Chapter Seventy Five; My Adventure with a Twenty Something Guy who made me Scream

I know. My teaser trailer of a blogarama entry on Monday indicated I would be impaling some player with a juicy story of discovery . . . yeah, yeah, I will, I will, don’t worry. But let’s take a break from his ego for a second, (it’s inflated enough, we wouldn’t want the man exploding now, would we?). Instead, I am compelled to relay the tragic twisting events of my manic Monday that started with a boy, evolved into a pain packed afternoon, and culminated in my yelling into my cell phone something about a steak and a round of golf.

And here is that story now for your reading torture.

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Trust your gut.

It’s true. You should. When your gut says, “Uh oh.” Listen up. It’s more reliable than tornado sirens, your local weather man, or any magic eight ball (I don’t care how creepily correct it is.)

The gut.

Is rarely wrong.

And since I ignored mine on Monday. Yeah. Well then. Of course, a debacle was bound to ensue.

It all started one sunny morning at my dentist’s office . . .

I nestle into the dental chair for a routine procedure. But instead of my kindly, wise, and experienced grey dentist, who walks into the office but some kid who probably just started shaving last Tuesday.

The Doogie Howser of dentistry.

Um, is it bring your kid to work day? Did I miss the memo?

“Um, who are you?” I blurt at this obviously lost child.

“I am Dr. Olson,” he smiles, “And I will be doing your crown today.”

I don’t smile back. I frown (as much as I can with a Botoxed forehead.)

And just say, “Hmmmm,” because at that moment my gut is announcing, “RED ALERT! You are not going to let an infant with sharp objects near your face, are you?”

“Is that okay?” Doogie asks.

I sigh. And decide to confess my hesitancy as graciously as possible:

“How old are you, kid? Because I am all for dating twenty somethings but I wouldn’t want one as my dentist.”

Okay, maybe I wasn’t so gracious.

He’s immediately insulted but I am not really caring. After all, these are my nerve endings at stake here.

He clears his throat and says, “I’m 24.”

I nod, process and continue on with my dental credentials interrogation, “And you graduated . . . when?”

“In May,” he replies.

Oh GAWD.

Yeah. Like I really want some kid who was partying like a rock star in college a mere 5 months ago now in charge of filing off MY molar?

I think not.

My silence is loud and he interrupts it by defensively offering to have the other dentist, oh let’s see, that would be MY dentist, do the crown. But not before he informs me that I will have to wait another month should I opt for that route, because that dentist (MY dentist) is booked up.

But of course, the toddler’s schedule is wide open.

Shockaroo.

So basically, if I want the procedure done today, I either have to let junior do it or run the risk of letting my molar go another month before I can get in with MY dentist.

I briefly entertain the concept of going “Tom Hanks in Castaway” and just finding an ice skate and popping this baby out myself and calling it a day.

But he has a point and I am soon in an oral hostage situation.

So I surrender to circumstance, open up my pie hole, lay back in the chair and crank up the iPod I brought with me to distract myself from the fact that I am at the dentist, and let Doogie do his thing.

45 minutes he says.

Quick and easy.

Three hours later . . .

I am still in this chair. And I have listened to my “mellow” playlist about 72 times.

(I have that playlist for emergency make out situations. And since I make out pretty much rarely to never in my nunnish life of late what is the point of bulking that baby up? I digress.)

So, by the time I realize I have just listened to One Republic sing “It’s too late ta Apologize . . .” a couple bajillion times my jaw is killing me and Doogie still isn’t done.

And I really need to pee.

I finally motion for them to let me sit up, and when I do I just blurt, “Okay, seriously, 3 hours? What is the hold up? Are you trying to find China at the bottom of this molar or what, kid?”

He explains that my decay is severe. So severe in fact that he has actually filed so far down he has exposed a nerve.

I am not liking the sound of this.

Any time the words “nerve” and “exposed” are used together in the same sentence that is probably reason to start insisting on big gun narcotics, the kind that will make me see pink elephants and vote for McCain.

Shudder….

Doogie explains to me that he is almost finished, he is just going to cover the nerve with a filling, put on a temporary crown, and then send me home with a prescription for pain medication that I am to use every four hours for the next three weeks until I can get in for a root canal.

Every four hours? For three weeks?

I just stare at him as I hear my own voice say, “You have got. To be shitting me.”

He assures me it is a light pain med. I can still drive and function, it will just take the edge off until I can get in for a root canal.

Edge?

I am tempted to put this kid in a time out right about now.

Doogie eventually finishes, I finally get to go to the restroom, and as I leave the office I think to myself, well, how bad can it be? I am sure it might be a little sore, I’ll just fill my prescription on the way home from work and that will be that.

Two hours later I am sitting at work huddled in a fetal position in the corner of my office because the Novocain has worn off and the entire left side of my face is on fire.

I call the dentist's office.

“Have you filled the pain prescription yet?”

“Um, no, I am too distracted by thoughts of suicide.”

The receptionist relays that Doogie suggests I fill the prescription and if that does not help then I may need an emergency root canal today.

Great. JUST great.

As I drive to the pharmacy, I call my boss and explain that if he was expecting me to do any work today he can just kill that dream now. I then call friends and arrange for my children to get rides home from school. (I am a Mom. When my day goes to shit, there is major project management choreography that must be executed if life as we know it on this planet is to continue on uninterrupted.)

At the pharmacy I whine to all the legal drug dealers about the kid masquerading as a dentist who drilled into my nerve canal and demand to know at exactly what moment I can expect the pain meds to deliver nirvana.

