Chapter Forty; Here's to you, Mrs. Powerball (Susie's Eye Candy Adventure)

“I am going to change my name.”

“Oh yeah, to what?”

“I am thinking Susie Lotto. Susie Powerball.”

In other words Susie’s divorce is taking longer than Chinese water torture.

I was lucky. When my ex and I divorced, we sat down at the kitchen table with a legal pad, drew a line down the middle and hashed everything out in an hour. I took that piece of paper to an attorney and six weeks later, marital demise delivered.

Sweet freedom. And all for the bargain price of $1,500.

Susie is not having that experience. And obviously she is in the midst of settlement discussions so I have been ordered to stay gagged.

Someone get me a cookie. This is quite a feat for endlessly yakking/typing me.

But it doesn’t mean I can’t write about an adventure or two she and I have had, which is exactly what I plan to do right now. Because honestly? I don’t know how I would have survived this past year if it wasn’t for my curly haired savior. I laugh so much around this woman I should consider buying stock in Depends as I have just come to expect, with Susie in the room, I am going to pee my pants.

It’s just true.

My favorite Susie story ever involves a practically pedophile moment at a bowling alley.

Here’s how it went down:

One snowy night last December . . .

Susie had just gotten on the Divorce Land highway and it was apparent this was going to be one long ass road trip. And as her bestest Divorce Land bud, I agreed to ride shot gun but only if she would allow me to be in charge of the activities to help the time pass more enjoyably. At the top of my list was hopping from bar to bar, many martinis, and some harmless ogling.

Our night on the town, with me as her sober tour guide/designated driver, was a blast. I fed that woman so many mind numbing hypno-tinis, she almost forgot the divorce hell that was her life.

I am a good, good friend.

At the end of our successful divorce anesthesia outing I announce, “Oh, I almost forgot! I want to take you to the bowling alley!”

“The bowling alley?!?” she slurs.

“Yes, abso-damn-lutely,” I confirm, and then explain my plotting, “There is this college kid from my gym who is a sweetie, and on top of that he’s adorable. I knew you would appreciate some distraction tonight so when I saw him at the gym today I asked him if he would be out tonight. I told him I have a friend getting divorced who could use some eye candy. I am sure he thinks I am a wacko old woman but he just laughed and told me he’s working at the bowling alley so I vote we stalk him so you can just drool.”

“A kid? You want me to go drool over a kid?”

“Well he’s over twenty one so its totally legal saliva production.” I rationalize.

She mumbles something about a cougar and the fact that I am absolutely a nut but nevertheless agrees to my little adventure.

I drag her high heeled buzzed ass through the snowy parking lot and lead her into the bowling alley.

I see him right away, “There he is!” I run up to gym boy and announce, “Hey Kris! I want you to meet my friend, Susie, I told you about.”

Susie and Kris just stare at each other.

Kris hesitantly asks, “Mrs. Swenson?”

Susie stutters, “Kris Bergstrom?”

I am a little slow on the processing and simply ask, “What? You two know each other?”

Susie is instantly sober, her eyes huge and mortified as she states, “Um. I taught Kris. In fifth grade.”

(Pause here to fall on the floor in hysterics if you will because that’s precisely what I did at that very moment.)

Susie is an elementary school teacher. And she is almost forty. The thought NEVER even crossed my mind in a million years that she is old enough to have former students who are now legal.

I have but one response:

HAHAHAHAHAHA!!

Kris is instantly giddy and clearly thrilled to see his old teacher, “How have you been, Mrs. Swenson? It’s great to see you!”

“Uh, I’m fine, Kris. You?”

“I’m great. Sorry to hear you’re getting divorced. That sucks.”

I love this town and its half degree of separation.

I need to get a diet coke, so I abandon Susie in the land of mortification and slip away chuckling to myself. (Does this place serve popcorn? I could so just sit back and watch the show at this point. This. Is awesome.)

Two minutes later Susie sidles up to me at the bar and begins to shriek in a whisper, “I am going to die! I am absolutely going to die! I TAUGHT HIM! You told him I am the divorcing friend who needs some freaking eye candy? I am going to be sick. Sick! Sick! Sick!”

I think she is hysterical.

I collect myself only long enough only state, “Listen here, Mary Key Laterneau, its fine.”

“Don’t call me that! I am going to barf!”

“Oh, come on! It’s harmless!”

