I’m married now and one month in, something is happening that I didn’t anticipate: I’m having an identity crisis. AGAIN. This one is precipitated by the fact that we’re buying a new house, since the 1,400 square foot structure we live in currently is perfect for one person, way too small for two—and mercilessly small for:
• Three (add the occasional stepdaughter Cody).
• Four and five (add the occasional nieces Samantha and Sloane).
• Six and seven (add the occasional quasi-nephews Spencer and Kyle).
• Eight and nine (add the live-in 40-pound Border Collie mix Winnie and her soccer ball—which we haven’t officially named—don’t ask).
I don’t know what it is about the process of moving that is has me questioning who I am, but it’s set a ball in motion that I can’t seem to get ahead of. At least not yet. Could it be that I am now sharing my office with a nine-year-old who looks to me for guidance and flexibility? The only person I’m used to doing that is my alter ego and all it’s offshoots–professional Jill, personal Jill, writer Jill, daughter Jill and, of course, little Jilly from childhood.
Unfortunately, there’s no getting around said crisis, because right now, when number three (see above) comes to visit, we’re in close quarters. Her room doubles for my office. There’s a sofa that opens into a bed and, when it does (usually for the entire weekend she’s with us), the only things moving around freely are Cody, the dog, and a few dust mites. If a 118-pound woman like myself (okay, it’s my blog, I can lie if I want to) spends too much time in there, she starts to feel like an elephant in a Port-A-Potty.
And that’s not good.
Suffice to say, sharing command central with a nine-year-old is about as stressful as sharing a sleeping bag with a rattlesnake. And would have anybody—over 40, newly married, and biologically childless, that is—re-evaluating their situation.
Yet, this is all through no fault of her own, as my stepdaughter is simply playing to type. Agile and lithe, she is a true nine-year-old. Forever slithering up and down our spiral staircase, hanging off the rails, going in and out of crevices, and throwing her kid stuff (crayons, toys, the potentially poisonous leaves from outside she likes to use for experimental purposes) all over the place.
She’s a multi-tasker, that one. We could all take a lesson. With indelible markers and a stack of my copy paper, she uses our special-order bed sheets as her drafting table. All the while, she watches Nickelodeon, tosses stuffed animals on the floor (even though Winnie likes to pull the stuffing out of them), and literally dances on my designer pillows (from Anthropologie, no less, cut to Jill with her head in her hands) which are typically sprawled across the floor within 20 minutes of her arrival.
In the meantime, I try hard to look elsewhere. Since I refuse to be a bad cliché—the person I never thought I’d be if I married a man with children—the evil stepmother, the spinster who doesn’t know how to co-exist in small spaces with a person too young to see a movie called “Little Miss Sunshine.” I hold my tongue and swallow my need to direct.
Instead of screaming, I try to simply mouth the words “DON’T TOUCH THAT” when Cody isn’t looking. And when she is, to be organic. To act natural. Who needs anger management? Not me. Who cares that her steaming mug of hot chocolate is precariously close to my $3,000 laptop? Whatever, that’s what I say. Who needs to access their email? I don’t need to know if I got that $5,000 project I was after—or if my editor thinks my novel is a set of minor revisions or a total rewrite. But if the Pilgrims lived without the Internet, well then, gosh darn it, so can I.
But sometimes, well, I’m only human. And I need to check AOL. So my natural gets stilted. And, my words come out strained, flanked by a set of bookend blue veins that pop like bolts on either side of my craned neck. I think Cody finds me amusing when that happens, because I am good at deflecting my real feelings. But I know there is way too much truth in jest. And I’m working on getting it in check.
Because, again, it’s not Cody’s fault. She’s a great kid. Terrific. Soulful and sweet, like her daddy. I, on the other hand, am a grownup who should know enough to let her ramshackle the room (within reason of course), if she wants to. After all, it’s not a five-star restaurant, a historical landmark, or a museum. It’s an 11 x 14 box in her house too. And just like everybody else, she needs a place of her own to go—and permission to breathe along with it.
But my recently constricting breath flow is the byproduct of a struggling identity. In my case, I know I can be, well, a bit uptight lately, trying to manage a SMALL household that’s no longer just my own. Still, it’s hard to shake the habits that have become part of my genetic compost. I’ve been a solo act for more than four decades and my stage is full of set points. I’m used to what I’m used to. Order. Closed up sofas. Empty cups. Outwardly showing everything, even my frustration.
I’m used to things being just so–Jill so–sans ransacking, interference, or hot liquids.
Yet, it becomes increasingly clear that approach just isn’t gonna work anymore. That I’ve got to reckon with the trickier side effects of my new life. Granted, they’re not nearly as bad as weight gain or e-coli, but can be at least as irritating as a runny nose.
See, beyond the joy of falling in love, gathering family, being a bride, and experiencing the gaiety of no longer having to go it alone, there is a whole new set of transitions to be negotiated. Like how to do with too little aloneness. Over-extension versus under-extension. How to share decisions on the structure of life with another person—where we live, how to live, what, why, and how often—when all you want to do is take a bath, read More magazine and fall asleep to the news.
The new Jill, the one who is married and full (versus single and, admittedly, hungry), has to balance the benefits of her new life with a whole new genre of compromise. Beyond fighting for a parking spot or spending a vacation day sleeping in, reading a book, and drinking coffee. Past a special assessment by the condo board, going short with my hair or agreeing on a new shade of highlights.
I have to compromise on letting my new family, from top to bottom, be themselves, without worrying about drowning my computer or ruining the linens. To let there be ink on the walls because that’s better than walls without anything. To ask things of me, like to relax, let go, throw a pillow over my head, or commit to doing something even if I’d rather stay home and lay on the sofa. I’m learning that life isn’t about keeping the edges neat. It’s messy and jagged—and, to me, signs of a life lived right. At least for now.
