged out in slow motion.)

That said though, the message of the story--the hundreds of little battles between good and evil each of us face as we try to get to our version of "Happiness in The Shire"? Amazing.

As I searched for a picture to illustrate this post, I was surprised to see websites like this one, where you can order a LOTR ring of your very own. Have these people seen the movie??? The whole point is that the ring will destroy you. Why would anyone order their own destruction over the internet?

(Actually, never mind...That's a much bigger question than I'm ready to wrestle with today...)

On a lighter note, on Saturday night, Steve went to the Bruins/Redwings game and I stayed home and broke up all the Hobbit watching with a girly diversion: the movie Enchanted. Loved it, loved it, loved it.

Isn't it interesting how the prince isn't always who we think he'll be???

Wonder Twin Powers, Activate!

If you could have any superhero power in the world, what would it be?

Agree or disagree?

'Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.
-Alfred Lord Tennyson

What do you think?

You know you're distracted when...

Last night I came into the living room where Steve was watching NFL football.
"What inning are then in?" I asked.
He stared at me like I'd lost my mind.

And I kinda have.

I'm in writing mode. Ninety percent of this "mode" takes place far away from my keyboard, as my brain churns through the various conversations, articles, movies, songs, and journal entries I've accumulated over the course of my life, fitting various pieces together into possible new combinations. Some are worth writing down, others not so much. But you never know when the next cool idea might pop up, so I let my brain do it's thing and try to stay out of complicated situations. On the inside, I'm like a computer (They say we only use 10% of our brain capacity, but this week I really think I'm up near 13 or 14%....) but on the outside? I'm a disaster.

As if to prove this point, I just went to the grocery store, and almost loaded my stuff into someone else's car. Here's what happened: I came out with my items, rolled the cart up to our RAV-4 (we call him "The Ravioli" to make him feel special, but really he's just like every third car in Cambridge), hit the unlock button, and opened the back gate. "Why is there a pillow in the car?" I wondered. It looked like the pillow back at home on my bed, the one THAT DOG was sleeping on when I went out. Then I saw something hanging from the mirror. It was gold-toned and flashy and most definitely not mine. "Omigosh!" I said out loud. "this isn't my car!!!"

I was mortified. I don't know why--it wasn't as if I was going to steal the pillow or the shiny gold ornament. I looked down the aisle of vehicles and saw MY ravioli, two spots down. I hustled my bustle, tossed my goods in the back, and took off, happy no one caught me. Sigh.

All I can say is, Lock your cars people...I'll be like this until February.

I don't get it...

This weekend was filled with things that baffled me.

I don't understand Budweiser's new ad campaign, which extoles their product's "Drinkability." Um, isn't that pretty much the bottom rung on the beer ladder? The last step for a beverage before "that stuff's undrinkable?" Even back when I was sneaking beers in high school, there were certain brews that were too gross for us (which was why my father was a GENIUS for stocking only Natural Light in our house--he never lost a single can...) I think most people are hoping for more than this lowest-denominator experience when they plunk down their hard-earned cash for a six-pack. (And before you declare me a beer snob, I'm a longtime fan of Miller Lite. "Great Taste! Less Filling!" Now there's a promotional campaign!)

I also don't understand the latest installment of Indiana Jones, which we rented this weekend. The ending includes A SPACESHIP??? I can't bring myself to believe Spielberg and Lucas signed off on this. Or Harrison Ford, for that matter. It's just too painful a lapse in creativity, and I'm waiting for someone to tell me the entire film is a rogue CGI creation by a couple of kids who got kicked out of MIT.

And finally, I don't understand my refridgerator. Specifically, the "Humidity Controlled Crisper." What is that about? We don't have a particularly fancy fridge--it came with the condo, and is basically the most generic GE you can buy, wrapped in stainless to make it look upscale. But it caters to the humidity preferences of vegetables, which strikes me as an odd way to instill glamour in an appliance. The previous owners apparently understood the value of this, as they scotch-taped the lever in place, guaranteeing their leaks and onions a permenant humidity level of six. (Whereas I've found that if I leave anything in those drawers for long enough to notice the humidity, they've outlived their usefullness as a food product...which is what led us to be cleaning out the fridge in the first place.)

