A "Peace" of Bacon

I grew up in the middle of nowhere. Quite literally. So few people live in or have ever traveled to my home state that it could feasibly be called Nowhere, USA.

And yep. I grew up smack dab in the center of it.

So when I go home to visit my parents, who still live there (Rural Route 1, Nowhere, North Dakota) I equate it to a fancy retreat that hoity toity people take to escape the bustle and hustle of civilization. Only I don’t have to pay a lot of money for peace and quiet. I just head down the highway a couple hours to the boondocks.

And I love it. There’s nothing better than falling asleep in my childhood bedroom, waking up to the sound of my dad whistling in the kitchen, bacon wafting up the stairs whispering good morning.

Although peace is not necessarily silent. Sometimes peace is loud.

You see, as I make my way downstairs my parents bicker and joke at not exactly a soothing decibel. Forty years of marriage has carved out dynamics that are somewhere between Archie Bunker meets the Waltons. “Bacon? Again? Jack, you’re going to kill yourself!” I hear my mom harp. “Yeah, yeah, at least I’ll die happy, woman!” my dad retorts.

I just walk by the chaos and wonder to myself if I’m going to find any raisin bran in this house that didn’t expire during Reagan’s presidency.

I pour myself some coffee and go out into the chilly morning, settling into a chair on the porch and listen to the majestic melody of the prairie. Thousands of migrating veins of snow geese pepper the spring sky and the accompanying cackles makes it sound like an NFL game is going on across the road where they have chosen to feed in the corn stubble.

My mom swoops onto the porch exclaiming, “Good gawd, your father. I can not believe he is having bacon. Again.” She continues her tirade about his unhealthy eating habits and I just listen and nod, her voice blending in with the geese. Soon, my dad is on the porch wrestling with his boots and complaining loudly about both the muddy yard and my nagging mother. He stomps off to the barn and soon the tractor roars to life behind the house as he begins the process of feeding the cattle, the machine joining the chatter of the birds and the commentary of the farm wife who just can’t believe her husband is still alive after so many decades of bacon for breakfast.

Five minutes later my youngest daughter is on the porch, my brother (her uncle) in tow exclaiming loudly that she’s going to get a four wheeler ride. They jump on the ATV parked in the front yard, she squeals, the motor growls and they take off down the road to get a closer look at the thousands of honking birds circling and diving in the wind across the road.

The chaos continues throughout the weekend. Crescendos of farm and family life rise and fall.

And that’s the best kind of quiet anyone can ever hope to find.

When the noise around you.

Makes you peaceful.

On the inside.
*************************
Happy Birthday, Mom!!!!

Size Matters

“Just order me a size 4.”

Famous last words.

My dear friend is taking the plunge. Tying the knot. Getting hitched. And I? Am showing up for the occasion. In a hot pink dress.

Bridesmaid city, here I come!

One advantage to the 50% divorce rate is now I get to do that wedding shenanigans all over again. Remember that? Every summer for a good solid four to five years during our 20’s it was wedding after wedding after wedding.

Fifteen years later?

Divorce after divorce after divorce.

Which means only one thing: suck in the gut and put the silicon slices in the bras, girls. It’s time for the Bridesmaid Tour; Act Deux.

Sara is my first divorced friend to head back into matrimony and I am ready. Bring on the limo, the open bar, the groomsmen, and the chicken dance. Oh wait. I forgot the ceremony. Ah hem. I meant, bring on the commitment! (After that it’s booze, boys, and a band.)

Hope is alive and it’s starting right here. With a big fat party. And me. In a size four fuchsia frock.

Wait. Make a that a different size. Might wanna put a one in front of that four.

You see, bridesmaid dresses are actually instruments of emotional torture with sizing designed to turn everyone insecure and anorexic. For some odd reason, they are sized terribly strange. A woman can be, for example, a size 8 in everything from skirts to shorts but a bridesmaid dress? Oh no. That’s a size 20.

And I’m not even a little kidding!

Case in point. The size 4 I ordered? Yeah. About that.

When it arrived I took one look at it and thought perhaps I’d mistakenly been sent the flower girl dress. A very slutty flower girl dress.

This thing was tinier than Tinkerbell! I could be a corpse and this thing would not fit. Fifty seven years after I am dead people could exhume my body, put this dress on my remains, and definitively announce with a defeating sigh, “Nope. It still won’t zip.”

