Chapter Fifty Two; Sap Crap Aunt Ethel will just Love

We all get them.

Email forwards masquerading as meaningful correspondence. From our Moms. Or sweet Aunt Ethel who just discovered email six months ago.

You know the kind.

Those sappy stories of "life observations" that may be true, but really, if I am checking email it is either because I’m at work and need to follow up on something associated with my day job or else I am in my personal account late at night bantering with my girlfriends about something really important like, "What would you say if I got hair extensions?"

My point?

There’s enough in my inbox already.

Do I really need to make time to stop and smell the Outlook roses, too?

Yeah, not so much.

Delete.

(Sorry Aunt Ethel. I know it was "A Good one! Worth the read!" but I needed to write back to my sister about visiting Iowa this summer and although I'm sure your forward would have been, as you said, "Life changing!" when you sent it to me (and 200 of your closest relatives) I really don't have time to read about the little boy whose near death experience will send chills down my spine.)

My spine is busy.

But today I must confess.

I did something worse than take time to read a sappy forward.

I think I just . . . GASP! . . . wrote one of my own!

Hmmm.

It just came spilling out my fingertips like I was possessed by the sap devil.

And so here it is. The remnants of my major "life insight attack" that I couldn’t resist jotting down.

And then posting on my blog.

You might want to keep reading. It has the potential to be life changing.


“The Next time . . .”


The next time . . .
. . . you see a homeless person with a cardboard sign: give them all the cash you have on you.

It does not matter if they are in these circumstances because they are nuts. Or addicted. Or just lazy.

They are standing on a street corner with a cardboard sign.

And you aren't.

******************

The next time . . .
. . . someone you know has a baby: rush to greet the new arrival before that kid is two weeks old.

Slather anti-bacterial on your hands and pick that newborn up. Play with her toes. Caress her little head. Gaze into her tiny face.

Because new life does not last long. It is something to marvel.

And it is not every day you have the chance to hold innocence in your arms.

******************

The next time . . .
. . . you pray with your children: let them take the lead.

There is nothing sweeter in this world than listening to a child's prayer. A child will ask God to cure all disease and take care of all the poor people.

And then request, with just as much sincerity, a new bike.

Children are little mirrors. They want bikes. We want bigger houses.

******************

The next time . . .
. . . a friend comes to you looking for advice: give it reluctantly.

And know in your heart all they are really asking is just for someone to listen.

Be their sounding board.

Let them talk.

And then give them only 5% of the opinion you have.

Because if you do, your friendships will be life-long and rock solid.

But most importantly.

The next time life gets hard for you and you need a friend . . .
. . . you'll have a long list of people to call who are willing to listen to you.

*****************

And now, email this to everyone you know.

And don't forget to include my Aunt Ethel in your distribution list. She's all about those life changing spine chilling forwards.

And if you’re wondering the real reason I think you should send this on?

Hey.

Because none of us ever really know if we’re even going to get another chance to see . . . the next time.

Chapter Fifty One; Crank up the Beastie Boys! Life is Good.

Damn it.

I am in a good mood

The morning sun is shining, I have a Grande Starbucks skinny Cinnamon Dolce Latte (with whip, life is better with the whip) in my hand as I cruise into work, and the start of a gorgeous summer day is pouring onto my head through my open sun roof.

I am listening to a cd a friend of mine made for me and I just start laughing out loud. What the? Is this the Beastie Boys? Yep. Good grief!

Why did he think I would even/ever want to listen to the Beastie Boys?

But I crank it up anyway. Some song about a booty.

I laugh out loud it is so ridiculous, take advantage of the fact I own a foreign-made sports car, and drive a little faster.

Just because.

All things considered, I should not be so giddy.

This year has sucked.

Hello? Divorce.

Kind of a bummer.

I should be crabbier.

Sadder.

And some days I am. But on this beautiful day, my rebellious nature gets the best of me and I say screw sadness.

I’m smiling.

I mean, after all, if I want to start pointing out the suck ass parts of my life, I am at no loss for creating that list.

In fact, it isn’t even so much about where to begin, it is more about where does it end.

Oh, you don't believe me?

Well then. Let me start by illustrating my top three crap things I oh so deserve and am oh so entitled to whine about this past year:

• I asked my husband for a divorce last summer and he got over me in about .00075 seconds. Nice.