So what if an occasional “don’t touch that” escapes me. Single, married or otherwise, I’m not perfect. And no matter which box I check on my mortgage papers, to be honest, that’s quite all right with me.
———————————————————————————-
So we bought a house. It’s in the, gulp, suburbs. A fabulous suburb, but a suburb is a suburb just like jeans that dig into your stomach are jeans that dig into your stomach and the only way to stop the digging is to take them off.
But I’m not taking mine off any time soon. I’ll take the house, in the corner of a cul de sac and all. I’m going to shut my mouth and adjust. Make peace with the fact that our new house is in the suburbs. There. I said it again. This city girl lives just 35 miles north of the skyscrapers on Broad Street. Come off the highway, make a right and a left and a right and a left and after a long series of turns, drive right onto our street and into our development. That’s where my, no our, house is. Yes, they all look the same, but don’t judge a book by its cover. Puppies all look the same too, but they’re not. And I’m not—we’re not–either.
No soccer moms or dads here. The house may be closer to a center hall colonial than a third-floor vintage walk up but big deal. There are still no minivans here. And our fresh white walls and pale cream carpeting look like clean and ready canvas to us. All we need is time to roll out the paint.
Now if I could only get the new married suburban me (I’ll call her Bree) and the old single city me (I’ll call her Vivica) to agree. To reconcile their differences, and play nice in the sandbox in my dreams, well, that’d be honky dory. I say every night before I go to sleep: “Please. Ladies. Stop fighting!” Because if you don’t, I’m going to wind up writing this blog from cellblock number something, somewhere in the no-fault divorce state of Pennsylvania.
Last night:
Bree: What’s your problem? You’re married now. This is what you’ve wanted for years. And if you think you could ever find another man like Dan, you’re high. So zip it.
Vivica: I love Dan. But why do I have to give up my hardwood floors? Why is it an either or proposition? Why can’t we live like chic single hippie bohemians? Wear long skirts and tie dye tee-shirts? Buy all natural cosmetics? Shop the street vendors?
Bree: You live in Doylestown, not Santa Fe.
Vivica: They don’t take applications from people like me in the mommy club, you know.
Bree: So? Get over it already. Embrace your dwindling fertility. It’s a house. And frankly, you’re at that stage in life. You got a hubby, a step kid, family. Go ahead and have a fenced in yard. What’s the big deal? Miranda did it.
Vivica: Who’s Miranda? One of the ladies you met at the Central Bucks YMCA, Mrs. Mrs.?
Bree: Very funny. No, it’s the red head from Sex in the City.
Vivica: You’re not serious.
Bree: I couldn’t be more serious.
Vivica: Bree, Miranda is not real. See, this is what the suburbs do to the brain. They freeze it. Have you focus on things that aren’t there to keep breathing.
Bree: Have you looked in the mirror lately? She is YOU. Remember how Miranda didn’t want to move out of Manhattan, because she thought it defined her? But it was all she and Steve could afford. And she had to choose between her city life or a new life happily married to somebody she loved in the suburbs? They did a whole episode on it.
Vivica: I can’t believe you’re comparing me to Miranda—an idea in somebody’s head.
Bree: Oh, I beg to differ. the only difference between the two of you is that she’s taller, with shorter hair. Oh, and of course, the obvious thinner knees.
Vivica: I would never cut my hair that short. I think it made her look boyish.
Bree: Yes, but that was her style. And she wore it well.
Vivica: So I suppose once she moved to the suburbs, she wore a lot of tennis shoes and let her hair grow out so she could wear it in a pony tail.
Bree: Would that be so terrible?
Vivica: Admit it, you can’t wait to live in that big ol’ house in the suburbs.
Bree: You’re right. And what’s wrong with that. It’s a beautiful house. And I have a family to share it with now. I’m thrilled to pieces. What am I going to miss? Sleeping alone in a king size bed? Living in an apartment without a dishwasher? Trying not to walk alone on the streets after 10? At least now, if I choke on a chocolate brownie while I’m at home, somebody will find me.
Vivica: Oh, how easily you fling off single city girl life, you former you. Remember the woman who used to walk to work, rollerblade on the lakefront, ride the El, order a few SaBe rolls in for dinner? Or Mediterranean from Andie’s?
Bree: I do miss Andie’s.
Vivica: Remember their chicken kebobs? To die for. Do they even know what Babaganoush is in the suburbs?
Bree: Well, I did get fined for asking once.
Vivica: Exactly my point.
Bree: (Groan.) So what. I’ll mash my own eggplant. I’ll have a nice big kitchen and lots of fancy utensils to make it with. And A FAMILY to make it for. Besides, we haven’t been on rollerblades since Todd cheated on us with another woman—twice our age, I might add—and left us to be with her.
Vivica: Ooh, I thought we made a blood oath we’d never mention his name again.
Bree: Sorry, but you’re the one who brought it up.
Vivica: Jerk.
Bree: Sorry, Viv, but this is who we are now. We’re in the suburban stage of things. And it’s okay. It’s the circle of life. Evolution. We start out as young adults power-walking to work with a Coach briefcase and a pair of black leather Franco Sartos. And by the time we’re 40, we’re happy to stroll around the block with a Golden Retriever and a pair of Reeboks.
Vivica: At least you have the common decency to hold off on the whole sneaker and jeans ensemble.
Bree: Signals the alarm on my frumpometer.
Vivica: (Laugh) Oh, we are funny!
Bree: Finally something we can agree on!
(Guffaws. Then silence.)
Bree: You know a house is just bricks and mortar anyway, don’t you?
Vivica: That’s so not true. A house is a reflection of you. It’s the shell that people see when they enter your universe. It has to be different and funky and wild and so individual that people hear a stadium full of applause when they walk through the doorway.
Bree: Oh Viv, cut the writer crap. YOU—your personality, your spirit, the essence of who you are—is the real reflection of who you are. Not the house.
Vivica: Do you have any chocolate?
Bree: Don’t change the subject.
Vivica: You haven’t given that up too, have you?
Bree: Please, the world has not spun off its axis just yet.
(Silence.)
Bree: Hey, if it’s any consolation, I’ll still live close to Starbucks. Two even. One’s a drive thru. Does that count for anything? I can still walk to the ATM machine? The bookstore?
Vivica: Well, why didn’t you say so?
Bree: I guess I didn’t think of it until now. You’ve got my head spinning.
Vivica: Okay, but just one last thing.
Bree: Shoot.