“It is gross! I am grossed out!”

“You are being ridiculous. He’s an adult and he’s cute. So what? I never propositioned him. Although I should have,” I look over my shoulder, “Damn. Do you not see how cute he is?”

“Don’t say that! He is not cute! He can’t be cute! He is Kris Bergstrom! I gave him detention thirteen years ago! Detention!”

Susie is now hoarse from trying to stifle her screaming.

I am so freaking entertained by her horror I can barely reply.

“Quit laughing!” she orders.

“I can’t! I can’t!” I confess between giggles.

Kris is actually heading up some gambling table so I announce I am going to go hang out with the child. Try to get his side of the detention story. She can join me if she wants.

“Don’t . . .wait . . we have to go . . .argh! Don’t go over there!” she begs as I saunter away sipping my diet coke and smirking like a bitch.

Like I am not going to prolong this situation? Absolutely! This is hilarious! I am so dragging this out as long as possible.

Kris is funny and teaches me how to play this gambling game that looks a lot like something on the Price is Right. Susie stays at the bar, talking on her cell phone to God knows who at this hour trying to avoid any further contact with her former student. I think she is only pretending to talk on the phone actually. She is that humiliated.

I text her to get her ass over here.

She finally comes over and I tell Susie all the things about Kris that proves he is smarter than a fifth grader: what his major is, how he’s going overseas soon, what his plans are for the summer. Susie suffers through the conversation, nodding attentively but clearly trying to hide her shame which only perpetuates my personal enjoyment of the scene.

Susie reluctantly agrees to gamble too and actually ends up winning $40 from Kris. I decide this is a great note to end her torturous night on and Susie’s relief is apparent as we head out.

“It was great to see you again, Mrs. Swenson!” Kris yells to us as we depart.

“You too, Kris!” Susie calls back with the biggest fake smile I’ve ever seen.

Two minutes later two cackling women are running back through an icy parking lot giggling like a couple of teenagers.

That night has since become Divorce Land legend, but I had to pinky swear promise to never again inflict my “alleged” cougar ways upon Susie again.

Oh fine. I promise.

Because Susie may very well be all for changing her name these days, but I guess Mrs. Robinson is certainly not going to be one of the options she will consider.

So here to you, Mrs. Powerball.

Chapter Thirty Nine; Guys are like Shoes and other Dating Land Adventures

Annie is finally divorced.

And when she moved out of the two homes she shared with her ex-husband (yes two), it took her all of one day . . . just to move her shoes.

Her shoes.

It is hard to imagine not being happy with $20,000 worth of designer shoes in your closet, isn't it?

Obviously, the sweetest parts of life can not be bought.

The last few weeks I have been dabbling in dating. And I wasn't really trying to. A couple guys landed in my life in very normal nice ways so I thought I'd make another trip to Dating Land. I'd made a pact with myself to stop running away screaming the moment someone showed any interest in me and just be open to what life has to offer.

It has been.

Interesting.

Velly. Velly. Intallesting.

Because all that happened is I have ended up thinking a lot about Annie's shoes.

The deal is the guys as of late have just simply not been a good match for me. They honestly are great souls, but I’ve uncovered lifestyles and circumstances that . . . just don't work with Audra. Some of these experiences have literally been like trying to pair a stiletto with a work boot. Nothing wrong with the stiletto or the boot. They just obviously can not be worn together.

Well, you could. But people might stare.

Here are my stories:

On Wednesday night I went to dinner. With a guy who had actually called me on the phone a few days earlier, and after a fun conversation sweetly confessed, "Ok, the real reason I am calling is to see if you would like to go out this week?"

It had been a long time since someone had actually asked me out so I said sign me up can we have steak? And he said hell yes and I said whoo hoo and next thing I know, its two days later and I am participating in something that sure looks a hell of a lot like a date.

And it was fun.

(And delicious. Here’s to sirloin. Yum-Oh!)

When I got home that night, I decided to go for a walk with a guy I had met the previous week. (Hey, if I am going to date, I am going to date. I figure as long as I can't get a disease from any of the dating activities multiple partners is fine.)

Besides, both these guys are fall on the floor hot. And hell yes I am going to brag about that part because after the year I’ve had I am way so oh entitled to the occasional arrogance attack. But with two interesting and gorgeous options all of the sudden, I felt obligated to myself to take full advantage.

