Chapter Thirty Six; Pancake's Laser Eyeball

“Its Pancake . . . and she gots a laser . . . eyeeeeeeeeeee . . . baaaaaaaaallllllllll!”

I am attempting to put my seven-year-old to bed but somehow the process ends up with her singing this little made up song to me.

Pancake is her well-loved homemade rag doll, complete with button eyes and yellow yarn hair. Who apparently possesses the ability to burn you to a crisp with her vision.

I am giggling and Pancake is being hurled this way and that to the spontaneous tune. (Pancake is not only violent, she also quite the dancer.)

“The word is has," I correct her while tickling home the point. “There is no such word as gots.” (Fine with me if her doll can kick my ass but I draw the line at poor grammar in this house.)

“Details, detail,” she squeals, her typical attempt to once again sound like an adult masquerading as a first grader. My tickle attack has sabotaged that effort because she is definitely screeching like a little girl at the moment.

I cease with the torture and we get back to the business at hand: getting this kid to sleep at a reasonable hour.

Although this story starts out with a lot of laughing, it is actually all about crying.

Some people don’t believe in letting their children see them cry. I think that is a big huge stinking pile of steaming fresh cow crap.

Since when are parents supposed to be stoic super humans? If that is the case than everyone with spawn should just start saving for the therapy bill now. Because that’s a ridiculous expectation.

Being a parent is just about being a person and trying not to model glaringly idiotic behavior such as how to slam a beer or hot wire a car. Those are the basics. It’s actually not that complex. Amazingly, some people can’t meet this minimal parental criteria. (One minute of reality television is evidence of this sad fact.)

This week was a hard one for me. And I have been wearing crabby pants the whole time because of it.

But now the day has wound down and my irritation is evolving into sadness. I just felt the urge to finally cry, and oh well; my kid was in the room when it happened.

“Oh, Mommy. Are you sad?”

“Yes, I am sad,” I sniff.

“Why?”

“Just a grown up reason. I’m okay, I will be fine. Everyone gets sad sometimes. Even mommies.”

Her big blue eyes, rimmed with compassion, suddenly brighten, “Pancake can do a song to cheer you up!”

I sniff again and smile. “Okay, let’s hear Pancake’s song.”

One laser eyeball later my tears are temporarily forgotten and the antics of one wild and crazy rag doll fill the room.

And yes, my daughter saw me cry, but does that mean I’ve failed her? Somehow shaken her sense of security?

I believe the opposite is true actually.

I can’t shelter her from everything, as much as I wish I could. Someday she is going to grow up. And as much as I wish I could protect from ever having to cry at all, I know that that is not going to happen.

The only thing I can do is model the best response I can when life gets a little tough, and that certainly does not include pretending to be made of ice.

All I can do is hope that by my being honest, that in some distant future when the end of a bad day/week/year brings my grown up little girl to tears, that she remembers how her strong mother also had some days that just made her cry. And hopefully those memories will remind her that those moments don’t last forever. They are just something we must all go through in this life. The key is to just accept them when they come, and understand that only by going through them can we get to the the promise of happier days awaiting us on the other side of the sadness.

But I will admit. It is a whole lot easier to get through the tears with this kid around.

Because who can possibly cry in the presence of a silly little girl with a silly little song sany by her silly little doll she named Pancake . . .

. . . who gots a laser eyeball?

Certainly not me.

Chapter Thirty Five; Redneck Reprieve

“Pack up, girls!" I announce. "We’re going home.”

My kids, who I have affectionately (torturously?) nicknamed Peanut Butter and Jam Jam, let out a whoop of approval and thunder up the stairs to get ready to go.

Home is the farm I grew up on.

A place where a gun rack in your pick up is mandatory and dental care is optional.

Laura Ingalls. Ellie May Clammpet. Reese Witherspoon in Sweet Home Alabama.

Me.

Yep. I’m a hick at heart. It’s just true.

I decided to hit the road a day early this year. It had been a crap week and I was desperately craving the break that only a trip back home provides. So, I cancelled my Friday night plans. Packed up two kids, one dog, cracked the sun roof of my mid-life crisis sports car and headed west.