Thirty minutes.

Twenty nine minute later the pain has INTENSIFIED and I am on the phone with my dentist's office actually begging for an emergency root canal.

When the receptionist delivers the news that the doctor who performs their root canals can’t get me in until the next day, I let out a pain fueled evil cackle and tell her to have MY dentist call me back. Because this pain is not my fault. I was in no pain until I let that adolescent playing doctor use me as a dental guinea pig.

I am not taking no for an answer.

I am getting that root canal.

And I am getting it today.

Because at this point, I am hurting so badly that with every breathe I am fighting the urge to climb on top of the roof of my house and jump to my death. If I have to wait until tomorrow, I am going to need narcotics so strong that I will be comatose.

And I don’t have the time or luxury to be comatose.

So while I wait for my phone to ring, appointment schmapointment, I start driving to the palace of pleasure: the root canal doctor’s office.

Yes.

Yes I do. And yes, I have huge ass ovaries.

Halfway there my cell phone rings.

It is the kid.

“Hello, Audra, this is Dr. Olson.”

And now, I would like to introduce you to my alter ego: Super Bitch.

I just bark into the phone, “You? Again? Haven’t you done enough? Put my dentist on the phone. NOW.”

“I am sorry but he is busy,” Doogie offers meekly, “would you like me to call the office about your root canal?”

“NO!” the pain demon in me shrieks, “What are you doing to do? You have no business relationship with that doctor. You graduated in MAY! I need MY dentist to call THAT dentist and offer him a good steak and a round of golf and explain to him that HIS patient was just tortured by his apprentice in pain and that a root canal is in order. You have no pull, you are incapable of having that conversation. Now GO AWAY before I come through this phone and scream at you in person!”

And then, Super Bitch just hangs up.

Looking back I like to equate this situation to a woman in labor, delirious with agony. Because at that point, I honestly just wanted the pain to end, and I did not care who I pissed off along the way.

When I reached the root canal doctor’s office, I composed myself as much as I could, calmly walked into the office, tears streaming down my face, and as respectfully as possible explained the situation and asked them to call MY dentist.

In two minutes, I was approved for an emergency root canal, blowing my nose into Puff’s Kleenex with lotion, and counting down the seconds until relief is mine.

Twenty minutes and $800 later I am post-root canal and pain free.( I would have sold my car and paid $8,000 at this point if that is what it would have taken).

And thus ended an adventure I never hope to repeat again.

And yes, I have noted, that the next time my gut tells me to run out of a room screaming.

That is exactly what I will do.

Because if I don’t, I run the risk of Super Bitch showing up and yelling her head off anyway.

And as for twenty-something guys, hey, I am a fan.

It's just that if I let one poke and prod me for three hours in a manner that leads to my screaming my blonde head off I would much rather it be because he and I are playing doctor.

Not.

Dentist.

Chapter Seventy One; My Black Angel Debut

Ever have a moment when you suddenly stop what you are doing, look around and think. How. The. Flip.

Did I get here?

You know those moments. The kind where you look at what you are doing, where you are doing it, who you are doing it with and wonder when you bought that ticket for this crazy train you don’t even remember boarding.

Yeah. That was me yesterday.

I was standing in a dressing room wearing thigh high patent black leather stiletto boots, fishnet stockings, and an ebony vinyl tank top that laces up the back. Oh, and lest not forget the flouncy charcoal-colored lacey skirt that was so short it just missed being classified as a belt.

Hmmm. I apparently got on the slut express a little while back and am just now noticing.

Welcome to my modeling debut.

This was definitely one of those things that seemed like a good idea at the time, operative word seemed. When a girlfriend of mine asked me if I would like to model in a regional fashion show I only mulled briefly before accepting her invitation. I mean after all, I am single. I am on the market. If in some amazing moment in the near future a captivating dude inquires what I do for a living, it is not exactly exciting to rattle off, “I work in the tech industry. And I freelance write.” Whoop tee doo. Why don’t you just stamp “Nerd” on my forehead now?

But nonchalantly uttering an addendum like, “And I model on the side . . . ”.

Now that’s hot.

I had to try this.

So here I am. At my first fitting. In a store I’d only ever walked by on my way to fashion franchises like Express and The Gap. In fact, until the modeling agency told me to go to this store, I’d never even noticed this store.

And I am a mall-aholic. That tells ya just how far below my radar this place was.

The sign outside said, “Hot Topic” but I think the marketing gurus missed the mark on that one. Talk about false advertising. This place was clearly more like, “Slut Central,” “Hookers R Us” or better yet, “Leave your Dignity/Maturity/Panties at the Door.”

I survey myself in the mirror. I can not believe I am wearing this.

My inner dialogue is along the lines of, “I teach my daughter’s Sunday school class. This is just wrong.”

Believe it or not, this was the best of three outfits I had to choose from. (Although either of the other two numbers may have had an upside. I am sure had I chosen one of those I could have pocketed (g-stringed?) at least twenty or thirty bucks in one dollar bills after sauntering down the catwalk in those get-ups.)

The modeling agency rep, a kindly woman who reminded me more of my jolly Aunt Charlene than anyone I would picture in the modeling industry, tapped on the door and asked how it was going.

“Oh, it’s going.” I opened the dressing room door and struck a pose. (What else can you do when wearing a get up that would make Britney Spears blush?)

“Oh, I love it!" she exclaimed.