(Not that kind of advantage.)

But honestly? If I am a stiletto then one of these guys is a funky flip flop and the other a beautiful high end tennis shoe.

First, my evening stroll with the flip flop (Hold on, I'll get to dinner with the tennis shoe in a bit. Trust me, this story needs to be told first.)

Let me cut to the chase: Flip flop is a raving maniac.

Literally.

He does the Rave thing.

Anyone seen Dateline? 20/20? Spent some time in Europe? Yes. When I say Rave, I mean Rave. Techno music and lots of Ecstasy.

I have but one thought: This is the Midwest. There are raves here? How many people actually do this out here in rural America? Like 12? And I find one of them? I can’t win the lottery but I can find this guy? And here I thought the worst thing I would stumble across is an alcoholic cowboy. Apparently not....

The conversation where this was revealed was the last conversation he and I ever had.

Yeah.

We were on our walk at the time and I pretty much continued with the walk.

Alone.

Buh.

Bye.

I called Susie from my cell immediately upon arriving at my front step.

"Isn't that where they suck on pacifiers and wave glow sticks around and listen to techno music and do a butt load of drugs for days on end?"

“You’ve seen Dateline, too, I take it?”

“Shitchya.” she confirms her source (geez we are goody goodies), and then kids, "Oh, come on, doesn't that sound like fun??!!?"

"Yeah. If you’re retarded." I quip. I was pissed. Probably at myself for demonstrating such severe misjudgment. This was upsetting.

I had really liked talking to Raving Maniac.

Seriously.

He is my age, I met him at a normal place in a normal way, he is in the same profession as my former DLTC which is a very normal thing to do with your life. He seemed perfectly normal! Seemed being the operative word. And normal obviously being a subjective state. (I am sure he thinks he's normal and I'm the weird one. Yeah well, none of my hobbies can get me arrested. That’s all I am going to say about that one.)

On to my steak date with the high end tennis shoe:

Alright. This guy is beautiful. There is not another word for him. Not hot. Not cute. Not attractive. Just plain beautiful. Abercrombie beautiful. As in, "I almost want to just do nothing but stare at him all night long across the table and forget about the sirloin" beautiful. Which is saying a lot. I really REALLY like steak.

But he is too young. And I am extremely hesitant about that whole cougar deal.

The last time I exhibited feline-like behavior it really did not go well. I am a confident and professional woman. When I tried dating someone so much younger it was not at all like dating. It was more like a hostage situation. And I don’t mean fun things like blind folds and hand cuffs. I mean I was the one calling all the shots. I was forever saying, "Let's go here!" or, "Let's do this!" And even though I am super ego maniac of the universe, I am still a fan of the guy doing the chasing. That whole thing was just wrong.

I like to think of that experience as the step-sister scene from Cinderella. That shoe did not fit at all and trying to make it work just hurt too damn much.

Tennis Shoe guy was aware of my prior cougar prey debacle and that I am now subsequently jaded beyond jaded on May/December situations.

So, what did this beautiful boy do? He came to dinner prepared. He brought a fortune cookie fortune he’d gotten earlier that day that said, “Take a chance.”

He slid it across the table at me and winked.

I smiled.

Oooh.

He’s good.

I have to confess: our evening was super fun. He was hilarious and I had a great time. But it was dinner and he’s still too young. He’s kind of a tenacious guy though, so we’ll just have to see. Because I have a feeling he might be pretty good at chasing. But for now, I’m putting him under the incompatible heading simply because of the age difference.

Oh get off my back! I am just trying to be realistic. Odds are he isn’t a match for me either.

Hmmm, but maybe just one more date . . .

(What? Don't you like my stiletto/tennis shoe look? Bite me. I'm a trend setter, ya never know . . .)

Stay tuned on that one.

So, it's only been a couple weeks that I've let myself be open to dating again. And truthfully? The guys I have found so far are honestly good souls. Even Raver Dude. He was fascinating and smart and funny and sweet. Sigh. But I have my bare minimum criteria which includes "no regular illegal drug use" so there isn't anything I can do about that one. And Ashton the second is awesome. But he can’t change when he was born so that’s just a fact.

And so.

So far . . . so weird.

Well, I'm going to try to remain positive. It's not like I'm running into jerks. I'm just running into people who are just not the shoe I am looking for.