Vivica: Will there be pillows in the new place?
Bree: In moderation. I don’t want to drive Dan away, after all, it took me long enough to find him.
Vivica: If he leaves you because of your pillows, well, then, you’ve lost nothing.
Bree: Oh sweetie, trust me, he ain’t leavin’ these pillows. (Finger snapping.) Uh uh.
Vivica: No you didn’t.
(Laughter.)
Vivica: Hey, I hear the mommy club is overrated.
Bree: Who told you that?
Vivica: You did. A few years ago.
Bree: Hmm. Guess we’ll never know for sure, though, huh?
Vivica: Just promise me one thing.
Bree: Okay, already, I’ll never wear white shoes after Labor Day or order a happy meal from the driver’s side of a 1999 Dodge Caravan.
Vivica: Not that.
Bree: What then?
Vivica: Now that you’re the Jewish June Cleaver, you won’t forget about the individual, the woman writer inside. The bohemian artist. The culture queen. The girl who spent as much time with her own thoughts and desires and dreams as she did buying lattes at Starbucks and shoes at DSW.
Bree: Oh Vivy.
Vivica: PROMISE!
Bree: You got it, girl. I’ll never go anywhere without you.
Vivica: Okay then I guess, well, congratulations.
Bree: Thanks, sister. That means everything.
——————————————————————————————
The other night, I woke up in a sweat, even though I sleep in a tank top and shorts. I look over at Dan, poor guy, in a fleece down to his knees and a pair of sweat pants. (Middle age is a bitch.) And then it dawns on me. I’ve got a problem. I shake him awake.
“What? Are you okay? Where’s Winnie? Is the door open?” He throws his two legs off the side of the bed and puts up his dukes. I notice only one of his eyes is fully open. So cute. Probably can’t even see his way to the bathroom. Yet he’s ready to fight to the finish.
“I’ve got a big problem.”
He gets back into bed. “We’re not being robbed?”
“No, baby. It’s worse.”
He rubs my back. “What is it, babe? Tell me.”
There a long silence before I say it: “I have too many pillows.”
I’m talking decorative pillows, the kind that fill up a sectional. That you have to move before you can sit. In all different shapes, sizes, colors, fabrics, and dimensions. Overpriced and underutilized. These pillows have defined me for all my single life. Because, I don’t know if you’ve noticed or not, but single women are highly predisposed to having excessive quantities of decorative pillows and cats. Now, I never got the cats (allergic to dander and their sneaky nature). But I got the pillows. And they must always be in just the right place at the right time. In fact, if one falls out of line, I can’t rest until it’s just perfect.
I get a great sense of accomplishment in fixing my pillows—fluffing them, whacking them on all sides so they’re even in perimeter and diameter and what have you. Laying them on another cushion just so. It’s a process I’ve been overseeing for as long as I’ve been paying my own rent. It caps off each and every evening, like a cup of weak decaf or a warm bath.
I stand up, fold any requisite throws, and plump and place the pillows. And, with one person, that’s been a quick and easy task. But with two, sometimes three, four, five, six, seven, and even a dog that doubles as eight (not to mention the soccer ball), well, it’s becoming burdensome.
I realize in my current nocturnal sweat, oddly shivering, that I’ve got to give them up. The pillows. There’s just no way around it. I look at the dog, sleeping on the corner of the bed. How nice for her. Delta sleep. Now I know what it looks like. In desperate need of something to hold on to, I grab her from the middle and pull her close. She opens her eyes, sneezes, untangles herself from my grip and lays back down in the corner without a bleep.
“That’s it?” Dan asks. “You have too many pillows? That’s why we’re up?”
“How can you be so insensitive?” I can’t believe I married this man. I wipe a little drool from the side of my lips. Thank goodness I have girlfriends.
“I’m not being insensitive but it’s 3:15 in the morning. Can’t we talk about the pillows when real people wake up?”
“I betcha Diane Sawyer is up.”
He sighs, drags himself out of bed and heads for the bathroom. I shout, “I’VE GOT TO GET RID OF THEM, DON’T I?” The dog starts to bark. She retrieves a bone from the hallway and brings it on the bed with her. I hear her carving away at its sides. “Winnie, not on the bed.” She ignores me.
“GET RID OF WHAT?” he says. I hear the toilet flush. He reappears in the doorway.
“The pillows. They’ve got to go, don’t they?” Winnie pushes the bone off the bed and then looks confused—like she wants it after all. We women are all the same. We just don’t know what we want.
He crawls back in bed and puts his arms around me, whispering in my ear, “Yes.”
“Yes what?” I’m crushed.
“Yes, you can get rid of those pillows.”
But I don’t know how. Where will be my soft place to land? And then he speaks, again, this voice that I pledged my life to.
“But only if you want to, okay? No pressure. Whatever you decide is okay. It’s all okay.” Then he kisses me on the side of my head, lies back down, and rolls over onto his side. The side he sleeps on every night. Facing away from me. But next to me. The backs of his ankles and his butt pressed firmly against mine.
I take a deep breath in and let it out quietly through my nostrils. I roll away from my husband, tingling from his touch. I’m having an identity crisis. Call the paramedics. See, not so long ago, I was a single woman, sad to have never had the experience of real commitment, to live a life without children. A part-time daughter, sister, aunt and best friend, living far from the people and places that laid the foundation for who I would become over a lifetime.
Now, everything is different. It’s wonderful different, but still different. And being a wife, stepmother, and full-time member of the family is like wearing skin from the body of another person. Sometimes, it’s a couch with the wrong cushions. Too sleek and super modern, instead of overstuffed and pleasantly worn, ready to hold me like memory foam, in whatever form I happen to be in.
But, as my wonderful husband, my so-right-for-me life partner, says: “It’s okay. It’s all okay.” In time, somebody else’s onion will peel like mine again, feel right, perfect, like a glove on a willing hand, layering fresh skin, one on top of the other, in a way that gives new meaning to the phrase, “love handles.”
For the first time in my life, I can honestly say I look forward to having them.
Until next time!
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I’m married now and one month in, something is happening that I didn’t anticipate: I’m having an identity crisis. AGAIN. This one is precipitated by the fact that we’re buying a new house, since the 1,400 square foot structure we live in currently is perfect for one person, way too small for two—and mercilessly small for:

• Three (add the occasional stepdaughter Cody).
• Four and five (add the occasional nieces Samantha and Sloane).
• Six and seven (add the occasional quasi-nephews Spencer and Kyle).
• Eight and nine (add the live-in 40-pound Border Collie mix Winnie and her soccer ball—which we haven’t officially named—don’t ask).

I don’t know what it is about the process of moving that is has me questioning who I am, but it’s set a ball in motion that I can’t seem to get ahead of. At least not yet. Could it be that I am now sharing my office with a nine-year-old who looks to me for guidance and flexibility? The only person I’m used to doing that is my alter ego and all it’s offshoots–professional Jill, personal Jill, writer Jill, daughter Jill and, of course, little Jilly from childhood.

Unfortunately, there’s no getting around said crisis, because right now, when number three (see above) comes to visit, we’re in close quarters. Her room doubles for my office. There’s a sofa that opens into a bed and, when it does (usually for the entire weekend she’s with us), the only things moving around freely are Cody, the dog, and a few dust mites. If a 118-pound woman like myself (okay, it’s my blog, I can lie if I want to) spends too much time in there, she starts to feel like an elephant in a Port-A-Potty.

And that’s not good.

Suffice to say, sharing command central with a nine-year-old is about as stressful as sharing a sleeping bag with a rattlesnake. And would have anybody—over 40, newly married, and biologically childless, that is—re-evaluating their situation.

Yet, this is all through no fault of her own, as my stepdaughter is simply playing to type. Agile and lithe, she is a true nine-year-old. Forever slithering up and down our spiral staircase, hanging off the rails, going in and out of crevices, and throwing her kid stuff (crayons, toys, the potentially poisonous leaves from outside she likes to use for experimental purposes) all over the place.

She’s a multi-tasker, that one. We could all take a lesson. With indelible markers and a stack of my copy paper, she uses our special-order bed sheets as her drafting table. All the while, she watches Nickelodeon, tosses stuffed animals on the floor (even though Winnie likes to pull the stuffing out of them), and literally dances on my designer pillows (from Anthropologie, no less, cut to Jill with her head in her hands) which are typically sprawled across the floor within 20 minutes of her arrival.

In the meantime, I try hard to look elsewhere. Since I refuse to be a bad cliché—the person I never thought I’d be if I married a man with children—the evil stepmother, the spinster who doesn’t know how to co-exist in small spaces with a person too young to see a movie called “Little Miss Sunshine.” I hold my tongue and swallow my need to direct.

Instead of screaming, I try to simply mouth the words “DON’T TOUCH THAT” when Cody isn’t looking. And when she is, to be organic. To act natural. Who needs anger management? Not me. Who cares that her steaming mug of hot chocolate is precariously close to my $3,000 laptop? Whatever, that’s what I say. Who needs to access their email? I don’t need to know if I got that $5,000 project I was after—or if my editor thinks my novel is a set of minor revisions or a total rewrite. But if the Pilgrims lived without the Internet, well then, gosh darn it, so can I.

But sometimes, well, I’m only human. And I need to check AOL. So my natural gets stilted. And, my words come out strained, flanked by a set of bookend blue veins that pop like bolts on either side of my craned neck. I think Cody finds me amusing when that happens, because I am good at deflecting my real feelings. But I know there is way too much truth in jest. And I’m working on getting it in check.

Because, again, it’s not Cody’s fault. She’s a great kid. Terrific. Soulful and sweet, like her daddy. I, on the other hand, am a grownup who should know enough to let her ramshackle the room (within reason of course), if she wants to. After all, it’s not a five-star restaurant, a historical landmark, or a museum. It’s an 11 x 14 box in her house too. And just like everybody else, she needs a place of her own to go—and permission to breathe along with it.

But my recently constricting breath flow is the byproduct of a struggling identity. In my case, I know I can be, well, a bit uptight lately, trying to manage a SMALL household that’s no longer just my own. Still, it’s hard to shake the habits that have become part of my genetic compost. I’ve been a solo act for more than four decades and my stage is full of set points. I’m used to what I’m used to. Order. Closed up sofas. Empty cups. Outwardly showing everything, even my frustration.

I’m used to things being just so–Jill so–sans ransacking, interference, or hot liquids.

Yet, it becomes increasingly clear that approach just isn’t gonna work anymore. That I’ve got to reckon with the trickier side effects of my new life. Granted, they’re not nearly as bad as weight gain or e-coli, but can be at least as irritating as a runny nose.

See, beyond the joy of falling in love, gathering family, being a bride, and experiencing the gaiety of no longer having to go it alone, there is a whole new set of transitions to be negotiated. Like how to do with too little aloneness. Over-extension versus under-extension. How to share decisions on the structure of life with another person—where we live, how to live, what, why, and how often—when all you want to do is take a bath, read More magazine and fall asleep to the news.

The new Jill, the one who is married and full (versus single and, admittedly, hungry), has to balance the benefits of her new life with a whole new genre of compromise. Beyond fighting for a parking spot or spending a vacation day sleeping in, reading a book, and drinking coffee. Past a special assessment by the condo board, going short with my hair or agreeing on a new shade of highlights.

I have to compromise on letting my new family, from top to bottom, be themselves, without worrying about drowning my computer or ruining the linens. To let there be ink on the walls because that’s better than walls without anything. To ask things of me, like to relax, let go, throw a pillow over my head, or commit to doing something even if I’d rather stay home and lay on the sofa. I’m learning that life isn’t about keeping the edges neat. It’s messy and jagged—and, to me, signs of a life lived right. At least for now.

So what if an occasional “don’t touch that” escapes me. Single, married or otherwise, I’m not perfect. And no matter which box I check on my mortgage papers, to be honest, that’s quite all right with me.
———————————————————————————-

So we bought a house. It’s in the, gulp, suburbs. A fabulous suburb, but a suburb is a suburb just like jeans that dig into your stomach are jeans that dig into your stomach and the only way to stop the digging is to take them off.

