“Lemonade! Twenty five cents!”
My daughter and her neighborhood friends are shrieking up and down our street, their marketing plan for their lemonade stand consisting mainly of yelling their heads off.
And it’s working.
An adorable older couple on even more adorable matching bikes, complete with baskets and flags, glide up to the folding table parked in our driveway to place their order.
I am in sales and work from home so today I am perched on my sunny front step with my laptop since my office is anywhere I have a great wireless connection. I watch my kid serve up sparkling pink glasses of summer, making conversation as she does, “It’s my birthday tomorrow; I’m going to be 9!”
I smile to myself as I eavesdrop. She’s a chip off the old blonde block as anyone in sales knows: it’s not about the product it’s about the relationship. “Good job, kiddo,” I think to myself and calculate her someday commission into my own retirement income. At this rate, I’m thinking her innate ability to connect with people will help me secure a place on the Mediterranean.
The cute couple offer synchronized crinkled grins. And the curly haired woman pipes up, “Oh really! Well, I turned 90 last month.”
“And isn’t she beautiful,” the old man adds.
I cannot help myself, I simply must join in the conversation and inquire from my sun-drenched stoop, “How long have you two been married?” After all, I am eternally searching for evidence that true love exists and who better to ask than two almost centurions on matching bikes?
“Ha!” the old man laughs loudly and I am momentarily confused.
What’s so funny?
I don’t have to wait long for clarity when he proudly shouts back, “We’re not! We’re living in sin!”
The old woman giggles coyly.
“That. Is. AWESOME!” I announce as I yelp my approval.
Yeah, yeah. I am queen of conservative but there was something about this aged pair on this sunny spring afternoon that was very affirming. No matter where you stand on marriage, you couldn’t help but be taken in by the happiness they shared. The kind of happiness that makes you buy matching bikes and stop at lemonade stands together. The kind that makes you proclaim across manicured lawns and nuclear families, within ear shot of children, that you love this person and you don’t care what the world says.
They finish their drinks, thank my daughter and her friends, and sail side by side back down the shaded street.
My daughter runs up to me. “What’s living in sin mean?”
I laugh and reply candidly, “Well, it means that people live together but aren’t married.”
“Oh” she says and I see her processing the concept, one I will get into a bit more when she's 19, not 9.
“Normally, it’s not something that God wants people to do but I think when you’re 90 years old, God probably makes exceptions. We can’t be sure but what we can know is that they sure seem pretty happy together don’t they?”
“Yep!” she agrees and then announces, “And they tipped me a dollar!” She runs back to her business of pushing sugar water, obviously satisfied with my brief commentary on co-habitation because she is soon in a chorus with the rest of the kids once again, “Lemonade! Only twenty five cents! Cold Lemonade! Get it here! Only twenty five cents!”
I silently thank the older couple for the value of their visit. And I don’t mean the buck they tipped my little girl.
Love is possible.
At any age.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Monday, April 26, 2010
How Did We Do It?
My bestest bud, Naomi, and I are collapsed in repreive next to my fire pit last Friday night, glasses of Reisling in hand, feet up on my wicker outdoor ottoman. Our children run and play around in the backyard on some crazy adventure as we lazily sink into the cushions to ponder present, past, and future.
The conversation winds around and at one point aimlessly wanders back to our college days. Naomi randomly observes, a crinkle appearing between her eyebrows as she does, “You know, how did we ever even get a hold of each other back then? We had no cell phones.”
“Or email,” I add as I sip my wine.
“And no Facebook!” she exclaims with a smirk of puzzlement, “Good gawd, we actually had to be in our dorm rooms to have a phone call."
“I had an answering machine,” I recall as I linger in the hallway of my memory for while.
“Hey Audra, it’s Cami. Let’s go to Theta Chi tonight!” “Hey Audra, meet us on the second floor of the library.” “Audra, it’s your mother. You’re bank account is over drawn again! Your dad is furious!”
Yep. That was it.
Answering machines.
“But what if we were out? How did we find each other?” Naomi's perplexed state growing as she contemplates the prehistoric life we once led.
“Um, we just ran into each other? Or we set it up ahead of time?” I volunteer with a shrug.
Naomi feigns shock and horror, “Holy crap, how did we even have any friends at all? It's a miracle I even know you!"
“I think we just relied more on serendipity back then.”