Looks like I am just going to have to limp around here a while longer.

An in the meantime all I can do is just hope that at the rate I'm going I don’t end up giving Annie's shoe collection a run for its money.

A Sappy Letter to my Adoring Fans (Okay, maybe not adoring but the fact that I have HAVE fans is way cool!)

I received a note from a friend about my blog. She loves it, she is addicted. She is always laughing at my antics and can’t get enough of Divorce Land.

I smiled when I read her words.

And according to the counter on my profile, roughly 500 people have checked this site out so far. Several people have emailed me and many of their sentiments echo hers.

It’s almost a little overwhelming at times.

One guy wrote to me, identifying himself as my number one fan when he did, and said, “I love your attitude. Shit happens. Life goes on.”

He has apparently had some trials and tribulations of his own, not divorce specifically but just life in general. He shared that my perspective has helped him view his own life more positively. I’ve helped him look for the humor in his own life. Every day.

Honestly? That’s a pretty profound thing to hear from a complete stranger.

And because of this feedback on my blog, and several other emails just like these, I feel compelled to digress briefly from my essays to simply acknowledge all of the wonderful people who have taken time out to simply let me know that I have made them laugh.

From my daughter’s high school friends, to a group of college boys, to my mom’s co-workers, to people who just stumbled across Divorce Land from a Google search. The demographics run the gamut in regard to who I’ve heard from. Who my words have touched.

I know I say I’m an ego maniac but I’m really just a woman with a lap top who never runs out of things to say. (And that is not just my writing. You should listen to me, I could yak forever when you get me going. I never shut up.)

The glimpse into my life I have provided in this blog may appear to be endlessly funny, or insightful, but I can assure you, there are certainly many many days where I just go to bed, turn off the light and think, “Boy, this day sucked.” For whatever reason. Sometimes its for something significant. Sometimes it might just be because I have a bad case of diarrhea. (Hey, like my number one fan said. Shit happens.)

But I’m just like everyone else. I laugh. I cry. I bounce back. I yell. I get a grip. I pity myself. I acknowledge my faults. I blame others. But that’s just part of being a person. We all get to try on every emotional response to life from time to time. Oh joy. Fun times, huh?

The only thing I think I do differently from most people, is just that I write about it. And when I do write, I try to pick something funny. Or if the topic isn’t funny, I try to find a positive slant. Something that I learned through the experience. Or some shred of hope I uncovered in the process.

I don’t always succeed in living that out. But I think that’s all we can do as human beings.

Is just try.

Because after thirty five years the only thing I know for sure is that some days go well. Others just don’t.

But it’s important for us to have those bad ones. Just so when the good ones come, we can realize just how very good they are.

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

Thank you everyone for reading! I’m working on Monday’s essay and it should be a good one. I decided to try this dating thing again. And Sweet Mother of France! (As Sonja would say/text) . . . has it been an adventure . . .

See you Monday!

~Audra

Chapter Thirty Eight; The Great Grass Mystery and other Manly Secrets Revealed

Anyone out there looking for a husband?

If so, I have a great candidate:

Me.

Alright. Not really. Like I want to get married again? No way.

Okay, okay. Seriously. I do have a point. And an announcement:

I have decoded the mysteries of the male universe. And guess what:

NOT THAT DIFFICULT!

Closely guarded secrets of the husbandly nature are no longer locked in a vault of marital silence. Not that I really wanted to ever know where the grass clippings went, how to fix the garbage disposal, or get the central air fired up on the first hot day of the year, but hey, I am living in a testosterone free land here so I kinda had no choice.

I like to call my first adventure of my spouseless existence:

“The Discovery of the Great Grass Graveyard” (not that kind of grass . . .)

Here’s the deal:

My ex always mowed the lawn. And when he did, the leftovers mysteriously disappeared. Like magic. And I never asked where they went. It was like an unwritten rule. An unspoken understanding. Because all I knew is the husband had something to do with their disappearance. (And honestly? Like I gave a crap? I was just happy they were gone.)

Fast forward to now. Spring is here. I am divorced. I need to mow.

Check.

Crap.

Um. Help?

One quick clueless woman on the street survey of my neighbors later I learn there is this amazing place just a few blocks away devoted entirely to yard waste disposal. Really? What? You mean he didn’t zap them with his super secret man gun?

Wow. I am so shocked.