• I figure, well, I'll move on too. So I start running around like a nut and accidentally fall for someone in the process. But that didn't work out. I was disappointed and slightly heartbroken when it went nowhere. (Oh, so you want to question my adverb choice? Forget it. It's intentional. I am sticking with the downplaying approach. I stand behind my “slightly.” I realize it is kind of like you can’t be “a little” pregnant. Cut me some slack, if he reads this blog I want to give the impression I am fine. Even this blogging blonde has her dignity. But let's move on with the whining, shall we?)

• And finally, I am young but I have a teenage daughter. I am coming to the realization this pretty much makes me "un-dateable” for guys my age. Not many guys my age are interested in dating a woman whose daughter wears the same size she does. Jeans and bra. It just weirds them out to no end.

So those are my top three “Topics I like to bitch and moan about the most whenever I decide to throw a Pity Party.”

And yes, I have let all of the above get me down. But at this precise moment they don't seem like something worth fretting TOO much about.

Because really:

• My ex husband is a great dad. I won't complain. He sees our kids every day. He's on a business trip this week and it is practically killing me that I don't have his help. He’s really great in that department.

• Yeah, boo hoo about my first trip into Dating Land. I am just out of practice when it comes to matters of the heart. Totally, absolutely, completely. I am not in denial there. I really REALLY suck at this. He was a nice guy. Just because we didn't run off into the sunset I am going to try not to pout about it too much, or too long. I believe there is some sea out there with more fish in it? So I hear? Someone hand me a pole. (Fishing, not stripping. It's a metaphor. What kind of bait do you think I plan on using?)

• Yes, I have children. One of whom is more woman than child. (Hey, I started young. I have energy to mother them and it rocks!) I am sure there is some guy out there who someday who will be ecstatic to get a glimpse of our little estrogen charged world: a place where no road trip is complete without Hannah Montana’s latest cd, pedicures rank right up there with food and breathing (yes, I have the 7 year old brain washed already!), and chocolate is considered a vital food group.

So on this day I resolve to cease with the complaining and pseudo suffering.

As long as the summer sun decides to shine once in a while, Starbucks keeps cranking out over-priced happiness in a cup,and the Beastie Boys rap about a booty on my Bose, then I will continue to make every effort to turn life’s junk circumstances inside out.

And choose for myself the best kind of mood that I can.

A good one.
******************
Hey "Kris" . . . thanks for the cd! Even when you're in China you continue to infuse my life with "cool weirdness." And oh, hope that hunt for my rice bucket is going well! Later calculator.

Chapter Fifty; My "Alrighty Then" Moments

Every once in a while life is just plain weird.

From ironic circumstances to dumb questions that yield dumb answers to people who simply volunteer either too truthful, or too much, information. All are examples of times where no further commentary, or reply, is warranted.

It is simply all you can do, when stumbling upon such silence inducing conversations, to merely mutter:

“Alrighty then.”

Seems to me, my week has been crammed with an abundance of such situations.

So many, in fact, that I was able to create quite the sampling for today’s blog post.

So here they are:

Audra’s Top "Alrighty Then!" Invoking Moments of the Week

1. The “How’s that for timing?” Moment

Julia: “I just got the mail and found out my divorce was final last Wednesday!”

Whoo hoo!

In celebration, I break out my best Martina McBride impression and start belting, “Let freedom ring! Let the white doves . . . wait a minute, what is that horrible music in the background? Where the heck are you?”

Julie: “That’s an organ. Can you believe it? I was on my way to a wedding when I got the news in the mail.”

Alrighty then.


2. My “You’re Right. That was a Dumb Question” Mom Moment

My kids are fighting.

Again.

And the older one is torturing the younger one incessantly.

Again.

I vent to Susie, who pretty much had a Beaver Cleaver upbringing, and inquire, “You were the younger sibling in your family. Did your older brother pick on you?”

She looks at me like I am on crack and replies, “Are you kidding me? Do you want me to tell you about the time he threatened me with the iron fireplace poker while I ran screaming all over my house on the cordless phone with my best friend, Laura, as an auditory witness?”

Alrighty then.

3. The “That is not Quite the Sampling of Culture I was Expecting” Moment

My friend, Kris, is on his adventure to China but we are keeping up via email. Yesterday I asked for some raw details about Chinese culture.