“In other words our social lives were a crap shoot? No wonder we ended up married to idiots," she evaluates, sealing her hindsight with another taste of wine.
I frown and look sideways at her as I state the obvious, “Um, it’s a Friday night right now. We have cell phones, email, and Facebook. And the only testosterone currently in our lives is in the form of your sons.” I glance back at the swing set that is currently doubling as a rocket ship in a childhood fantasy. I think they are pretending to shoot lasers at each other, and my daughter may actually be winning.
Naomi takes in the scene and surrenders. “Good point.”
“Maybe we should just pretend it's 1991 and throw it all back into the universe. You never know, a couple hot, funny, secure and emotionally healthy available men may just wander into my backyard.”
“Not likely.”
“Hey, how do you know?” I challenge.
“Because,” she deadpans and takes a gulp of Reisling, “I didn’t call ahead and leave an invitation on their answering machines.”
The conversation winds around and at one point aimlessly wanders back to our college days. Naomi randomly observes, a crinkle appearing between her eyebrows as she does, “You know, how did we ever even get a hold of each other back then? We had no cell phones.”
“Or email,” I add as I sip my wine.
“And no Facebook!” she exclaims with a smirk of puzzlement, “Good gawd, we actually had to be in our dorm rooms to have a phone call."
“I had an answering machine,” I recall as I linger in the hallway of my memory for while.
“Hey Audra, it’s Cami. Let’s go to Theta Chi tonight!” “Hey Audra, meet us on the second floor of the library.” “Audra, it’s your mother. You’re bank account is over drawn again! Your dad is furious!”
Yep. That was it.
Answering machines.
“But what if we were out? How did we find each other?” Naomi's perplexed state growing as she contemplates the prehistoric life we once led.
“Um, we just ran into each other? Or we set it up ahead of time?” I volunteer with a shrug.
Naomi feigns shock and horror, “Holy crap, how did we even have any friends at all? It's a miracle I even know you!"
“I think we just relied more on serendipity back then.”
“In other words our social lives were a crap shoot? No wonder we ended up married to idiots," she evaluates, sealing her hindsight with another taste of wine.
I frown and look sideways at her as I state the obvious, “Um, it’s a Friday night right now. We have cell phones, email, and Facebook. And the only testosterone currently in our lives is in the form of your sons.” I glance back at the swing set that is currently doubling as a rocket ship in a childhood fantasy. I think they are pretending to shoot lasers at each other, and my daughter may actually be winning.
Naomi takes in the scene and surrenders. “Good point.”
“Maybe we should just pretend it's 1991 and throw it all back into the universe. You never know, a couple hot, funny, secure and emotionally healthy available men may just wander into my backyard.”
“Not likely.”
“Hey, how do you know?” I challenge.
“Because,” she deadpans and takes a gulp of Reisling, “I didn’t call ahead and leave an invitation on their answering machines.”
Thursday, April 22, 2010
KFGO 9:00 Thursday, April 22
Tune in to KFGO tonight at 9:00 to hear "Chronicles of a Girl" live!
If you don't live in the area you can listen online at http://www.kfgo.com/.
If you don't live in the area you can listen online at http://www.kfgo.com/.
Bush Whacking
Who sings that song? It goes, “You’re so vain. I bet you think this song is about you, don’t you, don’t you?”
Oh yes.
Carly Simon.
Well, I’m going to write a new one. And it’s going to go like this:
“You’re so vain. I bet you think this Facebook status is about you, don’t you, don’t you?”
Seriously.
Has this ever happened to you? I mean really.
I was once accused of being passive aggressive in a Facebook status.
Excuse me for a minute. I must now temporarily collapse while rolling around and around on the floor laughing hsyterically because THAT.
Is funny.
Anyone who knows me for more than two minutes knows there is nothing about me that could ever be construed as passive. If I don’t like you, I don’t beat around the bush. I beat you with the bush (or any handy shrub I can find).
Okay, not literally. Whacking someone with a bush isn’t exactly legal. But what I am going to do is let you know what I think. And there is nothing passive about that. Over the years I have gotten better at using more discretion. Which for me basically means that now when someone makes me mad I don’t tell them to bite me.
At least not right away.
In corporate America, the Meyer’s Briggs personality test is hugely popular and it rates different components of your personality. According to its assessment, Audra is Emotional, Intuitive, and Judging. Not the worst combo. It does mean that even though I’m emotional, I am usually spot on when it comes to deciphering people’s motivations. And then I swiftly categorize them accordingly.