So, on my way to work on Monday I deposit the remnants of my weekend’s hard work in my trunk. And drive my little sports car over to the hush-hush dumping ground. I find it right away. And it is quickly apparent that I am obviously in a man’s world.

Because everything is clearly labeled in large black block letters.

I also know I’ve penetrated a sacred manly ritual because I am the only woman at this place.

I march my designer jeans up the ramp and promptly deposit the clippings under a large sign that basically grunts at me, “CLIPPINGS HERE” while all the men in the vicinity simply stop. And stare. And I don’t think they were checking out my ass. I think they were shocked to see that the gig was up. Estrogen was in the building. And she had discovered their covert operation.

I felt like maybe I should make some kind of proclamation? One that would accompany my sticking a flag in the receptacle claiming this new world for the Queen of Divorce Land and her loyal mowing female subjects?

Nah. I’ll just let the natives sweat it out. Let them lay awake at night wondering if this means they can expect more female colonists to invade their territory in the years to come and leave it that.

The rest of my adventures in man land include: finding an alternate use for a broom handle to unstick a stuck garbage disposal (worked like a charm). I also discovered that this box full of switches in my basement has a use. Its full of little deally bobs called “breaker switches.” And they are important little buggers. One in particular needed to be flipped in order to start my central air unit now that summer is here.

Phew!

I’m exhausted.

Someone wipe the sweat off my brow. This being a man is really intense.

Ah. Hem. Yes. Insert sarcasm.

Because like I am not noticing the blatant fact that these tasks are NOTHING compared to bearing children, cooking four course meals, coordinating the schedules of the entire family, paying the bills (creatively, during the lean years) and sewing every damn curtain in this four story well decorated joint?

What a crock!

And so, my female friends. If you do happen to be married, I have news. There is no man gun and their super secret world is well labeled and not that hard to locate. (It’s by the water treatment plant if any woman out there really wants to know.) And as for any garbage disposal or heating/cooling unit issues you may have, give me a call. I’ll come over, teach you to do amazing things with a broom handle and try not to break my pinky finger while flipping a little switch in your basement.

(Reread that last sentence . . . HAHAHAHAHA! Man, does that read like a metaphor that could be taken totally out of context or what? I am best at sexual innuendos when they just accidentally fall out of my face. This weekend I had guy over and I told him, "You have GOT to put your face in my bush."................I meant my lilac bush. Its in full bloom. He momentarily looked really exicted until I pointed at the flowers. ;-) And don't ask why I had a guy over. I'll blog about that one later....)

Maybe . . .

Back to my manly abilities:

Please note, if you do need my assistance in the honey do list department, I will need to lie down afterward on your couch for a few hours. And if its not any trouble, I’d like to watch South Park and drink a beer during my recovery from all that . . . cough . . . “work.”

But unfortunately, even though I really do have this man thing down, don’t even think about proposing.

Because right now the only woman I am planning to take care of . . .

Is me.

Chapter Thirty Seven; The Adventure of the Innocent Bystanders

I am just going to skip to the good part. Which involves a lot of blood and the hottest man alive.

This weekend’s episode of the Adventures of Sonja and Audra lands us in the emergency room with a six foot four 235 pound Greek god.

And how exactly do I know his stats? I told you. We were in the emergency room. He had to slur them to the admissions nurse. And when he did, Sonja and I just stood behind him and tried not to drool even more. (Who am I kidding? It would have been impossible to produce more saliva than we already had. At this point, a bib would have been a completely practical and useful item for both of us.)

And now, flashing back to the vital beginning that sets this whole crazy story up:

The god in the ER is a stranger who Sonja and I just happened to be in the presence of when, after he apparently ingested far too much alcohol, (for shame, I am appalled. Who does that?!?!? Cough. Cough. And . . . Cough!), promptly staggered so profoundly he collapsed onto the concrete and cracked his head open right before our lusting eyes.

The god was mortal after all. Because he was bleeding. A lot. From beneath one beautiful head of jet black hair.

This. Was not good.

Not good at all.

(The blood part. The hair, was amazing.)

Thankfully, the entire scene happened right next to Sonja’s Lexus. None of Greek god’s friends were in any capacity to drive, so we “nobly” volunteered. (Is there anything REALLY noble about saying, “Put that cutest boy in the whole entire universe into our car so we can molest…I mean abduct….I mean rescue him!”? Well, we like to think so.)