Peanut Butter, my spunky first grader, is in the back watching a movie on my laptop, our pretend canine next to her in his crate (any dog that weighs less than most cats is not really a dog in my farm girl book). My teenager, Jam Jam, is next to me in the front happy as a hunting dog in the fall to be DJ for the trip.

(Note to pedophiles: I don’t typically blog about my kids because they’re amazing and this is the internet. So all sickos please note: I have an alarm system and I am in the market for a pit bull. Okay, maybe not the pit bull, but the alarm system is for real. And it works. Trust me. Several uniformed men with guns show up, sirens blaring, in two minutes flat when that sucker goes off. And every neighbor within ten blocks stands on their lawn to see what the hell is happening. And how do I know this? Let’s just say it involves one lost key, my mini skirt ass getting stuck in my basement window trying to break into my own house at 3AM, and . . . okay, the point is that it works and let’s just leave at that, shall we? Besides, if these facts don’t deter you my five pound animal impersonating a dog will yap your ear off and then pee on you. Which is not a fun experience either so consider yourself warned.)

Where was I? Oh yeah, heading back to them thar hills . . .

Peanut Butter and Jam Jam love these hickville getaways as much as I do. Their weekends at the farm are spent riding the four wheeler around the back forty with their uncle (my dare devil brother), running through the shelter belt chasing deer (then picking wood ticks off later, which is fun in its purest form, you gotta know) and ending every day by going out for endless ice cream cones at the greasy small town diner with my grandparents.

Yes, you read that correctly. My grandparents, their great grandparents. And these grandparents are not the crippled up on death’s door version. They’re in their spry 70’s and it rocks.

Oh, get off the floor. I come from a long line of sluts who got knocked up early on. Its awesome.

Alright, that’s not true. The slut part. But its funnier than the real story, which is actually so sweet and sappy it will make you sick from sugar overload. The truth is they all fell in love at 17, married their soul mate, and stayed married for a million years. (And yes, that has me owning the “Relationship Black Sheep” t-shirt in this happily ever after make you gag family. Let’s just say when I announced my divorce; the collective look of horror on everyone's faces screamed, “What the hell is a divorce?” Yeah. That was fun.)

But what is totally and absolutely redneck about us is the fact that me, my mom, and grandma all produced our first offspring before the age of 22; therefore we’re all incredibly close in age. This is actually quite cool (I think). How many people can say when they were born their GREAT GREAT grandma made them a blanket? Exactly. (I still have mine.)

Unfortunately, that’s a lot pressure for Jam Jam. Let’s hope she finds someone to put a bun in her oven before she’s an old lady of 25 or 26 so she can carry on this sacred family tradition. (If anyone thinks I am serious, go buy yourself a sense of humor. The truth is with a legacy like this, I am not allowing Jam Jam to date until she’s 25. Plus, when she’s asleep I sneak a cd into her stereo that repeatedly chants, “Boys are evil, Boys are evil,” so I think I got it covered.)

So yes, my kids are on grandparent overload when we go back home. Subsequently, their days are spent being endlessly spoiled.

Meanwhile, when I’m back at the ranch I spend my time attempting be more lazy than productive. In other words, I am usually hiding from my mother. That woman is a workhorse and she’s insane. She doesn’t sit down ever and unless I want to come back to my house exhausted I have to dart around the farmhouse the moment I see her coming. To this day, I am repeatedly forced to formulate the occasional escape plan from her country woman tyrant approach to life. When I was growing up, this just meant grabbing a book and heading to the hay bales. After 20 minutes of screeching, “Audra! Where the hell are you??!” she would typically just give up and I would be free. At least for a few hours.

These days, my escape is a three mile run down to the highway stop sign and back. Which is not always easy out here. If you are unfamiliar with this part of the country, here’s a lesson for you: prairie = wind tunnel. Chicago's got nothin’ on these parts. I half expected to see Dorothy and Toto fly by on Saturday, it was that ridiculous.