These are wonderful attributes for my career in sales. I connect with people on a human level, figure out their motivations, and then definitively make recommendations that match their goals. Over and over, people trust me and selling comes easy for me. And it’s not manipulative; it’s just a fantastic fit for my personality. If you have a problem, I’ll tell you if I can sell you something that’s going to fix said problem.
And.
I don’t beat around the bush.
Although in my personal life, sometimes this isn’t such a good thing. My candor is great for my career, but not so great in the rest of my life in conflict situations when emotions are running high. In those cases, sometimes the best thing to say is nothing.
Yeah, I am working on that one.
So in the meantime, anyone who knows me can at least trust this fact:
How I feel will never resemble any level of encryption.
Because if I write a song about you, or a Facebook status for that matter, the last person you'll need to consult.
Is Carly Simon.
Oh yes.
Carly Simon.
Well, I’m going to write a new one. And it’s going to go like this:
“You’re so vain. I bet you think this Facebook status is about you, don’t you, don’t you?”
Seriously.
Has this ever happened to you? I mean really.
I was once accused of being passive aggressive in a Facebook status.
Excuse me for a minute. I must now temporarily collapse while rolling around and around on the floor laughing hsyterically because THAT.
Is funny.
Anyone who knows me for more than two minutes knows there is nothing about me that could ever be construed as passive. If I don’t like you, I don’t beat around the bush. I beat you with the bush (or any handy shrub I can find).
Okay, not literally. Whacking someone with a bush isn’t exactly legal. But what I am going to do is let you know what I think. And there is nothing passive about that. Over the years I have gotten better at using more discretion. Which for me basically means that now when someone makes me mad I don’t tell them to bite me.
At least not right away.
In corporate America, the Meyer’s Briggs personality test is hugely popular and it rates different components of your personality. According to its assessment, Audra is Emotional, Intuitive, and Judging. Not the worst combo. It does mean that even though I’m emotional, I am usually spot on when it comes to deciphering people’s motivations. And then I swiftly categorize them accordingly.
These are wonderful attributes for my career in sales. I connect with people on a human level, figure out their motivations, and then definitively make recommendations that match their goals. Over and over, people trust me and selling comes easy for me. And it’s not manipulative; it’s just a fantastic fit for my personality. If you have a problem, I’ll tell you if I can sell you something that’s going to fix said problem.
And.
I don’t beat around the bush.
Although in my personal life, sometimes this isn’t such a good thing. My candor is great for my career, but not so great in the rest of my life in conflict situations when emotions are running high. In those cases, sometimes the best thing to say is nothing.
Yeah, I am working on that one.
So in the meantime, anyone who knows me can at least trust this fact:
How I feel will never resemble any level of encryption.
Because if I write a song about you, or a Facebook status for that matter, the last person you'll need to consult.
Is Carly Simon.
Monday, April 19, 2010
Parkas and Prozac
I wonder . . .
Do people in Hawaii every get depressed? What about the Caribbean? Do they sell less Zoloft there? Are razor blades hard to find?
I would assume.
Because I live in the anti-sunshine section of the world and let me tell you, it can be downright depressing. At least for the six months out of the year that winter’s icy hands try to strangle all the happiness out of the world in its 50 below/cloudy for days/clutches.
Seriously.
If you have not been to North Dakota you do not know cold. And you do not know cloudy. Imagine if Seattle were in Antarctica not Washington.
That.
Is where I live.
And every year round about the Ides of January I start fantasizing about a suicide plan. Let’s see, how tightly does that garage door shut anyway? And what did I do with that extra rope again? How high are those rafters?
Well, not quite, but by then I definitely have a full blown case of cabin fever punctuated by my longing to be able to walk outside without my face hurting. In fact, winter induced depression actually has a medical term: Seasonal Affective Disorder. And yes. The acronym?
You got it.
S.A.D.
I am not even making this up! It’s real. Google it.
My mom always jokes that she is solar powered: happy when the sun shines and driving my dad nuts when it doesn’t. (I do think my father secretly checks the forecast every day in some feeble effort to decipher my mother.)
And so, of course, everyone who doesn’t live in this Godforsaken Tundra does ask the obvious: WHY DO YOU PEOPLE LIVE THERE?