Five minutes later, Sonja’s $300 mini dress (that I had borrowed for the night) is full of blood and we are wheeling bleeding boy’s hot ass into the emergency room.

Kidding aside, we were truly concerned. (I mean, who would want anything to happen to this epitome of sheer perfection? What we should have done is wheeled him in screaming, “Code Red! Code Red!” when I think about it.)

The nurse is slightly concerned about a concussion but she doesn’t think the cut will even require stitches. She thanks us for bringing this stranger into the ER. Sonja and I humbly accept her Good Samaritan label as she asks us if we will sit with him in the waiting room.

Let’s see. Hmmm. Should we stay?

Uh, duh. The nurse is obviously a lesbian. Who wouldn’t give both breasts to sit next to this guy?

Two chicks named Audra and Sonja. That’s who.

So here we are. In the ER waiting room. Me. Sonja. And the bleeding hottie. Who is repeatedly slurring, “You’re so pretty, you're so pretty, you're so pretty” in my direction.

I decide to hold his hand.

It was the least I could do.

Sonja leans over and gently touches his bicep.

“What the hell are you doing?” I ask.

“He’s just so perfect! I just had to touch him,” Sonja nonchalantly confesses.

“Oh good god.”

“Oh good god nothing, you’re holding his freaking hand!”

I tell Sonja to bite me and then shift the conversation back to a responsible adult dimension, “Should we see if there is someone in his phone we can call? His friends? To let them know he is okay?”

“Alright,” Sonja agrees. “But where is his phone?”

“I think it’s in his front pocket.”

Sonja looks like she’d just won an all expense paid trip to babe land as she retrieves his phone from his pants, trying not to pant.

“Would you stop date raping the patient,” I chastise, “and just read off the names. Let’s just pick one.”

“Okay. Good idea.” She agrees, and then begins to recite the alphabetical listings from Greek god’s phone, “Aimee, Allison, Amber, Amanda, Ashlee.” She stops, looks up, and just shakes her head.

I smirk, “Nice. Skip to the B’s.”

Sonja looks back at the phone and her mouth drops open as she collapses into silent hysterics.

“What?”

She can barely speak, she is curled up in the waiting room chair hanging onto her stomach and clutching hot boy’s digital babe list. She finally collects herself and announces between giggles, “Big Pimpin’ Sam. The next name. Is Big Pimpin’ Sam.”

I die. Right there. I just die.

Only us.

Only us.

I finally quit (quietly) laughing (this is an ER waiting room, people are somewhere between a 5 and an 8 on the pain scale around us) and ask Sonja to hand me the phone. As she does it rings.

“Who is it?” Sonja asks.

I take a look at the screen and dead pan, “You have to ask?”

Sonja is once again soundlessly writhing in her seat.

I answer and explain to Sam, aka Big Pimp, that his friend is at the ER but that he is going to be okay. We are just waiting for him to be admitted. I instruct Sam (and his bitches, just in case he really is a pimp) that they will just have to figure out how to retrieve hot bleeding boy later. Sonja and I, as much as we love this delicious example of the male anatomy, can not stay here all night long.

Sam actually doesn’t sound remotely pimpish. He sounds frantic, grateful and relieved.

Hottest/Cutest/Best Looking damn man we’ve ever seen in our lives soon passes out in his wheelchair. My fingers have long lost their feeling but I really don’t mind.

This is the most action I’ve had since February.

Sonja goes to the nurses’ station to announce his comatose status, as we have been instructed to do if he loses consciousness.

An orderly returns and asks, “You two were the innocent bystanders who brought him in?”

“Yep, that would be us. Totally innocent.” Sonja confirms.

“And absolutely only bystanding.” I add.

“Well thank you so much for doing that. I will take him back now. You’re free to go.”

Me and my blue fingers blow kisses to the dark haired blued eyed loveliest thing I’ve ever seen as Sonja pulls me and my bloody dress out of the ER.

“Wow.” she comments as she starts her car, “I feel bad he was hurt. But he was SO HOT! Do you think we’ll ever see him again?”

I just smirk, “Who knows. But the next time he calls Ariel or Aurora, he might just wonder who this “Audra the Nurse” is in his contact list.”

“You didn’t.”

“Oh, I did. I so. Absolutely did.”

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.