But I’m not taking mine off any time soon. I’ll take the house, in the corner of a cul de sac and all. I’m going to shut my mouth and adjust. Make peace with the fact that our new house is in the suburbs. There. I said it again. This city girl lives just 35 miles north of the skyscrapers on Broad Street. Come off the highway, make a right and a left and a right and a left and after a long series of turns, drive right onto our street and into our development. That’s where my, no our, house is. Yes, they all look the same, but don’t judge a book by its cover. Puppies all look the same too, but they’re not. And I’m not—we’re not–either.

No soccer moms or dads here. The house may be closer to a center hall colonial than a third-floor vintage walk up but big deal. There are still no minivans here. And our fresh white walls and pale cream carpeting look like clean and ready canvas to us. All we need is time to roll out the paint.

Now if I could only get the new married suburban me (I’ll call her Bree) and the old single city me (I’ll call her Vivica) to agree. To reconcile their differences, and play nice in the sandbox in my dreams, well, that’d be honky dory. I say every night before I go to sleep: “Please. Ladies. Stop fighting!” Because if you don’t, I’m going to wind up writing this blog from cellblock number something, somewhere in the no-fault divorce state of Pennsylvania.

Last night:
Bree: What’s your problem? You’re married now. This is what you’ve wanted for years. And if you think you could ever find another man like Dan, you’re high. So zip it.

Vivica: I love Dan. But why do I have to give up my hardwood floors? Why is it an either or proposition? Why can’t we live like chic single hippie bohemians? Wear long skirts and tie dye tee-shirts? Buy all natural cosmetics? Shop the street vendors?

Bree: You live in Doylestown, not Santa Fe.

Vivica: They don’t take applications from people like me in the mommy club, you know.

Bree: So? Get over it already. Embrace your dwindling fertility. It’s a house. And frankly, you’re at that stage in life. You got a hubby, a step kid, family. Go ahead and have a fenced in yard. What’s the big deal? Miranda did it.

Vivica: Who’s Miranda? One of the ladies you met at the Central Bucks YMCA, Mrs. Mrs.?

Bree: Very funny. No, it’s the red head from Sex in the City.

Vivica: You’re not serious.

Bree: I couldn’t be more serious.

Vivica: Bree, Miranda is not real. See, this is what the suburbs do to the brain. They freeze it. Have you focus on things that aren’t there to keep breathing.

Bree: Have you looked in the mirror lately? She is YOU. Remember how Miranda didn’t want to move out of Manhattan, because she thought it defined her? But it was all she and Steve could afford. And she had to choose between her city life or a new life happily married to somebody she loved in the suburbs? They did a whole episode on it.

Vivica: I can’t believe you’re comparing me to Miranda—an idea in somebody’s head.

Bree: Oh, I beg to differ. the only difference between the two of you is that she’s taller, with shorter hair. Oh, and of course, the obvious thinner knees.

Vivica: I would never cut my hair that short. I think it made her look boyish.

Bree: Yes, but that was her style. And she wore it well.

Vivica: So I suppose once she moved to the suburbs, she wore a lot of tennis shoes and let her hair grow out so she could wear it in a pony tail.

Bree: Would that be so terrible?

Vivica: Admit it, you can’t wait to live in that big ol’ house in the suburbs.

Bree: You’re right. And what’s wrong with that. It’s a beautiful house. And I have a family to share it with now. I’m thrilled to pieces. What am I going to miss? Sleeping alone in a king size bed? Living in an apartment without a dishwasher? Trying not to walk alone on the streets after 10? At least now, if I choke on a chocolate brownie while I’m at home, somebody will find me.

Vivica: Oh, how easily you fling off single city girl life, you former you. Remember the woman who used to walk to work, rollerblade on the lakefront, ride the El, order a few SaBe rolls in for dinner? Or Mediterranean from Andie’s?

Bree: I do miss Andie’s.

Vivica: Remember their chicken kebobs? To die for. Do they even know what Babaganoush is in the suburbs?

Bree: Well, I did get fined for asking once.

Vivica: Exactly my point.

Bree: (Groan.) So what. I’ll mash my own eggplant. I’ll have a nice big kitchen and lots of fancy utensils to make it with. And A FAMILY to make it for. Besides, we haven’t been on rollerblades since Todd cheated on us with another woman—twice our age, I might add—and left us to be with her.

Vivica: Ooh, I thought we made a blood oath we’d never mention his name again.

Bree: Sorry, but you’re the one who brought it up.

Vivica: Jerk.

Bree: Sorry, Viv, but this is who we are now. We’re in the suburban stage of things. And it’s okay. It’s the circle of life. Evolution. We start out as young adults power-walking to work with a Coach briefcase and a pair of black leather Franco Sartos. And by the time we’re 40, we’re happy to stroll around the block with a Golden Retriever and a pair of Reeboks.

Vivica: At least you have the common decency to hold off on the whole sneaker and jeans ensemble.

Bree: Signals the alarm on my frumpometer.

Vivica: (Laugh) Oh, we are funny!

Bree: Finally something we can agree on!

(Guffaws. Then silence.)

Bree: You know a house is just bricks and mortar anyway, don’t you?

Vivica: That’s so not true. A house is a reflection of you. It’s the shell that people see when they enter your universe. It has to be different and funky and wild and so individual that people hear a stadium full of applause when they walk through the doorway.

Bree: Oh Viv, cut the writer crap. YOU—your personality, your spirit, the essence of who you are—is the real reflection of who you are. Not the house.

Vivica: Do you have any chocolate?

Bree: Don’t change the subject.

Vivica: You haven’t given that up too, have you?

Bree: Please, the world has not spun off its axis just yet.

(Silence.)

Bree: Hey, if it’s any consolation, I’ll still live close to Starbucks. Two even. One’s a drive thru. Does that count for anything? I can still walk to the ATM machine? The bookstore?

Vivica: Well, why didn’t you say so?

Bree: I guess I didn’t think of it until now. You’ve got my head spinning.

Vivica: Okay, but just one last thing.

Bree: Shoot.

Vivica: Will there be pillows in the new place?