He offers the following, “Well, if you really want to know, on my way to Tin Neman Square yesterday I saw a kid taking a dump in the street.”

Alrighty then.

4. The “Thank God Facebook Sends Email Alerts when someone Tags You” Moment

I must briefly refer you to Chapter Forty Seven of Divorce Land, the one about Couch Surfing Canadians who happen to be lesbians. Not that their sexual orientation matters to me.

It doesn’t.

Not one iota.

I am tolerant and accepting.

Except when I receive a notification from Facebook that one of them has “tagged” me in a “note” where I am referred to as “Hot Cougar Audra.”

What the?!?!

Can you say, “Remove Tag?”

And . . .

“Delete”?

Alrighty then.

Good GAWD.

(And come on! How am I a cougar? I am 36 not 56, and I am not even dating anyone right now. Apparently the cougar criteria is simply being over 35 and in the vicinity of guys (or in this case, girls?!?!?) in their 20’s. Give me a break.)

I did verbally relay the Facebook saga and my “feline branding” to my daughter later. Kind of a “This is why you don’t accept friend requests on Facebook from people you’ve met all of one time!!!!!” teachable moment lecture.

She listened intently. Then just stared at me.

Raised an eyebrow.

And muttered . . . what else?

“Alrighty then.”

Chapter Forty Nine; We'll Always have Outlook, Email Guy

Well. It’s official.

We’re broken up.

Oh wait a second, I wasn’t even dating this guy. Oh, wait two seconds. I have never even met this guy.

Regardless of these very basic relationship requirements, the proclamation, “Audra and I are officially over,” was just announced to one of my friends yesterday.

What the?

Welcome to Email Guy, a man who apparently possesses the ability to bend the time space continuum.

I hate to even write about this because he is going to read this blogmentation which will only serve to feed his ego. Which judging by our email correspondence does not need more inflation. But unfortunately . . . this is blog fodder of the highest caliber.

And I can not let my Divorce Land readers down.

Here’s the scoop:

So EG reads my blog and sends me a flattering email letting me know who he is (we share a mutual friend so at the very least it is not likely he is of the axe murderer variety) and that he is really enjoying my writing. This part was fine. This part was great. I love my fans!

He then switches gears and alludes to a date when he suggests meeting me sometime for a glass of wine. I reply, gracefully decline the invitation and instead concentrate on the fact that he appears to be my most enthusiastic blog fan yet. Yay, me! (No, Mom, you don’t count. You have to cheerlead any and all of my writing endeavors, it comes with your job description. Hell, if I ask you what you think of the grocery list I just jotted down you are obligated to suggest it could be nominated for a Pulitzer.)

Back to EG:

I respond again simply thanking him for checking out Divorce Land and taking the time to email me such affirming feedback.

And he replies. Very interestingly . . .

And thus begins, my (apparently torrid) twenty four hour phantom affair with . . . my inbox.

I will spare you the pain of a full copy and paste and simply recreate the super condensed version of our correspondence here for your reading torture.

It went a little something like this . . .and a one, and a two, and a one, two, three, four:

EG: “Hi Audra, Love the blog! You and I have a mutual friend. I am divorced too, want to go out sometime?”

Me: “Hey, thanks for reading and for your kind words. I appreciate the invitation but I am not interested in dating right now. But maybe our paths will cross sometime around this one horse town? Perhaps the next time I am out with (insert name of the mutual friend we share). But, absolutely, thanks again for reading and for the kind words. Please check back often and send the link to all your friends. Have a great day!”

Most people (I assume?), at this point, would get the hint and leave with their dignity intact. And really, I didn’t say never, I just clearly said, “Not now.” I thought that was pretty level-headed of me?

Apparently not because I received a response that I will now super condense into the following synopsis:

EG: “No seriously, let’s go out. I’m funny and smart and witty. See? See? See my smart and funny wit?”

Me: “Thanks again for reading my blog! And have a SUPER day!”

Translation: Get a clue buddy.

Email Guy: “I said, “WANT TO GO OUT SOMETIME!?!?!”

Me: “And I believe I replied, “THANKS FOR READING MY BLOG! HAVE A FANTASTIC DAY!”

Alright, by this point, forget about “maybe someday.” Did I or did I not clearly just say, “Cold day in hell.”?