Drinkability. Space ship endings. Humidity Controlled Crispers. Do you understand these things?

How do you rise above?

I'm listening to the first of a series of talks by our friend Bob Wilson, called "Living Above The Daily Grind." It has me thinking about all the things--from small frustrations (THAT DOG going outside seven times before she did what she was out there to do this morning), to real concerns (the bizarre refusal of my back to straighten out since late yesterday morning, leaving me lurching about like a 90 year old woman)--that wear down my enthusiasm about how cool life really is.

In the talk, Bob asks the question we're so tempted to wonder: "Is this really the best God can do?"
This has been a central question of my life since I was a little kid.

We all have coping techniques, some more helpful than others. What are yours? How do you live above the daily grind? And if you believe God can do better, how do you tap into that?

All God's Creatures

Steve and I went up to Maine this weekend to babysit for the nephew and niece. They were loving, fun, adorable, and it was (with the slight exception of two hours spent watching the dumbest kids' show Nickelodeon has ever come up with) a delightful experience.

Until the incident with the cat, that is, who will hereinafter only be refered to only as IT.

I think I've mentioned this creature before--IT was a stray that wandered into my sister's yard, and into the niece's heart. They love IT. I hadn't spent much time around IT, but my main goal was convince THAT DOG that IT wasn't a treat to be chased, subdued, and eaten in hearty chunks. Once that was established, it seemed we were all going to get along just fine.

Fast forward to 3:00am. Or 4:00. Or 5:00. Any of these early morning hours will do, because the same fantabulous game of feline fun was going on: IT would swat at, pick at, or crawl right up on THEIR DOG (a 100+lb. black lab who doesn't move about all that quietly when disturbed). He would move. She'd follow. There was growling and purring, swatting and huffing. Finally, at 5:00am, THEIR DOG was so riled up that he needed a moment outside, to relieve and collect himself. So I trudged downstairs to let him out. I opened the door and reached for his collar, only to see THAT $%##@ CAT streak right out past me into the soggy wet night. I was shocked, and furious. And baffled. How do you corral a cat???

So there I was in the yard, in my pajamas, desperately pelting Friskies at this doomed creature as it ran off into the rainy night. There's a chance I muttered some explitives. What am I going to do? I wondered. Where can I get an emergency backup cat before the kids wake up???

I went inside and prayed: "God, please bring IT back. Or at the very least, if the dumb creature gets eaten by some scary thing lurking out there in the woods, please don't let there be cat parts all over the yard, because I won't know how to explain that. Thanks. Amen."

IT returned just before lunch, to much rejoicing by the children. I went over to THAT DOG and said, "Next time we're here, have at IT..."

Hope Floats

I've hemmed and hawed about whether to post my reaction to our new President here on the blog. On the one hand, it feels so intrinsically part of who I am that it almost seems dishonest not to mention it. On the other, you don't come here for political opinions. I know this. And I've seen the laments of fellow authors who watched their readership plunge after taking too big a political stand on a platform given them to discuss some other subject.

And yet I feel like I have to talk about it: about how awed I am by Obama's intelligence...and his humility. I can't remember the last time we had anyone with this powerful combination in the White House. It excites me. It gives me hope. As I watch the response around the country and around the world, tears fill my eyes, and the refrain "We got it right..." repeats over and over in my head. This wasn't a normal election, and it wasn't, I suspect, about any of the things we thought it was. On the whole, I think we got it right.

Now, to REALLY blow my commitment to keeping things light and easy on this blog, I'm going to bring the Bible into the conversation! Why? Because it has two great suggestions for all of us, whether we feel like we won or lost in this election:

1. Fret not, it leads only to evil. Don't curse our country and lament about how we're all going to hell in a handbasket. Even if your greatest dream is that the Obama Presidency last only one term, it's okay to believe it might be a good term, for us and for our country.

2. Pray for him. He'll need it.

Thanks for humoring me.

I promise, I'll be back soon to tell you about how THAT DOG's new favorite game is to hide one of her toys somewhere and then bark at me incessently until I hunt it down. Almost like reverse fetch...
:)

November 4th. Finally.