And so I go through the interesting process of reordering a different size. Blackberry on speaker, I stand in my underwear in front of my mirror with a tape measure and diligently announce my numbers to the manager of the bridal shop.

“36 inches,” I scream to the speaker perched atop my dresser.

“And that is your?” the woman’s voice echos back.

“Bust,” I clarify and add, “but I’m wearing a padded bra. Without it I think I am a negative five.”

She laughs and asks me if I plan on wearing a padded bra when I wear the bridesmaid dress.

“Sh-yah! If I don’t I’ll be mistaken for a teenage boy in drag, lady. Trust me.”

I then measure my waist. Ugh. I need to cut down on the salt. I consider lying but really don’t feel like repeating the microscopic dress debacle so I accurately report the number.

“Are you sure?” she asks.

“Yes, I’m sure.” Maybe I should tell her I had a salty lunch . . . or that I’m six months pregnant. She comments on my “interesting” proportions. I make a face at my phone and silently mouth, “Bite me.”

When we’re done she tells me that according to her sizing chart for this designer I’m about a size 10 bust, size 12 waist, and a size 14 hips.

I look in my mirror. I’m wearing a size four pair of designer jeans at the moment.

I am 5’6” and weigh 130 pounds on a bad day, 125 pounds on a good day. Every single article of clothing I own is a 4. HOW can this be right?

I suck it up and tell her to just order me a 14 to be safe but of course, I do need to tell the woman that normally . . . I am a 4.

“That is odd . . .” she says.

She thinks I am lying. I can tell. I want to snap a camera phone picture and show her that yes, I am a 4. Okay, I could maybe lose 5 pounds. I’ve had 2 children, the abs are not what they used to be but geeze Louise, lady!

But I don’t say anything.

What’s important is I am getting a dress in the mail in a month that will definitely not fit my 8-year-old daughter.

And who cares if it’s a 4, 14, or 44? What’s more important is that I’ll be in the full and proper uniform for the party!

I mean.

Wedding.
***********************************
Congratulations, Rick and Sara! Love and blessings as you embark on your new life together, I could not be more honored to be a part of this special day. Muah! ~Audra

So In Love

Its time I wrote about the love of my life.

Our time together leaves me panting and breathless and wishing I could spend my time this way every hour of every day. I love how my heart races. How I break such an amazing sweat.

After all. I am in love.

With running.

(Hey, if your mind was in the gutter up to this point, that is not my fault.)

It’s been a long damn winter up here on the tundra and the runner in me has been relegated to the rat wheel at the gym for months. Now, I realize the gym for some people is a great social outlet. Not for me. I am a mom and my time is compartmentalized, delegated, and spoken for. When I carve out an hour to run it’s because I gave up an hour doing something else like cooking or laundry. On top of that, I do anything but dress in matching pink Nike gear. No way. I wear a baseball hat, old cut off sweats with bleach spots, and if I have a zit I don’t even cover it up. Why? I’m not there to impress anyone.

I’m there to run.

Now that spring has arrived I can run even longer because all I need to do is lace up my Aesics, crank up my iPod, and bound out my front door.

Today was the first day my shoes have seen asphalt since sometime last November. For months I’ve pounded the belt of the treadmill shoulder to shoulder with strangers, oblivious to their presence, concentrating only on my breathing.

But not today.

I try to restrain myself from starting out in a full blown sprint I’m so excited to finally be outside without a parka on. I head north and the sun paints my shadow on the street in front of me. I chase it for a mile and half, run along Main for a couple blocks, and then head back the direction I came. The crisp wind bites me but the sunshine kisses it, making it all better.

And all the while Keith Urban sings to me. Some song about a woman who left the relationship she was in.

It took awhile for her to figure out she could run
But when she did, she was long gone

I smile and take his figurative lyrics literally for a moment as I remember all those years I didn’t exercise at all. Yeah, it took me a long time to figure out I could run, too.

But now I have.

And I am truly, madly and deeply in love with it.

And long.

Long.

Gone.

Committed

No one should be reading my blog this week, everyone should be reading Elizabeth Gilbert's new book, "Committed." ;-)

If you read "Eat, Pray, Love" you'll have to pick this one up too. It is tremendous.

Have a good weekend and I'll see everyone right back here on Monday!