Bree: In moderation. I don’t want to drive Dan away, after all, it took me long enough to find him.

Vivica: If he leaves you because of your pillows, well, then, you’ve lost nothing.

Bree: Oh sweetie, trust me, he ain’t leavin’ these pillows. (Finger snapping.) Uh uh.

Vivica: No you didn’t.

(Laughter.)

Vivica: Hey, I hear the mommy club is overrated.

Bree: Who told you that?

Vivica: You did. A few years ago.

Bree: Hmm. Guess we’ll never know for sure, though, huh?

Vivica: Just promise me one thing.

Bree: Okay, already, I’ll never wear white shoes after Labor Day or order a happy meal from the driver’s side of a 1999 Dodge Caravan.

Vivica: Not that.

Bree: What then?

Vivica: Now that you’re the Jewish June Cleaver, you won’t forget about the individual, the woman writer inside. The bohemian artist. The culture queen. The girl who spent as much time with her own thoughts and desires and dreams as she did buying lattes at Starbucks and shoes at DSW.

Bree: Oh Vivy.

Vivica: PROMISE!

Bree: You got it, girl. I’ll never go anywhere without you.

Vivica: Okay then I guess, well, congratulations.

Bree: Thanks, sister. That means everything.

——————————————————————————————

The other night, I woke up in a sweat, even though I sleep in a tank top and shorts. I look over at Dan, poor guy, in a fleece down to his knees and a pair of sweat pants. (Middle age is a bitch.) And then it dawns on me. I’ve got a problem. I shake him awake.

“What? Are you okay? Where’s Winnie? Is the door open?” He throws his two legs off the side of the bed and puts up his dukes. I notice only one of his eyes is fully open. So cute. Probably can’t even see his way to the bathroom. Yet he’s ready to fight to the finish.

“I’ve got a big problem.”

He gets back into bed. “We’re not being robbed?”

“No, baby. It’s worse.”

He rubs my back. “What is it, babe? Tell me.”

There a long silence before I say it: “I have too many pillows.”

I’m talking decorative pillows, the kind that fill up a sectional. That you have to move before you can sit. In all different shapes, sizes, colors, fabrics, and dimensions. Overpriced and underutilized. These pillows have defined me for all my single life. Because, I don’t know if you’ve noticed or not, but single women are highly predisposed to having excessive quantities of decorative pillows and cats. Now, I never got the cats (allergic to dander and their sneaky nature). But I got the pillows. And they must always be in just the right place at the right time. In fact, if one falls out of line, I can’t rest until it’s just perfect.

I get a great sense of accomplishment in fixing my pillows—fluffing them, whacking them on all sides so they’re even in perimeter and diameter and what have you. Laying them on another cushion just so. It’s a process I’ve been overseeing for as long as I’ve been paying my own rent. It caps off each and every evening, like a cup of weak decaf or a warm bath.

I stand up, fold any requisite throws, and plump and place the pillows. And, with one person, that’s been a quick and easy task. But with two, sometimes three, four, five, six, seven, and even a dog that doubles as eight (not to mention the soccer ball), well, it’s becoming burdensome.

I realize in my current nocturnal sweat, oddly shivering, that I’ve got to give them up. The pillows. There’s just no way around it. I look at the dog, sleeping on the corner of the bed. How nice for her. Delta sleep. Now I know what it looks like. In desperate need of something to hold on to, I grab her from the middle and pull her close. She opens her eyes, sneezes, untangles herself from my grip and lays back down in the corner without a bleep.

“That’s it?” Dan asks. “You have too many pillows? That’s why we’re up?”

“How can you be so insensitive?” I can’t believe I married this man. I wipe a little drool from the side of my lips. Thank goodness I have girlfriends.

“I’m not being insensitive but it’s 3:15 in the morning. Can’t we talk about the pillows when real people wake up?”

“I betcha Diane Sawyer is up.”

He sighs, drags himself out of bed and heads for the bathroom. I shout, “I’VE GOT TO GET RID OF THEM, DON’T I?” The dog starts to bark. She retrieves a bone from the hallway and brings it on the bed with her. I hear her carving away at its sides. “Winnie, not on the bed.” She ignores me.

“GET RID OF WHAT?” he says. I hear the toilet flush. He reappears in the doorway.

“The pillows. They’ve got to go, don’t they?” Winnie pushes the bone off the bed and then looks confused—like she wants it after all. We women are all the same. We just don’t know what we want.

He crawls back in bed and puts his arms around me, whispering in my ear, “Yes.”

“Yes what?” I’m crushed.

“Yes, you can get rid of those pillows.”

But I don’t know how. Where will be my soft place to land? And then he speaks, again, this voice that I pledged my life to.

“But only if you want to, okay? No pressure. Whatever you decide is okay. It’s all okay.” Then he kisses me on the side of my head, lies back down, and rolls over onto his side. The side he sleeps on every night. Facing away from me. But next to me. The backs of his ankles and his butt pressed firmly against mine.

I take a deep breath in and let it out quietly through my nostrils. I roll away from my husband, tingling from his touch. I’m having an identity crisis. Call the paramedics. See, not so long ago, I was a single woman, sad to have never had the experience of real commitment, to live a life without children. A part-time daughter, sister, aunt and best friend, living far from the people and places that laid the foundation for who I would become over a lifetime.

Now, everything is different. It’s wonderful different, but still different. And being a wife, stepmother, and full-time member of the family is like wearing skin from the body of another person. Sometimes, it’s a couch with the wrong cushions. Too sleek and super modern, instead of overstuffed and pleasantly worn, ready to hold me like memory foam, in whatever form I happen to be in.

But, as my wonderful husband, my so-right-for-me life partner, says: “It’s okay. It’s all okay.” In time, somebody else’s onion will peel like mine again, feel right, perfect, like a glove on a willing hand, layering fresh skin, one on top of the other, in a way that gives new meaning to the phrase, “love handles.”

For the first time in my life, I can honestly say I look forward to having them.