Gee, I don’t know. Maybe because we’re all phobic about leaving our homes so being trapped inside them by ice, snow, and sub-zero is our idea of fun.
Duh! Sucks to be us, yes, it does. But it is a good question. And every winter I do wonder the same thing and start checking out the real estate market in Tampa.
Honestly, I think the reason people do reside here might have everything to do with the euphoric arrival of spring. Because I will tell you what, there is nothing better than watching your backyard transform from an ice cube to Eden. Witnessing that monumental miracle floods you with relief that Mother Nature is not a b*tch after all.
Because look at that tulip.
Hello?
She brought flowers. It's time to kiss and make up.
Alright, so up this way she may be a little bi-polar, but her tundra temper tantrum is temporary. Eventually people put away the rope and razor blades and trade them in for beer and boats.
And that “SAD” acronym takes on a whole new meaning.
Summer’s
Arrived
Dude.
So party on.
(At least until next November anyway.)
Do people in Hawaii every get depressed? What about the Caribbean? Do they sell less Zoloft there? Are razor blades hard to find?
I would assume.
Because I live in the anti-sunshine section of the world and let me tell you, it can be downright depressing. At least for the six months out of the year that winter’s icy hands try to strangle all the happiness out of the world in its 50 below/cloudy for days/clutches.
Seriously.
If you have not been to North Dakota you do not know cold. And you do not know cloudy. Imagine if Seattle were in Antarctica not Washington.
That.
Is where I live.
And every year round about the Ides of January I start fantasizing about a suicide plan. Let’s see, how tightly does that garage door shut anyway? And what did I do with that extra rope again? How high are those rafters?
Well, not quite, but by then I definitely have a full blown case of cabin fever punctuated by my longing to be able to walk outside without my face hurting. In fact, winter induced depression actually has a medical term: Seasonal Affective Disorder. And yes. The acronym?
You got it.
S.A.D.
I am not even making this up! It’s real. Google it.
My mom always jokes that she is solar powered: happy when the sun shines and driving my dad nuts when it doesn’t. (I do think my father secretly checks the forecast every day in some feeble effort to decipher my mother.)
And so, of course, everyone who doesn’t live in this Godforsaken Tundra does ask the obvious: WHY DO YOU PEOPLE LIVE THERE?
Gee, I don’t know. Maybe because we’re all phobic about leaving our homes so being trapped inside them by ice, snow, and sub-zero is our idea of fun.
Duh! Sucks to be us, yes, it does. But it is a good question. And every winter I do wonder the same thing and start checking out the real estate market in Tampa.
Honestly, I think the reason people do reside here might have everything to do with the euphoric arrival of spring. Because I will tell you what, there is nothing better than watching your backyard transform from an ice cube to Eden. Witnessing that monumental miracle floods you with relief that Mother Nature is not a b*tch after all.
Because look at that tulip.
Hello?
She brought flowers. It's time to kiss and make up.
Alright, so up this way she may be a little bi-polar, but her tundra temper tantrum is temporary. Eventually people put away the rope and razor blades and trade them in for beer and boats.
And that “SAD” acronym takes on a whole new meaning.
Summer’s
Arrived
Dude.
So party on.
(At least until next November anyway.)
Taking the Airwaves Hostage
Tune in to KFGO later this week to hear "Chronicles of a Girl" live (you can listen online if you don't live in the area). I'll be on the air with Jason Spiess hashing out the good, the bad, and the ugly of dating.
I'll post the link as well as the air time and date as soon as the the schedule firms up.
Thanks for reading!
~Audra
(Monday's post will appear tommorrow, my weekend was insanity!)
I'll post the link as well as the air time and date as soon as the the schedule firms up.
Thanks for reading!
~Audra
(Monday's post will appear tommorrow, my weekend was insanity!)
Thursday, April 15, 2010
I'm Seeing a Pattern Here
I am having the absolutely oddest experience right now.
Everyone, and I mean everyone in the entire world, is doing one of two things:
Breaking up.
Or getting married.
Okay, that’s an exaggeration. It is not the whole world, just my world. But still, I know a lot of people. It’s still a paralyzing phenomenon sweeping Fargo/Moorhead.
One I am grateful I am not participating in because both sound like a heaping helping of stress. Since I am sans relationship I am doing neither, thank you very much.
Seriously. What is going on? Are we in some rare astronomical situation where the planets have somehow aligned to form a Mickey Mouse constellation? The effects of which are forcing couples to decide now if they ever plan to go to Disney World in a family vacation situation?