Muah!
~Audra

You Give Love a Bad Name

I remember the first time I heard Bon Jovi’s “Livin on a Prayer.” I was a football cheerleader and was walking from the bus to the field for a game when a friend of my boyfriend’s drove up alongside my sister and I in his truck one crisp September night.

“Hey, pretty sisters. Wanna a ride?”

We hop in and are enveloped in, “Oooh wa ooh, wa ooh ooh, ooh ooh,” blaring from his speakers. (Boys and stereos, I tell ya.)

“What is this?” my sister’s voice yells from underneath her permed head.

“Bon Jovi’s new album!” he grins, and cranks it up more.

We arrive at the field being serenaded by Jon Bon telling us us to take his hand, we’ll make it he swears, because Whoa . . . we’re livin’ on a prayer.

Loved the song. Loved Bon Jovi. Loved that album.

The band definitely provided the soundtrack to many of my teenage moments and so when they played Fargo this weekend I simply had to go. I grabbed my three favorite friends, my new Hudson jeans and prepared for a night of time travel back to 1989.

Well . . . a lot has changed since then.

Including Bon Jovi.

An hour into the concert they’d played more new stuff than old and I was fighting the urge to sit down, feeling more dead than alive and resisting the urge to nap, and not in a bed of roses. This folding chair will do just fine.

“Is it just me, or is this like one giant Pepsi commercial?” my girlfriend next to me confesses.

I look up at the screens showing pictures of people in their hometowns and listen to a song that sounds like the theme to a video montage people make after a unifying natural disaster like a flood or a tornado and nod in agreement. On top of that, Jon Bon danced around the stage like he was in an episode of Glee. Where’s my bad ass hair band? They’ve been kidnapped by middle aged men in skinny jeans singing songs that would be more fitting around a campfire.

I leave a couple times for a bathroom break. Buy some water. And find the t-shirt stand more exciting than the show.

Oooh. This pink one’s cute.

The final encore is, finally, thank you Jesus, Living on a Prayer.

Two hours of torture and I finally hear my favorite Bon Jovi song live. But by then I’m so bored I can barely even get into it. And mourning the fact that the rock stars of the 80’s are now kings of lame.

Oh well.

Even though I felt shot through heart by the fact that my favorite 80’s bands has run away and is no longer born to be my baby, I survived the bad medicine and celebrate the fact that at least they did end with my favorite song.

And went down.

In a blaze of glory.

“Oooh wah oooh wah oooh, oooh oooh ooh, Oooh wah oooh wah ooh ooh ooh ooh . . .”

Flashback to Divorce Land

Crazy week, readers! Sorry I have been tardy a few times with my posts. I'm going to do a quick rerun from my old blog, Divorce Land. The following is one of my more popular stories. And since I've picked up a lot of new readers with "Chronicles of a Girl," I thought I'd throw it out there again as it may be new to many of you. And also, of course, any time my pain can entertain you, I am happy to be the sacraficial lamb!
~Audra
P.S. This post is from 18 months ago. If any of you have ever kept a journal, isn't it interesting to look backward? When I read this story I can see how much I have grown and changed in the past year and a half. Life is a journey and the lessons are unending.

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

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 kidding 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 crap, 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 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 had to scream at to make it stop.

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.
***************************************
Footnote: I published this story during a time I refer to as my "Demi Moore" era :) I know age is just a number but my own personal story when it comes to my evolution as a newly single woman will probably not include any repeat cougar performances (and I admit, I had a few shortly after my divorce). I've since "recoverecd" but it was great inspiration for some humorous angles for my writing. Hope you enjoyed the story. And thanks for being with me on this journey! :-) (Oh, and P.S. I did bring Dr. Doogie a Starbucks the next day along with an apology for the pain induced shrieking . . . )

Living and Learning

I am Catholic so I am not really the “devotional” kind. You know. Those little books with the daily bible verses? We Catholics like to leave the memorizing to the Protestants. I mean really. At no time did Jesus ever say the words "pop quiz."

But when I went through my divorce I broke the mold and picked up a devotional, this one was written by Kristen Armstrong. She wrote it after Lance Armstrong left her for Cheryl Crow. I love Cheryl Crow, but Lance is still a dick wad. I’m just saying.

Anyhoo, the former Mrs. Armstrong authored a devotional in her divorce aftermath and titled it, “Happily Ever After; Living with Peace and Courage through a year of Divorce.”