Fortunately, I have the song, “Save a Horse Ride a Cowboy,” on my iPod, which is best when listened to while running down a country highway with gale force winds at your back. (Although any cowboys out this direction are probably my cousins so I can’t truly live out that song. That would be disgusting.)

I couldn’t avoid Mom forever though. She promptly ambushed me at the mailbox upon my return from Sunday’s run, shovel in hand.

“Here. Now that you're full of sweat for no good reason take this and weed the strawberry patch. I am going to get some god damned work out of you before this weekend is over.”

Shit.

No escape. She’s good.

I grab the shovel and wonder what kind of weeds I am going to face that are going to require a tool of this magnitude.

When I get there I decide that a shovel isn’t enough and I ask Mom if we can just hook up the digger to Dad’s tractor and start over.

Mom just glares at me and walks away.

Nice.

An hour later I found the strawberries and was just thankful this chore was not a shit one. (Literally. My parents also have cattle.)

The remainder of the weekend plays out predictably: Peanut Butter scores two pheasant tail feathers from her great Grandpa. “This one is 20 inches, This one is 22 inches,” she proudly recounts after having sat on his lap at the kitchen table to meticulously measure the remnants of last fall’s hunting season.

Jam Jam isn’t yet savvy enough to escape her enslaving Granny and spends two hours on her hands and knees weeding the irises that rim my parents’ 2 acre “yard.” She thanks me more than once for not forcing her to live on a farm and I pinky swear promise that if I ever remarry, a farm will not be a part of the package.

In other words, it was the perfect redneck reprieve from my week's suckiness.

As I head down the highway back to civilization on Sunday night, I take a look at my slightly sunburned kids, my filthy wood tick buffet of a dog (who I will promptly send to the groomer’s for a good shave when we hit civilization), dirty fingernails (note to self, manicure on Monday) and smile to myself.

Because yeah. I’m single as hell right now. But I am feeling pretty lucky.

Because who can feel all alone with a life like this?

I got two kids, a pretend dog, and at the end of a country highway is a place I know I can always go back to that’s full of simple people whose honest lives are a part of who I am.

And who can ask for a better place than that?

To call home.

Chapter Thirty Four; To Text or not to Text?

And so I texted him back, "In your dreams, Romeo.”

I was relaying to Sonja and Julia how I’d picked up some entertainment in the form of a hot texting stalker the prior weekend out. It was an interesting distraction from the crap week I’d had. Although by doing this I am absolutely compromising my convictions. And I am not talking about talking to a stranger I met at a bar. Oh no, that’s harmless fun in my book. What’s more concerning is that this texting junk may end up being the downfall of civilization as we know it. When our communication is relegated to 160 character digital grunting....what does this say about the status of mankind?

Exactly.

I have safe guarded my cell phone number over the past six months and enjoyed the reprieve. But due to recent developments in my life, I decided it might be a fun distraction to throw it out into the universe once more. One stupid phone number exchange later I am definitely being entertained, but only by the ridiculousness of it all.

Although Julia does feel it necessary to make one observations, “You’re texting? You never text! You never reply to me!”

“That’s because you’re missing a vital piece of anatomy,” I retort.

Julia pretends to be appalled but she can’t hide her pride.

(I have been told that one of the best things about being friends with me is that I possess this innate talent to be crude off the cuff. Fortunately (unfortunately?) I am zero act and all chatter.)

Julia and Sonja are proud of me for getting out of cold storage and getting on with my life. They actually called it “flirting.”

I correct them immediately.

Exchanging meaningless digital banter with someone I talked to for all of 30 seconds is hardly in the cutesy coy category. Besides, this whole situation is just the consequence of a dare from a friend on our way out of the bar. “Cheer up! Pick the hottest guy in here and just give him your phone number.” I was actually sober and pissed off enough at the time to follow through with her asinine suggestion. So I did. I grabbed a guy whose job must require him to be naked half the time (Calendar model? Stripper?).

Might as well aim high. (low?!?!)

"Hi! I'm Audra. Do you want my phone number?"

Alright, I'll confess I got a huge boost in the ego department when he looked like he'd won the hot babe lottery with his enthusiastic, "Hell yes!" response.