Yes, I realize, I should have just quit replying. Email is great that way. You just become a black hole and viola! End of story. But EG and I have this shared acquaintance; therefore I am captive in an email hostage situation.

EG, of course, responds . . . again, only this time with a thinly veiled insult insinuating I am obviously still in some post-divorce induced coma and that I should call him when I come to the conclusion that he is the most wonderful man on the planet.

I grit my teeth and type back, again, “THANKS. FOR. READING. MY. BLOG.” I say nothing about the kind of day I hope he has this time.

Do I really need to translate at this point?

Silence finally ensues, but I am subjected to one final email where he blames the fact that he was using a Blackberry when he constructed his last few emails and that it is the technology’s fault his sarcasm didn’t translate well.

Well if that’s the case, then I can not possibly be held responsible for the construction of this blog post documenting the rise and fall of our relationship.

My Dell laptop made me do it.

Chapter Forty Eight; Angelina Jolie I am Not

I am going to cave to the pressure and give in to my fans.

People want updates. People want details. People want to know my business.

I am amazed.

Seriously?

My business?

Wow.

I had no idea the life and times of Audra was truly that intriguing. Oh sure, since I am the one living it is interesting to me, if I do say so myself. But isn’t it just like everyone else’s life? I just happen to have a talent for blabbing about mine in Microsoft Word and pasting it onto a public form.

Hmmm.

But fair warning, this isn’t exactly fodder for a prime time mini-series.

I’m kind of a snore.

I mean really, it’s not like I stole Jennifer Ashton’s husband, added three more tots to my orphan collection and then swamped the tabloids when I gave birth to twins in the south of France the other day. You gotta love Angelina, people. Can you imagine her blog? Good gawd. It would read, “Today Brad and I saved the world on the way home from Asia, signed a deal for a mega-million dollar action flick over lunch and then tattooed our love onto our pinky toes in a long lost language recently discovered off the coast of Zimbabwe.”

Now THAT is an interesting life.

Weird as hell.

But intriguing nonetheless.

As for mine, I got nothin’ but mundane melodrama of a Midwestern nature. But you asked, so here it is:

DLTC. (Acronym for “Dating Land Traveling Companion” if you are just hopping aboard Audra’s blogarrama express for the first time.)

Everyone wants to know what happened to that guy. Oh, FINE, here's the deal.

The synopsis:

We dated this winter. Then we broke up.

The back cover overview is as follows:

(Feel free to picture the kind of novel where DLTC is ripping a civil-era gown off my DD figure, even though that isn’t remotely true. I’m flat as a flamcake. And the last time I wore a dress like that was a bad prom decision circa 1989. On top of that, the highlight of our courtship was probably the fact that I fed him a lot of my world famous beef stew. Not exactly the kind of page turning romantic sap that made Nicholas Sparks famous. Gee, starting to understand why we may have broken up . . .)

I digress.

Here's the deal:

After said break up we both proceeded to have a severe ambiguity attack because we still talked often and did platonic things like go to lunch and coffee and talk on the phone fairly regularly.

Weird.

After three months of the kind of situation that propelled Facebook to provide the option “It’s Complicated” for its relationship status section, it all culminated in what I like to call the “Great Greg Golfing Debacle.” (Yes, his name is Greg. I had to leave it in; the “ga ga ga” alliteration is just too sweet for this writer to resist.)

It was strange.

We did this golf outing, had a great time, went to dinner and I promptly drank a whole lot of “truth serum” (i.e. two glasses of wine) and demanded, “What is going on? Are we dating or not?”

The answer was “not.”

I bawled.

Tons.

(Not then, later. I do have some dignity.)

Sigh.

So that’s the story.

Wow.

So not fun.

I have just come to the conclusion that the heart is a complex and confusing element of our humanity. You can’t force yourself to love someone just as you can’t force yourself not to love someone. Every so often, our souls sense a connection that we did not plan, and it takes your breath away when it happens.

And when it is gone, you are just going to cry.

But you will breathe again.

It just takes time.

So that’s that.

Let’s just say I am watching the clock at this point and waiting for the healing that the minute hand is supposed to ultimately provide. (I also listen to a lot of rock music when I zoom around in my sports car and snap off the radio the instant sap lyrics along the lines of "I miss you" start threatening my sanity.)

On with the updates:

Smiley Susie Sunshine. My bestest Divorce Land Bud.