I look behind me to see if there is someone else in the dressing room. Nope. She's talkin' to me.

"Let’s definitely go with this one," she continues as she circles me and then adds, "But it does need something. Maybe some black wings?”

Oh yes. She said wings.

You see, his particular outfit is a costume. Lucky. Lucky me. My fashion show debut is six days before Halloween.

(You thought the story couldn’t get worse? Welcome to my life.)

“Great idea!” the pierced store clerk with funky hair chimes in, “Let’s make her the angel of death!”

I just smirk and think to myself that that much enthusiasm should never be demonstrated in a sentence containing the word "death."

So the punked out/yay to all things evil/chick and the auntish women you would never expect to see in a store like this unless pigs were soaring through the sky soon have me in a pair of black feathered wings.

And a halo.

I am one hot angel of death. Let me tell ya.

They snap some pictures of me for the store manager's final approval and so ends my first fashion show fitting.

Yeah, okay, so I left Hot Topic with my dignity intact.

But guess what?

Not before I bought that whole damn outfit. (Hey, I needed a Halloween costume anyway.)

I figure life is not only too short but oftentimes far too mundane as well. I mean really, I hope I have a few silly things people can remember about me when my eulogy is being read. Break up the blubbering with some laughter.

And I am thinking my slutty black angel of death debut may very well make the "funny enough for a funeral" cut.

Because what else should you do when life just is one big crazy train ride?

If you ask me the answer is hold tight to your fuzzy black halo, hope your wings don’t fly off, and just enjoy the ride.

Chapter Sixty Eight; ROTFLMAO

“I have the alcoholism under control but keep me away from that blackjack table!”

Is it just me or lately does everyone I know have their smart ass hat on? I think so and I have been giggling for days because of it. So here’s a little essay dedicated to the people around me who just, well, took my funny bone and tickled the hell out of it this week.

The quote I opened with belongs in a story about a friend of a friend, a honey of a cutie pie, just a sweetheart: Betsy. So little blonde Betsy, sweet little Betsy, decides to try out speed dating.

(I know. In Fargo? Who did she think was going to show up? George Clooney’s long lost twin? Oh, Betsy, Betsy, Betsy . . . )

Shockarama. When she arrived and got a glimpse of the line up, she tried to leave (well, run out the door screaming is probably more appropriate) but the event organizer wouldn’t let her go (escape.) So instead, what did Betsy do? Well, considering she only had five minutes with each “date” and she really did not want to have to deal with any potential interest from this crusty crop, she decided to make up her own rules in order to accelerate through this experience as fast as possible. (It is called “speed” dating after all. . . )

And yes. Her giving the impression she possessed both chemical and behavioral addictions was part of her strategy.

True story.

She really said that.

She did! I am not making this up. You don’t believe me? Hello. Hence the adjective “true” before the noun “story” in the prior sentence fragment.

In addition, she also found herself deadpanning, “Oh and I have a teenager. And there is that drug dabbling thing, but, well, kids will be kids.”

Let’s just say Betsy got out of the speed dating night in record time.

And yes, when I heard this story I almost peed my pants I laughed so hard.

The second story that had me rolling around in hysterics was when one of the Divorce Land girls nonchalantly shared her reasons for being anti “toy.” (If you know what I mean . . . )

“I just don’t think it’s a good idea. I mean really, Pavlov’s dog. Hello? There’s a lot going on down there with some of those things. Bells and whistles and buttons and shit I am not sure is even legal. Is it really a good idea to condition myself to need that?”

I am nodding in agreement, seems logical, when she adds, “I mean really, I never want to be in the situation where I have to look a guy in the eye and say can you possibly make your wang just spin around?”

She lifts her eyebrows expectantly and looks at me for affirmation in what is the briefest pause ever because in one nanosecond I am laughing so hard I do think a little pee came out that time.

(Oh stop gagging, everyone pees. If you don’t that’s called kidney failure and that is not a good thing.)

Oh, speaking of pee, the final thing that just made me chuckle this week was when I informed my friend, Kris, that I had to find my dog a new loving home because after three years of him using my formal living room as his own private sewage treatment plant it was time for him to go piddle in someone else's house.

“You mean you gave away honey muffin marshmallow pants? How could you?”

“Ha!” I snort, “Okay, first of all, he went to a great family and secondly, that is not even his name you doorknob. His name is Teddy,” I correct him, “middle name Marshmallow, but that’s only because a three year old had a part in the naming when he was a puppy.”

Men and their memories, I tell ya.

Honey muffin?

Had to share.

So that was my week.

I learned to never try speed dating unless I am prepared to leave a handful of men with the impression that my teenager and I plan to spend some serious time at the Betty Ford Center, that “toys” should only be used sparingly unless you want to spend the rest of your life feeling unsatisfied by the real deal, and that if I ever get a dog again I am so letting Kris name it.

I can see it now . . .

“Come here Honey Muffin Marshmallow Pants! Good boy! Good dog. Oh wait, that's a bone alright but not yours. Where did you get that? Put that back in Mommy’s nightstand! If my speed dating session tomorrow night doesn’t pan out I am going to need a little spinning excitement later. . .”

Chapter Sixty Three; Humanity vs Vanity; How Coop and I almost Saved the World

I don’t know if there was a pivotal moment in my life when I realized I am vain. But the fact that I will drop six hundred dollars on a cosmetic procedure that promises to fool the world into thinking I must have delivered my first child at the age of twelve pretty much proves that I am.

And that I am willing to pay for it.