One week later our texts consist of him repeatedly trying to compliment himself into my pants. And my consistently insulting his transparent player attempts.

Its so poetically beautiful I could cry.

The experience has been strangely satisfying. What? Are you accusing me of appointing myself spokesperson for all women mistakenly sucked in by testosterone charged bullshit?

Damn straight.

Because to Texting Romeo I am now the "Impossible Challenge Girl." Which means, I hold all the cards, all the power.

BWAHAHAHAHAHA!

Ah hem. Sorry . . . got a little carried away there for a minute.

Well, if I am going to be Juliet, then forget the dagger, I have my cell phone. And it is not pointed in my direction.

Oh no.

I think its time to give this Romeo a little poisonous taste of his own medicine.

160 characters at a time.

Chapter Thirty Three; Leftovers, Anyone?

Ironically, I wrote more this weekend than I have written in a long time yet I don't have anything ready to publish today for the blogarama. Do not fear . . . I shall never run out of commentary. This writer is rarely blocked. (Curse or gift?!?!?)

This essay made a lot of people laugh the first time I ran it . . .so let's just hope it is like a really good batch of beef stew: even better the second time around.

Enjoy and I'll be back on Thursday! :-)

Later gaters,
~Audra




Originally published on Wednesday, April 2, 2008

Searching and Swearing (Where the bleep is my cell phone?)


There is a fourth dimension. I know because that is the only possible explanation for the absence of my cell phone.

This morning when I left my house my cell phone was in my hand. I know it. I know it like I know my name, the sound of my children’s voices, how to find the best deals at Macy’s (Junior section, northeast corner, last rack on the right.)

It is a fact. The sky is blue. The grass is green. Johnny Depp is the hottest man alive. That cell phone was on my person. These are the facts. None of which are up for debate.

Little did I know as I reached for my phone to make a call on my way into work this morning that my life was about to come to a digital halt. What the? Now where did I . . . put . . .

One empty purse later the great “mystery/nightmare/I am going nuts it can’t be true where the hell is my cell phone” adventure begins.

Because of course, I may be blonde, but I am not insane (Fine line, I realize).

Not in the console. Not in my purse. Not on the floor of the car. Not between the seats. Not on the floor in the back seat. I start to question my sanity. Did I or didn’t I have it in my hand 27 seconds ago? Am I imagining things? Is this a memory from yesterday I transposed onto today? After all, routine is my middle name.

I go back in the house.

Not on the counter. Not upstairs. Not downstairs. Not on the floor. Not in a coat pocket. Not in the coat closet. Not in the kitchen. Not in the dining room. Not in my bedroom, not in the bathroom.

I am running out of rooms. And patience.

I grab my home phone. I dial my cell number hoping to hear my melodic ring tone beckoning me, “Here I am! I am here! Come to me my beloved!” Instead I only hear my cheerful voice on my voicemail. And there is nothing worse than listening to your happy self when you are in full crabby self mode. I wanted to strangle myself. I am lost, what do I have to be so giddy about? I practically left myself a message telling myself off.

After revisiting all of the aforementioned areas 62 more times, dialing my cell phone 152 times, and saying a certain word that rhymes with duck, truck, and pluck almost every other breath, I suspend the search party and head into work.

Upon arrival I send out a mass email to my friends informing them that I am as unplugged as a Christmas tree in July and that my cell phone decided that this life with Audra is not what it was cracked up to be. It fled town this morning and left no forwarding address.

Everyone finds this funny. Yeah, laugh away. You’d all be freaking out too you Verizon/Sprint/Altell addicts! Try living without your circle for a whole work day.

And of course, my cell is primarily my work number so I pray to the business gods that no one leaves a voicemail of the “I have a $100,000 contract for your company if you call me in the next two hours” variety.

Somehow I get through the silent day only to arrive home later once again playing the frantic fool stomping all over my house, retracing my predictable mundane morning routine in this endless perplexing pursuit for resolution. I even sift through the litter box. I leave no terd unturned.