I just voted. It was a little anti-climatic, to be honest. After two years of watching, waiting, and wondering (I try to keep hoping to a minimum in the political arena, as it seems better invested elsewhere), not to mention Palin Bingo, it feels a tad surreal to know that when I get back from SEEK class tonight, the election will finally be over. Finally! It just doesn't seem possible that the five minutes I spent today, filling out little circles with black pen in our elementary school gymnasium, is the culmination of this long, fraught campaign season. And yet it feels so good to know that it's almost over!

Truth be told, I was due for a calm day, as I was up late last night, tearing through the pages of Jane Eyre. Have you read this book? You must. It was the only classic I enjoyed in college, and now I remember why.

Small pleasures

I'm deep in the writing zone right now, and blogworthy material is tough to come by. How much can I share about rushing THAT DOG out to the back yard when she needs to be emptied, as I frantically try to keep hold of the thread of whatever subject I was wrestling onto the page? (Honestly, sometimes I'm tempted to squeeze her to speed things up a tad...I don't, but I'm tempted...)

Anyway, here are three things that have made me exceptionally happy over the past couple of weeks:

First, Allison Winn Scotch's novel, Time of My Life. I'd heard the buzz about Allison's new book, and was excited--in a guarded kind of way--to read it. There's such danger with highly touted books, the ever present question, "what if I'm the only one who doesn't get why it's such a big deal?" So I flipped the early pages with my guard up, almost like I was on a first date and afraid to get my hopes up. A few chapters in, though, my careful facade was tossed aside, and I was totally engaged in both the story (a fascinating concept: what if we got to redo our one "lost love"?) and Allison's handling of it, which was both bold and steady. This book is the real deal. I love how she started it...and I adore how she ended it. Brilliant. I see an "I was a guest on Oprah" mug in Allison's future :)

Second (and decidedly less glamorous) this soap. This is the best smelling soap ever. It has me looking for excuses to wash my hands.

And finally, Cashmink scarves. I love winter scarves, and these are amazing. I can't find the patterns I purchased anywhere online to show you, but I can tell you this: $16.99. That's a price that makes me happy, even more so because they're soft and warm and wonderful.

There you have it...the full spectrum of Trish's autumn happiness. Remind me in the spring to thank Allison, Softsoap, and V. Fraas for contributing to my success :)

Is there a verb "to turtle"? Turtling???

I'm retreating this week, like the turtle. Inside my shell I'll be writing, reading, thinking deep thoughts...and working on my gymnastics moves :)

See you next week!

Blast from my gymnastics past

This week brought a flurry of activity over at Facebook, where--out of the blue--I've found or been found by a bunch of friends I grew up with. Kennebunk High School was a pretty small place when we were there, so everyone knew everyone. Now, as we reconnect, amazing to see how all our lives have turned out. The most astonishing thing, though, is how many people look the same! It's like we're all still 18, only now we have better haircuts.

The zenith of this reunion frenzy, for me at least, is this horrifyingly fabulous picture! This is me at gymnastics practice, in a photo resurrected by a teammate. Oh, the embarrassment! I was a pitiful gymnast: afraid of heights, so nearsighted I couldn't see the vault until I'd almost run into it...you get the idea. I can't imagine why I needed the ankle wrap, because this was my ONE move on beam; the most strenuous thing I ever did to my foot during those years was to point it. We had some amazing people on that team, though, with serious skills--we were Maine State Champions, two years in a row. And I got to be part of it all based on...who knows...enthusiasm, maybe? It's amazing how far that can take you :)

Time to call in the big Gunn

I've been out searching for sweaters to fend off the coming cold. It's not going well. Mind if I vent?

First, WHAT is the deal with the proliferation of short sleeved items in the knitwear section of Ann Taylor? Store/Loft/Outlet--I've tried them all. Not a full sleeve anywhere. Have their designers ever been north of the Mason-Dixon line? Do they understand WHY we expand our wardrobe come autumn to include wool? To leave the sleeves off of a sweater is, in my humble (and shivering) opinion, to seriously miss the point.