Everyone wants to know what is going on there, so here's that deal:

Divorce should be final any day!! Sweet mother of France, England, AND Spain it is finally (almost)over.

And all for the bargain price of a nice fat home equity loan on her part. Isn’t that just sick? Yeah, well, she’s still smiling. That woman is a rock.

She and I indulged in pedicures today and for some strange Susie reason, she decided to tell me all about a party she went to 20 years ago in college.

If Dr. Seuss and Mother Goose had a child, Susie would be it. That woman has a story for everything, I am telling you.

This one was particularly awesome.

It all began when Susie and her friend ended up on the guest list for a hoity toity party they suspected might be an extremely dull experience for a couple of college chicks.

So they devised a plan.

They would assume secret identities to spice up the night.

Susie’s alias was Barbara, her friend was Gidget. (I know, Gidget? Seriously? But they were 20 years old, cut them some slack.)

What kills me is this next part:

Should the “Lame Expectations” come to fruition, they plotted a clever escape route: weaving the fascinating topic of eucalyptus leaves into the conversation. Once either one started talking panda food that would be secret code for “we’re off like a prom dress, this party sucks.”

Which is exactly what Barbara and her sidekick Gidget did six beers and one hour into the gathering.

And why do I need to hear this story? Let alone retell it here?

Because just the other day Susie realized that the one individual they had visited with at that party so many years ago (yes, Susie’s memory is amazing) is the same local guy who sold his company to Microsoft and became a gabillionaire not too long ago.

Nice one, Suze.

If only you’d made a love connection back then, even if you had still hit Divorce Land, with money bags Microsoft man at least you would ended up with a vacation home in Tahiti as part of the settlement.

Woulda shoulda coulda.

And yes.

This is the crap Susie thinks of to chatter about during a pedicure.

I love that woman.

So those are the updates.

I am far removed from Dating Land and I got a pedicure today where Susie proceeded to yak my ear off about an ancient adventure.

Wake up, people!

If you fell asleep, so not my fault.

This is what inquiring minds wanted to know.

I am telling you, I should stick to the essay format. My online journal blog would NOT hold your attention. Considering the fact that as soon as I post this I am going to fold about three loads of laundry, you should all be thankful that I choose not to expound upon the benefits of Tide with Bleach and that I instead look for the quirky and crazy components of life when I choose to subject the world to my story telling.

In fact, this entry was so damn dull I am thinking I should seriously consider spicing up my life a little more.

Maybe after I’m done with the laundry I’ll have to see if I can fly over to Indonesia for the weekend and pick up an orphan or two.

I’ll have to get right on that.

Right after I steal someone’s celebrity husband and tattoo hieroglyphics onto my perfectly pedictured pinky toes.

Chapter Forty Seven; When Canadians Attack. (Or just Sleep on your Sofa.)

“Can you pick me up? Couch surfing Canadians don’t have room in their car,” read the text message from one of my newest, and most intriguing, friends, Kris.

It is really interesting the twists and turns life can take, the characters who filter in and out of our own biographies. Our lives are just stories in the end, with the largest and most important aspect consisting of the people whose presences unexpectedly weave into the fabric of our own.

Oh sure, for the most part we definitely have some level of control. For those of us lucky enough to live in the free world we have a say in who we marry (and divorce, in my case), where we choose to work and live,and what kind of activities fill the twenty-fours in each of our days.

But those are just the settings for life’s screenplay.

The cast of characters is another story entirely.

None of us hold auditions for our neighbors, co-workers, and the random people who seemingly stumble into our lives only to unexpectedly enrich them with friendships we don't know how we could have ever lived without. Ironically, these starring roles end up being played by people who arrived on the scene by sheer coincidence and the perplexing surprise that is serendipity.

And we are so often blessed because of it.

My friend, Kris, is one of those blessings for me.

I met him months ago in a mundane way: at the gym. And by some odd coincidental mixture of shared interests, friends, and basically just being at the same place at the same time often enough, we have become good friends this summer. Our values are very similar, and if there are any discrepancies between them, I absolutely confess it is because his are higher than mine.

On top of the fact that if he were Catholic I would petition Rome for his canonization, he is absolutely the coolest weirdo I have ever met.

Last Thursday night is a perfect example.

Shortly after receiving said text about sofa surfing strangers, I head out to pick him up as requested.

And why does he need a ride?