And of course, since it is apparent I have lost my mind after all, I am now talking to myself. “Where is this thing? What did I do with it? I have looked everywhere? What could I have done? Thrown it away?”

And then, waves of light, pure understanding, the synchronization of the universe and sheer euphoric comprehension crash upon me as I literally watch the mystery unravel in my mind.

I see my cell phone in my hand in the morning sun. And then, I see it. The missing link. I see myself grabbing the garbage on my way out the door.

Sweet Amen Alleluia! I sprint to the garage, throw open the trash can cover as a choir of angels swirls and sings around me.

The fourth dimension is not a sweet smelling place.

Where’s my Lysol? I need to make a call.

Chapter Thirty Two; Dating after Divorce is for Dummies

When I was in college and pursuing my undergrad in English, i.e. sitting under a tree and analyzing poetry with a professor who I am fairly certain was high 90% of the time, ("And the elephant represents mankind's submission to his primal cravings. . . " Um, yeah. The poem is about Africa. It's just an elephant. Move on already Dr. Druggie.) I spent a lot of time learning about the concept of the universality of the human condition.

This is just a fancy way of saying people's emotional responses are fairly predictable in a variety of life situations.

Our make up is relatively similar in this regard; this is why every memorable song and poem is always, always, always about some stop along the love highway: found, lived, or lost.

This unoriginal human nature is what contributes to your internally exclaiming, "That is just how I feel!" when lyrics drift over the radio waves that literally seem like the artist could be singing your diary.

For example: you get dumped. It blows ass. If you write a song about it, all the other millions of dumpees are listening along and thinking to themselves, "Right on! This really blows ass!" And then they become your die hard adoring fans.

Because you get them.

Whatever. You're just someone who got your ass dumped and actually possesses enough talent to set it to music. Get over yourself.

Well, I will grant an exception to Janis Joplin’s “Piece of my Heart.” That song just kicks ass and we all know it. It’s an awesome one to blare while you throw your ex-lover’s belongings on a bon fire.

Not that I would know.

I digress.

Because of this emotional predictability (“The universality of the human condition"…oh come on, I had to write it one more time. It is not every day I get to sound so brunette), I decided to start reading up on typical behavioral patterns related to divorce to see where I fell.

Why? Well, I was just curious about how, quote unquote, normal I was in this regard.

Oh fine. I wanted to know the answer to one burning question:

Should I be dating?!?!?

Logically, I figured I would be awful at this dating thing. After all, I haven't done it since 1993. Usually a craft you chose to abandon long before Clinton even met Monica’s blue Gap dress is going to be rustier than a piece of iron left on the front lawn. For a hundred years. In Seattle.

The research I uncovered pretty much advised me to write off any and all events of a dating nature within the first year of divorce. Why? Because divorce is a pretty significant life event, often likened to death. If you divorce and then enter Dating Land before the four seasons have fully cycled it is pretty much like leaving your mother’s funeral where you just bawled your head off, blowing your nose, and then heading straight to the single’s bar.

Not only will you look like absolute hell (let's be honest) but even the most normal person will come off a tad bit on the psycho side considering the circumstances.

You are in NO state to ask someone their sign or take down a cell phone number, let alone be expected to act like an emotionally healthy person. You just buried your mother for crying out loud! Cut yourself some slack.

Thankfully, the anniversary of my marital "freedom" is just a few weeks away. And even though the projected return of my sanity, perspective, and emotional health one year post-separation is simply a guideline, I am thinking that the people who documented this “Dating after Divorce is for Dummies” phenomenon are on to something.

Because I keep a journal.

And there was a cookie dough eating psychopath writing in mine this time last year.

Wow.

But in a few weeks time when I do finally hit that magical one year mark, I am going to do what every other person who has lost in love should do (oh stop, the only thing I plan to burn this year is that horrifying journal!)

Oh no. I am going to do something even better.

Write one hell of a hit song.

Chapter Thirty One; I am the Boss of Me

“Did you go to school naked today?”

“No!!”

“Oh come on, I think you did. Are you absolutely sure?”

An emphatic “Yes!” is paired with a big toothless grin as my daughter collapses onto her bed in a fit of giggles.