Perhaps I should do what everyone these days does when a character flaw is acknowledged: blame my parents. After all, they did install a fun house style mirror in my crib intending to entertain my developing infant mind. I am sure this is the root of my problem as it’s obviously impossible to develop a normal self image when you start out life believing your forehead is the size of a basketball and all of your facial features are squashed onto your chin.

Convenient finger pointing parental screw-up aside, the fact is that I am now a vain adult who cuts coupons to save two dollars on cat food but doesn’t blink one eyelash extension at spending three hundred dollars on teeth whitening. (It can take ten years off. Seriously.)

Don’t get me wrong, under “this color cost as much as a car payment” hairstyle, I do care about ecological and humanitarian issues: melting polar ice caps, droughts in Africa, and how to make my $30 spray tan last a full two weeks. Whoops! Did I just type that out loud? I mean the topic that Anderson Cooper is shedding light on from 360 degrees tonight on CNN. Yeah, what he said. I care about that too.

Although the reality is that I am not out right now mobilizing my neighborhood to save Darfur with Anderson, but am instead home “recovering” (i.e. hiding my swollen face from the outside world) from my latest vanity endeavor: “filler” shots of Restalyn injected into my laugh lines to disguise the fact that I was born in 1972, not 1982.

The result? Well, so far I’ve come to the conclusion that my top lip may never move again considering how much nerve blocking material it has absorbed. Before this experience I never even realize it was humanly possible to speak with one’s top lip impersonating granite; it’s actually not that hard. Apparently the top lip’s contribution to speech is slight. Only the phrase “top lip” is actually hard to say in this condition.

With the possibility of indefinite disfigurement looming and the reality I could end up being forever mistaken for the love child of Joan Rivers and Kenny Rogers, I find myself second guessing whether all these vanity seeking expenditures were worth it. The fact is: beauty ain’t cheap. It’s downright expensive. So much so, that perhaps I could find a better use for this money, pursue the preservation of humanity not vanity.

Considering the annual amount of cash I invest to keep time’s cruel evidence off my face, dyed into obscurity in my hair, and out of my size four jeans (treadmill, gym membership, iPod to rock out to while I sweat off miscellaneous Starbucks carbs, it all adds up), the grand total of all these expenditures could most certainly equal enough cash to serve up a monthly all you can eat Midwestern style pancake and sausage breakfast buffet to a third world village every Sunday for a year. Or two. (Face it, pancake mix is dirt cheap and we all know it. The sausage, now that might get pricey. Okay, cut out the sausage. Monthly for five years. Just pancakes, but we’d have to make sure no one was going overboard with the syrup. And no Aunt Jamima. Pouring syrup out of her plastic little head is pointless branding that would just end up creating unnecessary overhead and cheating my village out of at least six months of breakfasts. I digress.)

It’s time someone made a real contribution to the world’s problems, and what better way to start than by siphoning cash from this selfish wasteland into causes that truly matter. And who better to blaze the trail than me and my immobilized top lip? After all, I do have depth, and I do care about more than just a good pedicure. (Even though everyone knows if you aren’t going to invest in a good one, open toe heels are not meant for hooves like that. Sorry Grandma.)

Therefore, in the name of humanity, not vanity, I vow to the following:
Should my upper lip never move again, should I forever resemble a plastic mask, I promise to: (deep breath, this is big for me):

Sue the pants off the manufacturing company that created this garbage I just put in my face!

And . . . with the resulting millions, I promise to give Anderson Cooper every last cent.

Voila! I will have just saved the entire world in fell suing swoop!

Wait a second, hold on . . . “top lip, top lip, top lip.” Well, what do you know? In the time it took to write this essay, I can move my lip again.

Sigh.

Oh well, Anderson. I tried.

But really, Coop, buddy, you must do something about that grey head of yours. It is really aging you. Call me. My stylist is a magician.

And all it will cost you (and my African village) is couple hundred pancake breakfasts.
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P.S. Holy crap is he the hottest man alive or what? I am sorry but he's amazing. And I'm a conservative! I'd go 360 degrees with YOU any time, Coop! (Does anyone else know he is Gloria Vanderbilt's son? Try to ignore my meaningless "People Magazine" type sidebar.) My next read is going to be his new book, "Dispatches from the Edge" which chronicles his experiences in the Katrina Aftermath. I've read his writing previously and he is a captivating writer. Coop rant done. Kutz out.)

Chapter Fifty Nine; Progress and Panties

Put your big girl panties on and deal with it.

Ha!

I should wallpaper that saying.

All over my house.

Not that I don't know a little something about panties. Oh, I do. I am a dedicated student of the sassies and have two drawers devoted to several pairs of fun little numbers. (I went a little hog wild at the supermarket of sexy this winter. You know the place. My friend Vicky? The one with the secret?) I subsequently own more unmentionables than I can mention: pink panties, panties with flowers, black panties, sheer panties, silk panties, and more than enough polka dot, hot pink, and sassy little thongs to keep my rear end seamless for months.

I am good in the "big girl" department, let me tell you.

But my favorite ones are, by far, my “Whoops! Didn’t mean to buy those!” pair. Those buggers ended up in my possession in an obviously blonde oblivious moment when I spotted a half-off bin of silky little bloomers with coy rhinestone exclamations etched across the ass. I actually only read one of the butts prior to purchase. It said something like “Cutey” and I thought, “Ooh, how fun are these?” as I grabbed a wad and marched up to the check out.