Until next time!
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Hello everybody from the Magnificent Mrs. M! Well, I did it. Took the plunge. Said “I do.” Got hitched. I am officially married.
It was a glorious weekend, kind of like Bastille Day and Mardi Gras, all consuming. During which the rain came down in the buckets and my spirit soared like that new commercial airbus everyone’s talkin’ about (you know, the really big one).
“Team Jill” at Zanya did a spectacular job of making me a presentable middle-aged bride. My “buddy-daughters” (or “buddy-d’s” since I refuse to use the prefix “step”) were gloriously warm and adoring. And my bridesmaids came through like backup dancers for Madonna—rehearsed and ready to sweat. I was amazed when my nieces were nice to me for the whole day (even made a toast at the reception). My eight-year-old buddy-d stopped whining about her mosquito bites long enough to toss one petal at a time out to the audience. And the other made sure to say something duly spectacular about my quasi-parenting skills during the ceremony.
As if that weren’t enough, my matron-of-honor, may the lord bless her, held up my bustle all of the nine times I had to pee before the big moment. (Can I help it if rites of passages make me urinate?) Of course, it would’ve helped move things along a bit if she didn’t dance and sing Rick James’ “She’s a Very Kinky Girl” while I tried to go, but alas, it all worked out in the end.
And my husband, well, he was glorious. Set like art against the backdrop of the misty Delaware River (and two mules hired to pull our guests in a barge down the canal after the ceremony, yes, you read that correctly). In a suit that looked like it dropped through the clouds and melted right onto him. Wearing a smile that made me feel like a fertile 22-year-old in a size 2 strapless wedding gown.
My father walked me down the aisle (again, one year after surviving lung cancer) and when we got to the mid-point where Dan was to retrieve me, he lifted my veil to kiss my cheek. Except I wasn’t wearing a veil, so the audience laughed and the tone for the evening was set. Under a white ruffled tent lit by 101 candles—under a series of gentle but steady raindrops—the experience was just as we had hoped: Funny, soulful, poignant, original, and romantic. It reflected love, family, and our finally finding both. I relished every minute of it.
Even the donkeys.
Since then, there has been a large rally and cry from some of our guests (okay, well, maybe five or six requests, still) to post the vows Dan and I made to each other during those moments, written as a reflection of our true selves and in our quest to create a wedding ceremony that was memorable and unique. After some discussion, we’ve agreed to share them.
So here they are. We hope you enjoy these most personal words and ask that, if you do, please send us a check. We’ll take any amount over $0. In advance, thanks.
Oh, and from now on, please think of me as Jill Sherer Murray Murray. Not just my stage name, but my new author’s name—a published book next on my to do list. (After we move into a new house that is, oy.) It’s a name and a novelty I’m just not over yet.
Until then!
A very excited and exhausted new wife in New Hope (a town that surely lives up to its name)
Dan’s vows:
So many people try to define love.
But how can you define a constantly changing thing?
Love is looking into your eyes and seeing an entire lifetime of love, laughter, peace, joy, adventure, sharing and dreaming.
Love is being able to say that of all the people on this earth, I choose you.
When I look in your eyes, I see your heart, and when I open your heart, I see me.
So look in my eyes, and open my heart, and always know that you are there forever.
Today, I promise you, your mom and dad, your brother, to all that are here.;
That from here to eternity, every day I wake up, you will be my first thought.
Every night when I fall asleep, you will be my last.
Everywhere I go, I will take you with me, if not physically, then spiritually.
That everywhere I am, you will be there with me.
I promise that every time you look into my eyes, and open my heart, you will see yourself standing there.
I promise to be the one to make you laugh, love, and live life to its fullest.
That I will always take out the trash in the house, but more importantly, the trash in life that tries to stop us from living, laughing, and loving every moment.
I promise to fix all the things around the house, but more importantly, to fix your heart whenever it’s broken.
I promise to help you see the world as you have helped me to see it.
To share with you all my wisdom as you have shared yours with me.
I promise to help you live life to the fullest, and seize every moment of joy, love, and laughter, as you have helped me.
I promise to keep you and our family safe to the very best of my ability.
I promise that whatever changes we go through in life, that you will always be in my heart, and that I will always be there for you.
Love is being able to say you are my contentment, my peace, my life.
And so, I promise to let our passion for life, love, and each other show us the direction to go in, through whatever changes we go through, whoever we become, and wherever we go.
Jill’s vows:
Dan,
When you showed up for our first date at Karla’s, looking like you’d make a wrong turn off the highway, in a shirt as wrinkled as an elephant’s skin, I had no idea that just 14 months later, I’d be pledging my life to you. That after four long decades and too many Mr. Wrong’s, you were finally the right one for me.
So, today, as I stand here before our friends and family in the bloom of mid-life, I promise to keep a therapist and Spatola’s Pizza on speed dial—and a fleece sweatshirt next to the bed, so you don’t freeze in your sleep while I sweat.
I promise to keep your belly full of bland food so you’ll stay healthy and strong and with me for as long as it took me to find you. To stand by you even when I don’t understand why, for example, you can’t find my brother’s house after you’ve been there too many times to count. I promise to hold my tongue every time you call me from the grocery store and come home with the wrong wheat bread and creamer anyway. To remind you of the names of all my friends. And to find the cotton balls for you, even when you’re looking directly at them. I promise to embrace a guitar and a pair of brown shoes in every room of the house.
I promise to be vigilant about my mental, physical and spiritual wellbeing so I can be the best partner possible. I promise to keep my retail therapy in check (note: fingers crossed here) and my butt smaller than a farm tractor. I also promise to never ever cover it in floral print capri’s or a matching sweat outfit.
I promise you’ll never look like a homeless person, as long as we have credit cards. To look at your previous marriages as practice runs. And make you smile when you think that things are so bad, you can’t imagine the sides of your lips curling any way but down.
I promise to always be on your side—even if I think you’re wrong. To wear the hats you hate ONLY when I’m out with girlfriends. Or you’re drunk.
Most of all, I promise to make your decision to ignore Duane’s “do you need to be saved” call during our first date the best you ever made. And to love and live joyfully with you in the “foxhole” for the rest of your natural born days. Whether you like it or not.
I love you.
  Share

Hello everybody from the Magnificent Mrs. M! Well, I did it. Took the plunge. Said “I do.” Got hitched. I am officially married.