I am not sure God checked my credentials when he made me a mother. Because I am kind of a fruit loop, considering the above dialogue is an example of one of my better creative parenting moments.

This nightly exchange is our routine when going through her day’s accomplishments using a magnetic sticker chart (the greatest invention ever known to Mommy). When she successfully convinces me that no, she did not go to school in the buff or commando only then does she earn the coveted magnet. (The latter has actually been known to happen. Leave it me to have a daughter who is anti-panties before she’s even learned to read.)

But the other day, all this parental bribery got me thinking:

I wish they made magnetic sticker charts for grown ups!

And I am not talking about the good old to do list or that stupid tasks functionality in Outlook that only anal retentive people actually use. (And yes, if you actually utilize that, you are sick and strange and need serious therapy.)

But the problem is, if I did have a chart, who would keep track? After all, I am an adult. I am the boss of me. Am I supposed to do this myself? Well, holy crap, that won’t work. I’ll just cheat. Plus, who compiles the list? I suppose I have to do that too.

Well then, if I have to do it myself and I am just going to cheat anyway, I might as well make it fun. Forget boring things like balancing the checkbook (good thing negative numbers are infinite) and doing the laundry (Why did they event invent Fabreeze if I am not supposed to use it?).

Because instead of magnets I have a much more appropriately adult idea. I will provide myself with a far more seductive incentive for each properly executed event . . .

Audra’s Martini Chart

Go shopping and actually buy the $100 cutest jeans in the whole world that the sales girl flops into my dressing room that make my ass look better than most 18-year-old’s.

Check. One martini.

Even though I had a pedicure three days ago go ahead and get another just for the hell of it.

Check. Two martini.

Invite the Divorce Land girls over to watch a chick flick, drink three bottles of wine between us, dig out my old high school year book and love them anyway when they see my senior picture and start singing, “Super Freak.”

Check. Three martini.

Oh damn. I shouldn’t mix alcohol. Oh well.

Unfortunately, by this time, I am so drunk, broke, and behind on laundry that unless I want to go commando today I am going to have to Fabreeze my underwear.

But hey, there is one last Audra accomplishment that deserves celebratory recognition:

I got dressed all by my big girl self this morning and did not go to work naked.

Check. Whoo hoo! Yay me!

Martini, anyone?

Chapter Thirty; How I Lost my Pants

A relationship takes two people. Agreed?

If so then each party is responsible for 50%. Again, agree?

Therefore, when a relationship turns into make war not love, it is pretty much established that each person takes half of the contributing garbage upon departure as a parting gift.

Crap.

I was so hoping I wouldn't have to actually take any responsibility for my divorce.

When I decide to get all egotistical on this topic (and that is often since being an ego maniac is what I do best) I like to apply the following, more user friendly, analogy to my marital demise:

My ex and I together were just like a bad fashion decision.

Let me explain:

I was the loud trendy little gauzy blouse; he was the starched wool-lined trousers. Not only do these two articles of clothing NOT go together at all, they aren't even meant for the same season. Therefore, it makes perfect sense why we are no longer together.

We simply did not match.

It is not scandalous. It is not juicy. It was just one unfortunate attire decision that was bound by a legal contract and lasted 13 years too long.

My ex will work so much better with someone pressed and proper and perfect. I am envisioning maybe a white crisp button down?

And I would obviously make so more sense with someone funky and fringed with fun loving foolishness. I am thinking a pair of deliberately destroyed designer jeans?

See? Using this analogy takes away the blame game and brings it all down to the fact that we are just talking good fashion sense in the end.

I know for a fact that my perfect pair would be most at home rocking out in the front row at a concert or roaring down the interstate on a motorcycle, yet absolutely comfortable milling around Barnes and Noble or working late to meet a project deadline at the office. Fun loving yet responsible and intelligent, versatile yet realistic and goal oriented.

Hey, at this point, I got nothing to lose. Damn right my expectations are higher than a Woodstock hippie. Why not? I'll add "models on the side for Abercrombie" to the list while I'm at it. (Do you have a crystal ball? Exactly. Shut up and let a woman dream.)