It wasn’t until I got home that I discovered one of the dicey derriere descriptions was probably not a smart purchase for this diva of Divorce Land.

Oh yeah. You know it.

Scrawled in cursive sparkles. Right across the bumper.

“BRIDE.”

Nice.

Someone call Alanis. Isn’t that ironic?

I still wear them though.

Gives me a great chuckle every time I pee.

Now then, underwear stories aside, back to the big girl panty proclamation intended to inspire.

It’s basically just a nice way of saying, “Quitcher whining, ya big baby.”

And I could use a bulletin along these lines.

Because truth be told I am a HUGE baby. It’s true. I really really am. When I was kid, I was “that girl” bawling on the playground that someone had hurt her feelings. Again.

Back in college I briefly entertained the concept of becoming a lawyer. But I figured my breaking down sobbing every time the opposing counsel yelled “Objection!” might be a detriment on that career path.

So if anyone can use some big girl panties I should be the one ripping off my lacy thong and yelling, “Yoo hoo, over here! Big girl panties, waaaaaaaaaaaaaaay over due!”

People who know me but not well will be a little surprised I am such a woos bag. I have the fake confidence thing down pretty well. (I watch a lot of Oprah.)

People who have actually stuck around long enough to know the real big bawling blonde that I am will just nod as they read this confession and mutter to themselves:

Yep.

Audra’s a crier.

Absolutely.

But this weekend I successfully put on my big girl panties. I am happy to report.

Here’s the deal:

I have a fireplace. And I am really ashamed to admit this next part because it is dumb ass and pathetic but I will. (Dignity? Who needs dignity?)

Well, I used that fireplace a lot this winter. And that was back when I was dating someone. Let’s just say it was a super fun pasttime. He and I. And that fireplace . . . the flickering light . . . the sultry steaming . . .

Um.

Where was I?

Oh yeah.

Sorry, drifted off there for a minute . . .

Alright, so. The deal is this: I have a pile of ashes in that hearth so high that I could probably add water to it and build an adobe hut. For a family of ten.

And. That pile has been sitting there taunting me since, oh, March-ish.

And it is almost.

Oh.

Um.

Let’s see here . . .

September?

Yep.

If EVER there was a more blatant metaphor for the death of a relationship. This would be it. And notice sappy nostalgic BIG BABY me. I have voluntarily KEPT that symbolism in plain sight like an absolute moron all summer long.

You see, I usually clean out the remnants of my winter fires every spring like clockwork. Well, this spring is when that relationship ended so I wasn’t in the mood to clean it. I remember looking at that pile of soot and wistfully reliving all those great fiery moments from this winter.

Sighing.

And promptly walking out of the room.

Over the summer every once in a while I would walk into my formal living room and get a big whiff of ashes and think, “Oh yeah, I should probably do that.” And then again. I would sigh. Relive a memory or two. Sigh again.

And leave the room.

It was ridiculous.

All the sudden last weekend that was it. I hadn’t thought about my hearth in while. But I wandered by the fireplace, saw that heap of ghostly cinders and literally said out loud, “What the F***?”

In other words, I finally put my big girl panties on.

I scooped those suckers up, deposited them in the trash.

And did not sigh one time.

Because get real, Audra. The summer is ending. And before I know it winter will be here again.

And I will fire up that hearth when it does. Either with someone new or all by myself. I don’t care. I will sprawl out by MY cozy fireplace and create new memories.

Now then, as for if panties will be present during any of any of those future steamy moments just in case I do have company?

Sigh.

Let’s hope not . . .

Chapter Fifty Seven; Mr. Clean, Honest Abe, and my Near Death Experience

Not again.

When you live in a three story house a laundry chute is a plus. But unfortunately it gets the occasional clog. And I have to get creative. Normally it involves my throwing a compilation of things onto the jam from full shampoo bottles to paper weights until the weight of it all finally forces the clothing constipation lose and I hear the glorious release when the wad hits the basement floor two stories below.

This week though the blockage looked to be manageable by my just reaching down into the darkness. A little bit more . . If I stretch just a bit . . . Almost there . . .

Pretty soon I realize, as I am shoving the assortment of scrunched towels further and further down the chute, that my head and shoulders are pretty damn far down this thing as well.

Shit.

Insert minor panic attack.

In a split second images of myself wedged upside down in a cavity of my house for days on end while futilely screaming for someone to rescue me rushes through my blonde brain. I am the queen of claustrophobia. Don't even try to convince me to get into an elevator with more than four people in it, so the very thought of it all coming to an end in my laundry chute was so unsettling that I yanked the top half of my body out of that thing so fast I took some skin off my left shoulder and didn’t even care.

I was just thankful not to be upside down with my face crammed up against my dirty underwear.

What a way to go.

I took some deep breaths and vowed from then on to stick to hair care products and decorative bricks from my home office when it comes to towel entanglements.

Phew.

This almost death by stupidity episode happened while I was doing something I absolutely love to do: clean my house. Yes, I realize, this is not most people's idea of fun but I look at this way: I am lucky to have a house. What on earth do I have to complain about?

This mindset of mine can be attributed to one of my favorite quotes of all time, "People are about as happy as they make their minds up to be." And although the president who uttered this damn straight statement is far more famous for declaring, "Four score and seven years ago," I am a bigger fan of this little tried and true life tidbit myself.