I loved it.

Every day I’d read my bible verse. And every day I’d read Kirsten’s application of it to her life post-divorce. I felt like I truly had a kindred spirit in this awful experience and was so grateful for her words.

When I finished the book and made it through my own first year of divorce, I loaned it to my best friend, Naomi. She’d been divorced for a while but I thought she may also find it comforting. She loved it so much she continues to announce ,“Oh, this is a Kristen Happily Ever After moment!” whenever she stumbles upon circumstance where the book’s wisdom is applicable.

Today was one of those days.

I made a mistake today. Not a huge mistake, not an illegal mistake, but a big fat whoops mistake. It was at work and involved spreadsheets. And software quotes. And formulas.

I’m smart but I’m an English major. Numbers are against my religion.

Long story short I made a whopper of an error that required me to eat my margin in order to honor an incorrect number I’d given a client. I was horrified with myself. When I told my manager, what do you think he said? Well, if I were him I would have said something like, “Nice one, Einstein.” Or started in on a well-deserved lecture about responsibility and haste.

But did he do that?

No. He did not.

Instead he told me that all people are imperfect. And that in the long run, it’s a mistake that does not matter in the grand scheme of things. And that he hired me because of my humility. And that I will find a graceful way to right the wrong with the client. And probably win more business in the long run because of it.

I couldn’t stop the tears.

Instead of a lecture, I received compassion. Instead of chastisement, I received encouragement.

I was overcome with the thought, “When have I exhibited compassion on this level?”

Probably not very often. When people make mistakes I am quick to point them out. I am critical. I am judgmental. And not very forgiving.

Words fail how humbling this moment was for me. I felt very undeserving of this compassion.

Instead of a lecture he instead chose to remind me of my good qualities, of my value as an employee, and of his strong belief in my ability to right a wrong with grace and dignity.

I was blown away.

Later that day when I shared this experience with Naomi, her response was immediate. “We are called to forgive because we have been forgiven. To love because we have been loved.”

“Bible verse?” I inquire.

“Nope,” Naomi explains, “It is Kirsten Armstrong’s take on Ephesians 4:31-32.”

Get rid of all bitterness, rage and anger, brawling and slander, along with every form of malice. Be kind and compassionate to one another, forgiving each other, just as in Christ God forgave you.

I thought a lot about that verse and came to this conclusion:

Not only are our mistakes and lessons learned an integral part of our own life’s journey, but how we respond to the mistakes of others is probably the biggest test of all.

I guess this means Kristen's probably forgiven the dick wad.

Whoops.

I mean.

Lance Armstrong.

A Day late . . .

. . . but not a dollar short!

Sorry for the lag in my Monday's post. Little behind but I'll have something up tomorrow.

Thanks for reading!!

~Audra

Dignity? What Dignity?

I am going to take my own blog hostage for a moment for a little shamless self promotion:

I submitted a video entry for a local singing competition, Fargo Star. Please vote for me online at http://fargostar.inforum.com! I am singing Amazing Grace to myself in my home office like a weirdo. (Dignity? What dignity?)

The top ten finalists will perform April 24th at The Venue.

Thank you SO MUCH for your vote and support!

(Don't just dream it, do it!)

~Audra
Here's a preview of my audition on You Tube. . . but to vote for me you need to go to The Forum Fargo Star website. The contestants with the top rankings go on to compete, so any and all "five star" votes are greatly appreciated!

You Tube Audition Video
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eUGnGE1ftMg

I May Be Stranded but I'm not Stupid

I want to believe that most married men are madly in love with their wives. And many that I know are.

But it’s the ones I meet when I’m not at home that really make me question if marriage is a complete and utter façade or what. And if men are slimier than than a snail trail.

Last week I was traveling but I missed my connection and ended up struck overnight in a strange city. In a meager effort to cope with my spontaneously stranded situation I went straight to the hotel bar upon arrival and ordered a Lemon Drop martini. Extra sugar.

Gawd. This was irritating. I was supposed to be home right now. Not drinking vodka and ordering a burger. Fun as those activities are they’re not so fun surrounded by strangers when I am supposed to be home in my own comfy bed in my jam jams.

So I make due. Sip a martini. And strike up a conversation with the poor traveling schmucks at the rail.