And what the hell is the story about the Canadians?

Well, he needs a lift because it is storming out and he only has a bike at the moment. Oh, I know! How lame is that? Totally lame.

Until you consider the fact that he has intentionally chosen not to fix his car so he can instead spend all of his money on a six week trip to China to immerse himself in another culture and learn the language.

Is that not cool or what? Oh, come on! It’s way cool.

It’s so damn cool I have to reach for a sweater every time I think about it.

In fact, shivering now.

As for the Canadians . . .

They are complete strangers he met on the Internet because he signed up on some obscure website to participate in some completely nut ball concept called “couch surfing.”

Don’t worry, I needed this explained to me as well.

Apparently you can literally register your couch on the web as a free place for nomadic strangers to crash. Kris thought this sounded like a fantastic thing to do.

Hence, two tattooed Canadian chicks are staying at his house tonight on their way to Halifax.

Yep. That’s pretty damn weird.

I totally agree.

But kinda cool too, I think?

After all, this is something that literally, only Kris could get away with. If the rest of us tried it, everyone would just think we were just nuts and ridicule us behind our backs.

And so here I am last Thursday, picking up his car-less-China-obsessed-Internet-trusting-ass, and letting two women from the land of maple leaves and Moosehead beer follow us to our favorite Thursday night hang out.

Let’s just say that since Kris arrived in my social solar system my life got far more interesting, to say the least.

We end up having a great time. As for what we talked about, let's just say these two didn't change my perception of Canadians. They were quite liberal. Case in point: I learned the hard way that if the topic of body piercing comes up in conversation and you do not actually see that this person has any obvious places pierced (nose, ears, even eyebrow) do NOT ask where these elusive pierced areas are.

Trust me.

You do not want to know.

The next day I email Kris to see if his hospitality included any waffle making the next morning. And of course, since these women were Internet strangers after all (and I've seen far too much Dateline), I wanted to confirm he was not the victim of a crazy international murder spree. Or worse yet, awakened in the middle of the night to find his hands duct taped to his headboard in some twisted cross country involuntary piercing escapade.

He emailed me back right away letting me know that no, he was not murdered. And as for my other theory, he assured me that his being anywhere in the vicinity of a bed with those two was probably not likely as considering how much the girls gushed about how pretty I was after I dropped him off, he was pretty sure they were lesbians.

Okay then.

Enough said there.

But my point is, as you can see, the addition of Kris to my life's cast of characters has instantly made my storyline more colorful. I didn't hold any auditions. He just showed up. Ripped cut off jeans, crazy ideas and all. (Don't even get me started on his scheme for Turkish food.)

So here’s to life’s twists and turns, and the uncontrollable dimensions that end up enriching our lives the most: unexpected friendships, and the arrival of one very cool weirdo in mine.

Couch surfing Canadians and all.

Audra and Susie's Video Debut

Evidence of my and Susie's wild and crazy times is now posted at the end of Chapter Forty One, blogaramma fans, for your viewing torture.

Goodness Gracious, Great Balls of Fire!

~Audra

Chapter Forty Six; Run Rednecks, Run!

Someone tell me how I ended up on a prairie road in the middle of nowhere on a sticky July morning dodging rocks and badger holes and why at some point I thought this sounded like a fun and good idea.

Not a good idea.

And not even in the fun universe.

More like planet of torture.

Thus began my adventure in my hometown of Reduce Speed, Rural America, for the village’s 125th celebration. Part of which was my first ever 5K run, which just so happened to take place in a desolate long-forgotten corner of the prairie.

The t-shirts for the event proclaimed, “Still Great in 2008.” But let’s be honest, for this little Midwestern speck the motto should have been, “Little Town on Life Support.” As honestly, it is certainly no secret that this whole shebang is just one big excuse to throw a party before someone finds the plug and yanks it. (i.e. When the one business left in operation, the bar on main street, runs out of booze.)

Because I mean really. When there’s more people in the cemetery than in the phone book? That tells ya a little somethin'.

The future is not bright. Put away the shades.

And so here I am. As one of the dutiful Dakota daughters, I show up for the funeral.

Ah-hem.

I mean, celebration.

But at the moment I am certain the only thing I am going to find to rejoice about is locating the end of this ancient dirt path and crossing the finish line into alumni glory.