Old Abe would be proud. I am an eternal optimist. Show me some lemons and I'll grab the sugar. Suck up the lemonade I just made ya and I’ll tell ya that thar glass is half full, missy. And if this entire scenario happens to play out at a neighborhood lemonade stand and rain starts threatening our fun, I will be the first to point out the sparkling lining that comes with a good summer rainstorm: No need to run the sprinkler today. Whoo hoo! Let’s go to the movies with the money we’re going to save on the water bill.

Life is too short and too sweet to sit and bitch about everything and anything. Housecleaning included. Now hand me that bottle of environmentally-unfriendly chemical cleaning solution with that smiling bald man in the tight white t-shirt on the logo. That sucker is heavy. And is just the ticket for my latest garment obstruction.

Because let me tell ya. I may be a neat freak optimist.

But I am no fan of death by laundry chute.

Chapter Fifty Four; Don't go my Love!

What?

When I heard my love was leaving I was in absolute and utter disbelief.

Not another loss. Not another lover entering my life only to depart like a thief in the night, leaving my heart broken and aching. Extracting all of the delicious sweetness from my life.

I don’t know if I can take much more of this. As if this year hasn’t been difficult enough. Now this?

I can not believe this is happening. It’s the kind of tragedy that is absolutely going to leave such an emotional scar that I may never recover. A development of such shocking proportions I don’t know if I can even type it out loud.

Here goes.

Are you ready?

The Starbucks two blocks from my house . . .

IS CLOSING!!!

Someone say it isn’t so. Where is Ashton Kutcher? Am I being punked? How is this possible? Someone bring me two shots of espresso straight up. I feel faint.

Starbucks? My Starbucks?

This is a nightmare.

Oh sure, prior to 2003 I’d never even heard of Starbucks or seen the mermaid logo that would soon come to symbolize sweet caffeinated intoxication. But sometime around 2004, my Midwestern town was infiltrated and I haven’t been the same since.

Cunning corporate executives backed by an ambitious business plan and a herd of advertising executives slowly invaded every neighborhood on the planet overnight. And mine was no exception. Within days, a pleasure palace of fresh roasted breakfast blend and Venti Caramel Macchiatos was erected just a scone's throw from my home.

It wasn't long before I was one of the millions brainwashed to believe that it is just not a good day without my happiness in a cup. My warm portable liquid hug. My Starbucks Grande Cinnamon Dolce Latte (with whip!).

But apparently, these same execs must have sat down at a conference table lately and with one fell swoop of a dry erase marker, revised their plan. And crossed my Starbucks off their map. Erased it forever.

Bastards.

Thanks. Thanks a lot.

Thanks for your crap planning. Thanks for getting me hooked on your drug like substance and then yanking it away, forcing me into whip withdrawal and leaving me to suffer the ice cold frappuccino-induced shakes all alone on the street corner where my shrine to sanity once stood.

Please know I will never forget you, my local Starbucks. I will look back on the memories of our relationship with fond recollection. I will remember the good times. Our early morning meetings, our precious first sips, our stolen moments of joy (available for a mere $4.13 at your drive through).

My heart may recover from this life-altering loss with time, I know, I know . . .

And even though this is goodbye, my love. Just know . . .

My nieghborhood will never again be as sweet as it was, when you were here.

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 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

Chapter Forty Five; Things could be Worse: At Least I don't Look Like Hulk Hogan

“You know who you look like?”

The waitress at the local pizza joint smiles at me through her thick glasses. I smile back, politely inviting her observation even though I know exactly what she is going to say.

“Heather Locklear. You look just like her!”

Immediately she recognizes that her remark is probably not the first time I’ve heard it, “Oh, I bet you get that a lot don’t you?”

“Yeah,” I admit and quickly express my appreciation, “but thank you so much. She is beautiful, I am flattered.”

Honestly, I do get it a lot. Probably a couple times a week. Vegas was ridiculous, I think I heard it four times in one day. And every time I seriously think to myself, “Are these people on crack? Have they SEEN Heather Locklear?”

I have stood in the mirror and looked at myself from every angle, silently moved my mouth around as if I am in conversation, and even blurred my vision assuming that every person who makes this comment is in desperate need of updating their contacts prescription. Or drunk.

I don’t see it.

I really really don’t.

My hair is pretty much hers, that much I admit. But if you threw a blonde mane on Barak Obama and he would just turn into a bad version of Dennis Rodman, hardly Heather-licious. Therefore I am pretty sure it isn’t just the hair.

The only thing I’ve been able to determine is when I am just sitting there, not smiling, I look vaguely like someone who could be a distant cousin (thrice removed).

I think its the eyes. They’re slightly similar.

And let me underscore slightly. Mine are blue like hers. True. But not a shockingly deep mesmerizing ocean blue. Mine have this little ring of yellow around the iris. Yellow? Who has yellow eyes.

Zombies.

Meth Addicts.

Mine are more like a lagoon than a sparkling sea.

Trust me, if I have to be plagued by a resemblance to a celebrity, I am just thankful I am not routinely compared to Hulk Hogan or Drew Carey.

Yeah. Not so fun.

This week I noticed my twin sista was on the cover of People magazine. (And no, that is not my copy buried beneath Newsweek and Time in the basket next to my couch. I don’t know how that frivolous trash got in my house. Someone call the periodical police!)

Unfortunately, she was gracing the cover due to a personal crisis. As if the fact that Richie Sambora running off with her neighbor/best friend/turned mortal enemy, Denise Richards (Charlie Scheen’s ex-wife) last year was not enough, now she is in treatment for depression. (Isn’t it amazing the celebrity gossip you can absorb simply by osmosis in the grocery check out line? I would never actually READ People magazine. You can’t prove anything . . .).