Before the night is over I am engaging in an intriguing conversation with a successful, funny, articulate, and very married, man. (Oh fine, and cute too. He’s cute. What? Not a crime to notice someone is cute). Nothing about this is scandalous so I just enjoy the fact that the conversation keeps me distracted from my circumstances.

As we converse I begin to be more and more entertained by how he confesses to be more and more unhappily married as the night wears on.

Gimme a break.

When it’s time to call it a night he insists on walking me to my room.

Fine. He shared that he's a pilot so I figured I wasn’t going to be molested by Mr. American Airlines so I let him escort me. Besides, he wasn't that tall. I figured if he tried any funny business I'd just knee him in the nards.

And for the record, when we got to my room the only thing that guy got at my door was a free copy of USA Today in the hallway. Nope. Not even a handshake. And no, I don’t want a congratulatory cookie. I’m just saying. Why was he even there?

Yeah. One guess why he was there.

Two minutes after settling into my room my hotel phone rings. Yep. It’s miserably married man.

I answer and blurt, “You have got to be kidding me.”

“What? I am just calling because I didn’t get the address of your blog you were telling me about.”

I let out a two (or was it there?) martini laced cackle. And give him the address.
He eventually hangs up. But not before he insists he really is getting a divorce.

How does that saying go again? Oh yeah. “That’s what they allllll say . . .”

I curtly reply in as much staccato as I can muster, “Good. Well, now you have my contact information. Call me when you’re single.”

Good night, Mr. Pilot.

I got a plane to catch in the morning.

And it ain't yours.

Here Comes the Sun

I have a love/hate relationship with flying. And I’m on a plane right now as I type this, hurtling through the clouds on my way to California for business.

I didn’t grow up flying all over the place. My parents were farmers. If you got a ride with the local crop duster once a while that was an epic adventure. Commercial air travel was something people did on tv. If anyone in my family flew it was a huge deal that rivaled the appearance of Haley’s Comet in frequency. My mom would spend days making lists, packing, and making sure my grandparents knew where the life insurance policy was.

Obviously, with a belief system like that modeled for me, the first time I stepped onto a plane at the age of 19 I was fully convinced that I had an equal chance of ending up in a fire ball on CNN as I did of arriving at my final destination.

I’ve since left my inherited anxiety behind and joined the pack of business travelers that crisscross the skies on a regular basis; however, hurtling through the clouds isn’t something human beings were designed to do and that unnatural reality is definitely responsible for the “hate” part of my relationship with flying. Every time my plane takes off?

Jesus is my best friend.

But at the same time, flying is amazing. I love it. And not just because of the convenient condensed travel time.

Take today. The sky is a grey flannel as my plane lifts off. But in less than a minute, I’m blinking into the sunshine as I soar above the dreary and into the sun. A philosophical reminder that even on cloudy days, the sun isn’t gone.

It’s just hiding.

Of course, flying has its downside beyond the natural anxiety of its unnatural logistics. I’m a petite woman and even I find the tuna can accommodations trying. What is it about the seat design in planes that makes my butt fall asleep? Every time.

And right now? I’m listening to the woman behind make a very bad case for her Amway business to her poor seatmate. I feel like telling her I’m in sales. And that the hostage situation pitch is not the best tactic. Five bucks says when this flight is over her pyramid scheme victim bolts through the airport as if being pursued by a pack of wolves.

But even despite the restrictive seating and unwelcome pyramid scheme endorsements, flying is superb. At this moment, how can I complain that I’m being whisked from tundra to palm trees in a matter of a few hours? On top of that, I’m floating far above my email and cell phone messages. Anyone trying to contact me right now is getting my Out of Office auto email reply or hearing my pleasant voice proclaim “Please leave me a message and I’ll call you back as quick as I can!”

Ah. Freedom.

Disconnected from the earth. Physically and literally.

Ultimately, getting on a plane is like every experience in life that’s worth the effort. It makes you nervous but then rewards you greatly. Anyone who’s ever flown over the Rocky Mountains or marveled at the microscopic boats zipping over Lake Michigan has tasted the majesty of the view from a plane and been awestruck by the world’s greatness. And our own smallness.

So here’s to the everyday mundane miracle of flight and its metaphorical truth.

Every day is a new chance.

To face our fears.

Soar above life’s clouds.

And find the sun.