And it's not just Ann Taylor. I've tried Macy's, Express, every store in the TJMaxx/Marshall's chain...Nothing. In desperation, I dove into the "these sweaters don't fit/look terrible/were ruined in the moth invasion of 2007" bag I found in the back of my closet. I pulled out several of the items, convinced myself that anything that warm (and full sleeved!) couldn't possibly look that bad, and put them back in my closet. Then Tim Gunn came along and ruined my celebration.

Have you seen the new season? So good! I love him. Even though he told a girl with similar proportions to mine--wearing a sweater almost exactly like one I'd just pulled from the discard bag to put back in the rotation--that she looked like a giant cableknit cube. Sigh. And her sweater didn't even have moth holes...

Today, those holey, ugly, pilled disasters went back in the trash. If you don't hear from me, it's because I'm huddled under a blanket, trying to keep warm. Hard to type from there...

Just like Laura Ingalls Wilder

I just fixed the hole in my favorite sweater. Without scotch tape, staples, or safety pins. A domestic victory!

(The next installation of my 9-part life story will be called "Little Condo in the Big City")

Food, folks, fun, fall

Oh, where to begin?

We had an amazing weekend, and my love of all things autumnal (including the word autumnal) was more than confirmed.

First, I drove to Maine to deposit THAT DOG for a visit with the niece, the nephew...and their new cat. This was THAT DOG'S first experience with a non-canine creature that's supposed to be indoors, and suffice to say she didn't warm to the concept. Upon seeing said creature, she responded in what was (in her eyes at least) the only appropriate fashion, howling in stunned alarm and chasing the cat up the stairs, down the hall, and cornering her under the bed. It was not one of those cuddly family moments you hope for, but at least no one got eaten. Sometimes you have to be grateful for small things.

After dropping THAT DOG off for her feline acclimatization, Steve and I drove to Ithaca, NY for the weekend, to spend some quality time with friends I met at the beginning of the book tour. Our running joke all weekend was that Ithaca is JUST like Cambridge...only without the stress, the crazy drivers, or the parking tickets.

If I had to sum up my weekend in three bits of life wisdom, here's what comes to mind:

1. When touring wine country (who knew Ithaca had wine country?) avoid the places with the giant Hummer Limos in the parking lot, especially if you see dozens of 20 somethings pouring out, shouting, "Bring on the VINO!" There are other, lovelier vineyards to explore.

2. It doesn't mention this on the label, but Tylenol is super-helpful when you're at a dinner party and your friends make you laugh so hard, for so long, that your face aches.

3. Don't eat at the Ponderosa off the side of the highway. Never, ever, ever. (But if you do, there's a Wal-Mart 35 miles east that carries a full selection of Tums).

But that all pales in comparison to what Steve and I really learned, which was that long drives are worth it when you get to spend time with great people and expand the scope of your world. (Of course, I'm not sure THAT DOG would agree, given that her world expanded to include an indoor cat...but I took her for a run on the beach on the way home yesterday, and I think that was her version of Tums, making everything better!)

A Golden Retriever at the Aquarium...and hurds of turdles

My sister and niece came to visit this weekend. My niece is five, and very sparkly. She's a girl who loves adventure. She's also a girl who knows what she wants. We went to the Boston Aquarium, where after 30 minutes of fighting her little way through the crowds to see Myrtle the Turtle and Sebastian the Shark, she looked up at us and said, "Can we go home and put on jammies now?" It was 3:30.

What's even funnier is that when asked which creature she liked the best at the Aquarium, she raved about Clancy... the Golden Retriever we met out on the sidewalk as we made our way home.

In grown up highlights, we found a FABULOUS new game called Bananagrams. We didn't find it, actually--it was a gift from our favorite Midwesterners who were in town on Friday. It's amazingly fun, but also (for me at least) mortifying. While playing with Steve and my sister, I had these brilliant moments:

"I could add LE to TURD and make...TURDLE!"

Then later:

"I can win this game! I've got all the letters I need to spell HURDS!"

Yep. Hurds of Turdles.

My sister's response? "Wow--your editor has her work cut out for her..."

Bingo!

No matter what your voting plans are for this November, this will keep you entertained tonight.

And for those of you who'd like to compete against your spouse/significant other/roommate, here's a link to a card for the other side (Biden doesn't have his own card yet, but tonight could change all that...)

Let's get those bingo skills in shape for our golden years :)