I wondered briefly to myself, what on earth does someone with so many blessings have to be depressed about?

Hmmm, well, I am guessing even celebrities aren’t immune to emotional trauma. Last time I checked, even though they do live on different planets than the rest of us, they are still very much human.

I felt badly for her.

Life is hard. It just is. For all of us. And big blue eyes and a killer mane of blonde hair is not guaranteed immunity from adversity and sadness and disappointment.

Lord knows I still spent much of the last year bawling my blue lagoon eyes out.

So here’s to you Heather. Thought I’d jot a little note and let you know your look-a-like obscure blogging twin out here in the Midwest wishes you the best and hopes you find peace and healing.

But I’ll have to warn you.

In some distant future, when your Bon Jovi guitarist bad boy husband who screwed your best friend is a distant memory and you’re feeling better, I may have won the Pulitzer for Commentary and grabbed my own little slice of fame pie.

So I should warn you:

A couple times a week you’re going to have smile and nod politely when the clerk at your favorite store observes, “You know who you look like?”

Oh yeah, you know it, girlfriend.

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 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 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 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.

Chapter Twenty Seven; Mirror Mirror on the Wall, Who's the Haggish One of All?

Who is that hag and why does she follow me everywhere I go?

Oh wait. That would be me.

Damn mirror.

And so went my typical inner dialogue back in 2005.

In high school I had been the pretty popular girl. Cheerleader. Homecoming queen. (For the record, the latter is an utterly over rated accolade for someone like me from Reduce Speed, Rural America. The rhinestone tiara honor culminated in my donning a prom dress, perching atop a folding chair in the back of my cousin’s pick up, and tossing tootsie rolls at screaming redneck children during the two block long parade. Thank God that moment did not serve as the pinnacle of my life’s success, let’s just acknowledge that now, shall we?)

My point is that the 32-year-old frumpy mom in my mirror had once upon a time been:

The Hot Girl

But eleven years of domestic wedded (cough!) bliss had chilled said hotness on a glacial level. I was now the “Not Hot Girl,” any and all of my former sizzle having been extinguished long ago. It was probably buried somewhere in my basement ice chest, beneath frosty forgotten freezer burned venison from my dad, circa deer hunting season 1999.

I was definitely not attending any high school reunions in this arctic condition that was for sure.

Oh yeah. It was bad.

The simple truth is I had gotten so consumed with perfecting the façade of a life that I had forgotten all about the authentic Audra. I ate like crap (brownie, anyone?) never exercised (What? I walked to this couch!) and had apparently gone comatose in regard to fashion sense when I decided to quit highlighting my hair and chop it all off (What's wrong with practical?).

The bottom line is that I was certainly no M.I.L.F. (“Mom I’d like to _________”)

Oh no. I was more like a M.I.L.K. (“Mom I’d like to Know”)

I was the mother that caused men to swoon for my sinfully good chocolate chip cookies not the kind that inspired swooning of a sinfully naughty nature.

And so, my “Get Hot” (a.ka. To Hell with the Hag) plan was born.

Enough was enough.

The super condensed version is that I was going to rediscover my old self again if it killed me. And it practically did.

I spent the next year running the equivalent of the earth’s circumference (twice) on a treadmill, investing enough money at the hair salon to feed a third world village for a year, and actually started buying my clothes at (gasp!) the mall.

All this just to hunt down that elusive steamy little bitch.

It was no small task but I eventually found her again twelve months and a few dress sizes later, back in my mirror where she belongs. Wearing size four designer jeans and sporting a killer mane of blonde hair.

Out with the hag, in with the hottie! Audra, the sequel, was back.

Unfortunately, more than just the visible areas of my life were also begging for a transformation. The invisible needed attending to as well. You see, once the outer was tackled I could no longer ignore what was going with me on the inside: this feeling I carried around with me for years that I was wearing a pair of shoes just a size too small, or that my shirt was on backward. Something didn’t fit quite right, something was wrong.

It didn’t take long to figure out what aspect of my life that that was.

Let me put it this way: When your marriage counselor recommends a reputable book that identifies 35 areas of marital discontent and your marriage hits 34 of them, it is time to wake up and smell the separation agreement.

Long story short, the last three years of my life involved conversions on major levels. But every single one of them was vital if I was going to grow and become the person I was always meant to be.

Now the calendar says 2008 and my outside, inside, (and signature!) are all in great shape and back to their original packaging.

But most importantly, the girl in my mirror is no longer a stranger. I recognize her and know exactly who she is.

And let me tell you, she is no hag.

Chapter Twenty Two; Searching and Swearing (Where the bleep is my 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 Twenty One; The Great Stripping Adventure

If you ever want to know what is going on with me and my life, just check out the state of my home decor.

I fully admit I am a closet Martha Stuart wannabee (minus the insider trading scandal). My idea of a good time is wandering through Pier One leisurely sniffing scented candles while remarking, “Oh, look at this picture frame,” or “Now this would be cute in my bathroom.” I like to live in a state of constant decorating motion. That is who I am. That is me.

The last year, yeah, I got a little fuzzy on things that make me me. Divorce can do that.

In fact, I don’t think I’ve stepped one heeled shoe in Pier One in over a year. And come to think of it, I don’t even own a scented candle at the moment.

But this fall, as my life transformed on several levels it only seemed appropriate that the house make some transitions as well. Forget the candles and the picture frames; I got out the sledge hammer. (And the credit card!)