It was a glorious weekend, kind of like Bastille Day and Mardi Gras, all consuming. During which the rain came down in the buckets and my spirit soared like that new commercial airbus everyone’s talkin’ about (you know, the really big one).

“Team Jill” at Zanya did a spectacular job of making me a presentable middle-aged bride. My “buddy-daughters” (or “buddy-d’s” since I refuse to use the prefix “step”) were gloriously warm and adoring. And my bridesmaids came through like backup dancers for Madonna—rehearsed and ready to sweat. I was amazed when my nieces were nice to me for the whole day (even made a toast at the reception). My eight-year-old buddy-d stopped whining about her mosquito bites long enough to toss one petal at a time out to the audience. And the other made sure to say something duly spectacular about my quasi-parenting skills during the ceremony.

As if that weren’t enough, my matron-of-honor, may the lord bless her, held up my bustle all of the nine times I had to pee before the big moment. (Can I help it if rites of passages make me urinate?) Of course, it would’ve helped move things along a bit if she didn’t dance and sing Rick James’ “She’s a Very Kinky Girl” while I tried to go, but alas, it all worked out in the end.

And my husband, well, he was glorious. Set like art against the backdrop of the misty Delaware River (and two mules hired to pull our guests in a barge down the canal after the ceremony, yes, you read that correctly). In a suit that looked like it dropped through the clouds and melted right onto him. Wearing a smile that made me feel like a fertile 22-year-old in a size 2 strapless wedding gown.

My father walked me down the aisle (again, one year after surviving lung cancer) and when we got to the mid-point where Dan was to retrieve me, he lifted my veil to kiss my cheek. Except I wasn’t wearing a veil, so the audience laughed and the tone for the evening was set. Under a white ruffled tent lit by 101 candles—under a series of gentle but steady raindrops—the experience was just as we had hoped: Funny, soulful, poignant, original, and romantic. It reflected love, family, and our finally finding both. I relished every minute of it.

Even the donkeys.

Since then, there has been a large rally and cry from some of our guests (okay, well, maybe five or six requests, still) to post the vows Dan and I made to each other during those moments, written as a reflection of our true selves and in our quest to create a wedding ceremony that was memorable and unique. After some discussion, we’ve agreed to share them.

So here they are. We hope you enjoy these most personal words and ask that, if you do, please send us a check. We’ll take any amount over $0. In advance, thanks.

Oh, and from now on, please think of me as Jill Sherer Murray Murray. Not just my stage name, but my new author’s name—a published book next on my to do list. (After we move into a new house that is, oy.) It’s a name and a novelty I’m just not over yet.

Until then!
A very excited and exhausted new wife in New Hope (a town that surely lives up to its name)

Dan’s vows:

So many people try to define love.
But how can you define a constantly changing thing?
Love is looking into your eyes and seeing an entire lifetime of love, laughter, peace, joy, adventure, sharing and dreaming.
Love is being able to say that of all the people on this earth, I choose you.

When I look in your eyes, I see your heart, and when I open your heart, I see me.
So look in my eyes, and open my heart, and always know that you are there forever.

Today, I promise you, your mom and dad, your brother, to all that are here.;
That from here to eternity, every day I wake up, you will be my first thought.
Every night when I fall asleep, you will be my last.
Everywhere I go, I will take you with me, if not physically, then spiritually.
That everywhere I am, you will be there with me.

I promise that every time you look into my eyes, and open my heart, you will see yourself standing there.
I promise to be the one to make you laugh, love, and live life to its fullest.
That I will always take out the trash in the house, but more importantly, the trash in life that tries to stop us from living, laughing, and loving every moment.

I promise to fix all the things around the house, but more importantly, to fix your heart whenever it’s broken.
I promise to help you see the world as you have helped me to see it.
To share with you all my wisdom as you have shared yours with me.

I promise to help you live life to the fullest, and seize every moment of joy, love, and laughter, as you have helped me.
I promise to keep you and our family safe to the very best of my ability.
I promise that whatever changes we go through in life, that you will always be in my heart, and that I will always be there for you.

Love is being able to say you are my contentment, my peace, my life.
And so, I promise to let our passion for life, love, and each other show us the direction to go in, through whatever changes we go through, whoever we become, and wherever we go.

Jill’s vows:
Dan,

When you showed up for our first date at Karla’s, looking like you’d make a wrong turn off the highway, in a shirt as wrinkled as an elephant’s skin, I had no idea that just 14 months later, I’d be pledging my life to you. That after four long decades and too many Mr. Wrong’s, you were finally the right one for me.

So, today, as I stand here before our friends and family in the bloom of mid-life, I promise to keep a therapist and Spatola’s Pizza on speed dial—and a fleece sweatshirt next to the bed, so you don’t freeze in your sleep while I sweat.

I promise to keep your belly full of bland food so you’ll stay healthy and strong and with me for as long as it took me to find you. To stand by you even when I don’t understand why, for example, you can’t find my brother’s house after you’ve been there too many times to count. I promise to hold my tongue every time you call me from the grocery store and come home with the wrong wheat bread and creamer anyway. To remind you of the names of all my friends. And to find the cotton balls for you, even when you’re looking directly at them. I promise to embrace a guitar and a pair of brown shoes in every room of the house.

I promise to be vigilant about my mental, physical and spiritual wellbeing so I can be the best partner possible. I promise to keep my retail therapy in check (note: fingers crossed here) and my butt smaller than a farm tractor. I also promise to never ever cover it in floral print capri’s or a matching sweat outfit.

I promise you’ll never look like a homeless person, as long as we have credit cards. To look at your previous marriages as practice runs. And make you smile when you think that things are so bad, you can’t imagine the sides of your lips curling any way but down.

I promise to always be on your side—even if I think you’re wrong. To wear the hats you hate ONLY when I’m out with girlfriends. Or you’re drunk.

Most of all, I promise to make your decision to ignore Duane’s “do you need to be saved” call during our first date the best you ever made. And to love and live joyfully with you in the “foxhole” for the rest of your natural born days. Whether you like it or not.

I love you.
  Share