The organized agony started out smooth enough on a well-worn gravel road. When some old man hollered, "Go!" I stuck with the pack (if you can call about forty geezers and a couple teenagers a pack) for a good mile. Eventually, people started dropping off faster than the town’s aging population.

Geez, people. Anyone else exercise past the age of 30 besides me?

Apparently not.

There was a ton of huffing and puffing going on around me.

I was starting to feel a little good about this.

The one other family member I’d brought along to represent our redneck clan was my 17-year-old cousin from the east coast. He is a track star out there. I hadn’t seen him since he was a baby, but when I learned he actually had some running talent, I dragged his hung over butt (he’s a teen, any excuse to party is an excuse to party end of story) out of bed, forced him into some borrowed Nike shoes I’d finagled from an old classmate of mine and planted him at the starting line.

I wasn’t sure if he would actually finish the race or just start throwing up at mile two but I figured if he wanted to come all the way out to the sticks, I was going to make him see them up close.

Shortly after the start I lost sight of him up ahead. And when I didn’t see any vomit alongside the road I figured he was hanging in there alright.

About a half mile in I passed an old high school rival of mine.

Sweet.

The whole thing felt like a scene from Little House on the Prairie so much I honestly had to fight the urge to yell over my shoulder, “Eat my dust, Nellie Olson!”

Shortly after that affirming moment is when things started to go down hill.

Literally.

Because I was tripping down some kind of steep dirt embankment (Who plotted this course? Some senile founding father who obviously had no intention of actually running it is my guess.) The route then quickly transformed from gravel to an archaic grassy obstacle course that I am sure was last utilized for transportation in Roman times by a lost nomadic Indian tribe.

I soon forget about the fact that I am running a race and instead focus on the fact that I am now running through long grass at the height of wood tick season.

I tell you. Nothing is more motivating than inner dialogue like, “I am gonna get ticks! I am gonna get ticks! I am gonna get ticks!” if you are looking to shave a good minute off your time.

Possibly a minute and a half.

Let’s just say I was bookin’ it.

Ew.

The prehistoric trail/blood sucking bug festival soon gave way to a new gravel road and the finish line was finally in sight.

The sun beat down and I was now passing a couple more people. I also came to the realization that if I just ran faster the suffering would soon be over. I picked up the pace, put the iPod to ACDC, (Hells Bells, anyone?) and rounded the corner back into town where my mom and youngest daughter were screaming for my arrival at the finish.

One full sprint later I was dripping with sweat and downing cold water.

Sweet hillbilly horray, I had survived!

My time was not fantastic, but I was soon informed that it was good enough to land me in 1st place in the old hag division, rock on! But even better, I soon learned that my drunken east coast cuz had smoked the hometown track star by at least a full minute and won the whole damn race.

Holy borrowed tennis shoes, Batman!

As we headed back to the ranch to show off our medals to the kinfolk, I realized that maybe this hadn’t been such a bad idea after all. After all, this little town had been the backdrop for my childhood and adolescence. It had served me well, and I was honored to show up and pay my sweaty respects.

But most importnatly, this race provided quite a metaphor for my recent life's journey. After all, the divorce road I traveled this year certainly contained its share of obstacles. But in the end, the road eventually smoothed out, enabling me to not only find my stride but many unexpected victories along the way as well.

The town may be on its way out, but this former resident is nowhere near her finish line.

Because if anyone is “Still Great in 2008.”

Yeah.

That would be me.

July 3, 1972; The World Got Interesting. I Arrived.

Happy Birthday to ME!

Happy Birthday to ME!

Happy Birthday oh so fabulous wonderful self with the sassy blonde hair in the vintage convertible with her best friend, Smiley Susie Sushine.............OOOOHHHHHHHHHHH!

Happy Birthday to ME!

No essay until Thursday, July 10th, dear blogarama fans. This Firecracker is on vacation. Well, if you can call heading back to my redneck hometown of Reduce Speed, Rural America, to spend four days surrounded by kinfolk that inspired every Jeff Foxworth punchline ever written a vacation . . .

On the upside: I have been recruited to don the old cheerleading skirt and lead the alumni in the school song . . . I will report back all resulting shame and humiliation right here for your reading torture upon my return. (But come on. The fact that I can actually wear the skirt and do not have to use it as a leg warmer is something to celebrate after two babies!)

Later Gaters! Happy 4th!

~Audra