I ripped out some built in cabinets, bought all new living room furniture, a cool high def flat screen TV, and completely switched the functions of a couple of rooms. The result was amazing. And I knew, I’d found myself again.

A few months later, Audra strikes again when I decide to tackle my dining room. I start by wrestling down the dreadful oversized floral drapes in my dining room, all the while questioning the sanity of the former owner. Who would actually choose these on purpose? Was she held a gun point by the material mafia? It’s a mystery.

Annie joins me in my redecorating madness the next day for what will forever be known as “The Great Stripping Adventure.” (Of the wallpaper variety, people. I haven’t gone THAT nuts through this divorce process.) I secure a steamer from a friend and Annie and I eyeball is suspiciously. It looks a little foreboding and I secretly pray that I do not end up describing this project at a later date using words like nightmare, debacle, or worse yet: explosion.

We find a seam in the paper and apply the magical contraption to it. I explain to Annie (who has never stripped wallpaper in her entire pampered life) that this is either going to be super easy and take a couple hours if the paper comes off well, or . . . I am going to spend the next month scraping off quarter sized bits of paper and convulsing in a fetal position on the floor.

The moment of truth has arrived.

I pry. I pull.

I scream!

For joy!

The wallpaper comes off in ONE gigantic sheet! I have a wallpaper orgasm and Annie, home improvement novice that she is, doesn’t really understand this need for true celebration but she joins in my ecstasy and we whoop away!

One hour later, the dining room is stripped naked and in full monty form.

And although I do rejoice the ease in which this was accomplished, I am kicking myself for living with that repulsive decor for three years when in an hour, it was gone.

Sometimes, we spend so much timing thinking about things that we psych ourselves out and convince ourselves that the process to reach a goal will just be too hard, and we make up excuses, or even run away.

But the truth is you just don’t know how things will ever play out. No one has a crystal ball and life is always and only lived one hour at a time, and uncovered one layer at a time.

So the next time you look at something that you think might be too difficult to even attempt, just forget fear and take a chance on debacles, nightmares, or even explosions. Who knows? It might not be as painful as you think and you may just end up jumping for joy in your dining room.

Chapter Nineteen; Birth, Booze, and other Bad Ideas

One little two little three little Advil, four little five little six little Advil . . .

I liken the experience of drinking oneself into oblivion similar to giving birth.

I mean really, both decisions originate with similar thought processes that have many people expounding later, “Boy, it sure seemed like a good idea at the time!”

Coincidentally, both decisions not only start the same but are marked by strikingly parallel experiences: intense physical agony and the obliteration of brain filters that would normally prevent a typically smart girl from articulating primal emotional thought processes of the very idiotic and irrational variety. (i.e. threatening castration of the child’s father if you live through the birth. Or, say, oh, I don’t know, drunk dialing an old boyfriend at midnight simply to inform him he is an ego maniac. Whoops . . .)

Oh yeah. Big time.

The obvious disconnect in this comparison is that the birthing scenario does result in a bundle of joy after all that pain. The drinking one? Not so much. (Well, it can end with a kid too but let’s not walk that dog, shall we?)

The only bundle in my most recent intoxication situation had me wrapped in my comforter at the end of the night desperately wishing my bed would stop spinning. As for any joy, the fact that I did actually have some Advil was probably about the only “Whoopee!” moment I experienced the rest of the following day.

And finally, both adventures also lend themselves to amnesia. Because obviously in order to wash, rinse, and repeat we tend to forget the labor pains and the hangovers. Short term memory loss in order for a year or so down the road to once again find yourself thinking, “Hey, now that sounds like a good idea!”

No, I didn’t go into labor this weekend (thank God). But the bed just stopped spinning a little before noon and I am almost out of Advil.

Last night was oh so, not a good idea.

Chapter Seventeen: The Mysterious Stink

It’s 3:00AM.

Holy crap, what the? Argh . . the dog peed. Somewhere . . . in/on/or near my bed.

Good GAWD.

I feel nothing wet but the stench is unbearable, sour, and gross. And I can’t figure out what exactly he peed on. My pillow? Sniff. No. My comforter? Sniff. Not there either. Argh… I can’t find the source. Geez Louise. (Well, I am a mother. Bodily fluids yuckier than this have accompanied me to bed in my lifetime, none of which I feel like expounding upon here. Hence, I decide to just roll over, away from the agonizing aroma for the remaining four hours of sleep I have left. I tell myself, “I will find the pee tomorrow while humming the theme song to Mission Impossible.”)

But what is this? When I shift the other direction, I discover that the air on the other side of my bed is filled with the intoxicating scent of the lilies on my nightstand (a gift from my Mom for Easter). I can’t believe the fragrance, it takes me off guard. Wow. Who knew flowers could smell so good without having to shove your nose into the petals. I breathe in deeply.

Turn my head to the right. Ew. The pee.

Turn my head to the left. Ah. The lilies.

Needless to say, I slept with my head turned to the liberal lilly left all night long.

As a writer, my metaphor radar is constantly up and this one is so blatant how can I not comment? Obviously, life itself is filled aspects that are a mix of sorrow and sweet, depressing and delightful, stinky and sensational.

It makes me wonder. Is there really such a thing as a pissy rotten day?

Or is it simply a matter of which direction I turn my head?


(And yes, I zeroed in on the super secret pee spot the next morning. And yes, I washed that blanket. And yes, one dog up for sale/adoption/abduction.)