But finding that just right jean is, as any woman I know with an ass will attest to, can be the single worst task on the planet. Or more accurately: hell on earth.

I might be in this dressing room for a while.

Nope, not this one. Too tight. Gawd, my thighs looks like Siamese-twin sausages in this pair. You've got to be kidding me, no way. And why are all these things made for women with a six foot inseam? And who even has a six foot inseam? I would have to have an entire chapter devoted to me and my super freaky long legs in the Guinness Book of World Records for these to actually fit. (And no offense to the current super freaky long leg record holder, but there is no way that is possibly attractive.)

Like I said. Hell on earth.

However, the effort I am going to have to put forth to finally undo this fashion fiasco is not as simple as finally locating a complimentary article of clothing. Let's face it, after thirteen years this shirt could probably use a good ironing. And I really should spend some quality time checking out my jewelry drawer, I can't just go throwing on any old bangle with an outfit meant for such a significant occasion (duh, we are talking my life here, people). And really, good grief, this thing reeks. Where’s my Tide with bleach . . .

Therefore, I am going to first smooth out these creases (read some good books on how not to be a divorce' doorknob), spend some time choosing the right accessories (make sure I surround my self with good grounded people) and wash this baby to make sure its fresh and clean (work on the 50% that I contributed to the end of my marriage.)

Believe it or not I am not perfect. (Gasp!) I know. Its shocking to me too.

The truth is I am a control freak to end all control freaks and I should probably address that before I inflict myself on some poor unsuspecting soul. Because if I don't attend to that glaring personality flaw, well then let’s face it. I am going to be running around without any pants on for quite a while.

And I believe that is actually very much illegal.

But once the shirt is back in shape, then and only then, will I get serious about finding my dream jeans.

Because if I do the result will not only be the epitome of chic but more importantly than that it will be the kind of timeless outfit . . .

. . . that never goes out of style.

Chapter Twenty Nine; Princeless Princess

From the age of three I was subjected to fairy tale propaganda that served only to convince me that every good happily ever after contains two vital components: a prince and a princess.

Couple all that preschool brainwashing with the super self assured state I’ve possessed since birth and its no wonder I have spent my entire life believing I am princess material. (Anyone need some extra ego? I accidentally got a second helping if anyone needs more? I don’t know how this happened. I never asked God to super size my sassy sense of self, I just arrived in this state.)

The fact that at age four I actually demanded my younger sister refer to me as Your Royal Highness is a perfect illustration. As you can imagine, that’s a mouthful for a two year old. But only because I knew what she meant was I okay with her referring to me as “Oil Mess” for approximately three years.

Arrogance + royalty complex = my (stupidly) deducing, “If I am said princess in every fairytale ever written, it therefore must be my life’s endeavor to spend every waking moment in hot prince pursuit.”

This has not worked so well for me.

It has only left me ranting, “Well Geeze Louise! If that is the case where the hell is he? As of today, he appears to be one oblivious blue blood. Didn’t he see the scroll nailed in the town square last December? “It is hereby declared Princess Audra is now divorced. She awaits her princely rescue!” So far, I see no hot royal ass upon a noble steed heading my direction. Screw this. I’m climbing down out of this the tower. I am so outta here.”

Hear ye, hear ye. Princess Audra has left the castle.

Henceforth, I chose Saturday as my day to begin banishing all princess-like behaviors and start acting more like the independent peasant that I am:

• Woke up early to birds singing. And I decided not to throw open the shutters and harmonize with the robins like I usually do. That is just so Snow White.
• No servant made my coffee, I brewed my own: strong and dark with far too much creamer, exactly the way I like it. (Oooh, good life metaphor. Note to self.)
• I decided if I am going to be any princess protagonist today, I prefer the pre-prince floor polishing version of Cinderella; therefore I cleaned my house until it sparkled like a drag queen tiara.
• I backslid briefly when I decided I had no choice but to tap some testosterone and summon my former DLTC to help me tackle some physical labor. But I was no damsel in distress. Oh no, I helped! (At least I like to think I helped. His version probably just has me chattering endlessly while he did all the work but even this scenario supports the case that at the very least I did not sit there comatose like Sleeping Beauty.)
• The rest of the afternoon, I confess, I indulged in some princess pampering when I headed to the mall for shopping therapy and an over priced pedicure. My toes are now lavender with flowers. (What are you going to do? Throw me in the dungeon? Bite me.)
• The day ended with Divorce Land Girl #5, Sonja, throwing a party at her kingdom to celebrate her “I am so not a princess either I can earn my own damn money!” MBA. Most importantly, I left no glass slipper behind at the ball as a calling card. And I was home before midnight. (I am not one to push my pumpkin luck.)

So far, so good.

For now, for today, my happily ever after does not include a prince at my side, and damn’t, ask me if I care. Because you know what? I look stunning without this crown on my head. It was totally flattening my hair.

But maybe deep down a part of me does hope that someday my prince will come thundering into my life, sweep me off my feet, and apologize profusely for being so damn late.

But until then, I will just have to secretly harbor the dream that all fairy tale influenced little princesses grow up longing for:

That one princely guy.

To call me Oil Mess.

Chapter Twenty Eight; Parkas and PMS

"Why is God torturing us?!?!?"

I am sure my daughter’s proclamation could be heard by our entire neighborhood. And no, she did not shriek this question in reaction to a crisis such as our house burning down or dog dying.

It was worse.

Much. Much worse.

It was blizzarding outside. And it is May!

I join in her tantrum and drop to my knees beside her, “WHY? !?! Why God?!?! WHY? Just tell us WHY?!??”

(No clue where this kid gets her melodramatic nature from. It is baffling.)

According to Al Gore global warming is real. According to the view outside my backyard window Al Gore needs to cut back on the crack cocaine.

Up here in North Country our unofficial state motto is, "If you don't like the weather, wait an hour. It will change." Unfortunately that is no exaggeration. I actually once went from sunburned to frostbitten in a span of twenty minutes.

True story.

Interestingly enough, this sporadic and tumultuous aspect of life on earth has been assigned a female identify.

The one, the only, the completely unpredictable: Mother Nature.

I mean really, if nature is a woman she is obviously suffering from a torrential case of PMS bordering on schizophrenia. Think about it. She can’t make up her mind in regard to which direction the wind should blow, she unpredictably freaks out and goes all hurricane/tornado/monsoon for no good reason, yet she is so beautiful you just can’t help but fall in love with her over and over.

Yep. Nature is a woman, no doubt about it.

But here’s the billion dollar question: If there is a Mother Nature, does this or does this not imply the one time existence of a Father Nature?

You’d think it would have at least been noted CNN Headline news if he had died? Should I assume a divorce? I’ve never heard him mentioned. Perhaps there was an unspeakable scandal, too juicy for even the tabloids? If that’s the case you can bet Leo DeCaprio’s fleet of environmentally friendly hybrid vehicles that good old Father Nature is now in full mid-life crisis mode: sporting a bad comb over, driving a Ferrari and living in a condo in Tahiti with his third, make that fourth, wife.

Mother Nature is probably just too classy of a chick to gossip. Bless her heart.

Well, if they did once share this role let me guess why their relationship didn’t last: he never remembered to pick up the mess he made in the fall by sending strong winds to clear the leaves, plus I am sure he consistently forgot to wake the sun up on time (without an apology) and probably was never able to multi-task the massive coordination that each summer’s blooming schedule required even though detailed and bullet pointed instructions were taped in clear view on the refrigerator and had been for seven centuries. (But a hundred bucks says he could recite baseballs stats dating back to 1933.)

Alright, alright. I’ll let you have your little episode, Mother Nature. You’ve obviously been through a lot and you are a strong woman.

And truly, it is worth it to me personally to know such an organized, sassy and independent girl is running this nature show even if you do get a little dramatic on occasion.

But when you get a chance, girlfriend, could you cease with the unseasonable snowy situation here and just take some Midol already?

I would really rather not have to wear a parka over my bikini this 4th of July.