I mean good gawd.
Three good friends have broken up in the last few months with their long term boyfriends.
And two more have gotten engaged.
I’m feeling slightly bi-polar as my subsequent conversations with my social circle has no happy medium, it’s either, “What a bastard!” or “What a prince!”
I feel like calling up some of my happily married girlfriends just to ask them to tell me about the mundane yard work their husbands are doing. I seriously am craving a conversation that revolves around a couple's biggest dilemma being whether to plan lilacs or dogwoods along the fence in the backyard.
Because I am not sure I can take much more of this reality waffling between congratulations or castration.
And so, there you have it blogarama fans. The earth has entered some kind of force field. So beware. If you’re in a relationship and not sure where it’s headed . . . well, don’t look up at the sky tonight.
You may just see Mickey up there.
And be forced to make a decision whether you want to discover the magic.
Or not.
Everyone, and I mean everyone in the entire world, is doing one of two things:
Breaking up.
Or getting married.
Okay, that’s an exaggeration. It is not the whole world, just my world. But still, I know a lot of people. It’s still a paralyzing phenomenon sweeping Fargo/Moorhead.
One I am grateful I am not participating in because both sound like a heaping helping of stress. Since I am sans relationship I am doing neither, thank you very much.
Seriously. What is going on? Are we in some rare astronomical situation where the planets have somehow aligned to form a Mickey Mouse constellation? The effects of which are forcing couples to decide now if they ever plan to go to Disney World in a family vacation situation?
I mean good gawd.
Three good friends have broken up in the last few months with their long term boyfriends.
And two more have gotten engaged.
I’m feeling slightly bi-polar as my subsequent conversations with my social circle has no happy medium, it’s either, “What a bastard!” or “What a prince!”
I feel like calling up some of my happily married girlfriends just to ask them to tell me about the mundane yard work their husbands are doing. I seriously am craving a conversation that revolves around a couple's biggest dilemma being whether to plan lilacs or dogwoods along the fence in the backyard.
Because I am not sure I can take much more of this reality waffling between congratulations or castration.
And so, there you have it blogarama fans. The earth has entered some kind of force field. So beware. If you’re in a relationship and not sure where it’s headed . . . well, don’t look up at the sky tonight.
You may just see Mickey up there.
And be forced to make a decision whether you want to discover the magic.
Or not.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Calling in Sick!
I was not feeling well yesterday blogarama fans, so here's a flashback to my first blog, Divorce Land. This post was originally published on October 13, 2008. It's still a relevant lesson and life observation, enjoy!:
Why I Never want to be 25 Again
The best part of cleaning closets, I think, is the part where I stumble across a box of old photos, cards and letters. And then promptly lose myself in the past for a good twenty minutes.
Last weekend I did just that. While sorting through the contents of the top shelf of my bedroom closet, I couldn’t resist cracking open a photo album from my college days. Of course, my initial response was to cringe at my hideous hair (I swear, I never smoked pot in college. But with hair that high and huge, it is almost embarrassing to admit that I did that to my myself sober. And on purpose.)
One of the pictures was of an old boyfriend I am still in touch with. I couldn’t resist snapping a camera phone copy and shooting it off to him immediately.
“Check this out,” my accompanying text message read, “I found this in an old album, had to send it to you.”
I wondered what he would say.
After all, almost twenty years had passed (okay, only eighteen, but still) since he and his friends had leaned against my dorm room wall and smiled into my camera lens.
He texted back in about five seconds, his response exactly on target.
A simple observation summing up what almost two decades of living had done.
“I miss my bangs.”
Was his reply.
I just rolled around on my closet floor for a while laughing. I did. I absolutely did. So much for any profound nostalgia.
When it comes down to it, the guy just misses his hair.
And so began a texting repertoire documenting our lost youth. On my part, I missed my pre-baby no stretch mark 20-something body. He was on a hair kick I guess because he texted back how he missed not having grey in the hair he does have. Oh fine, I jumped on that bandwagon and gave thanks that although mine isn’t greying (yet, knock on wood) I certainly do miss having all that hair (even if it was big enough for its own zip code.)
On we went, lamenting what time has stolen.
Eventually I had to get back to cleaning that closet. I thanked him for the chuckles and wished him a good bang-less kinda/sorta greying fabulous day.
And as I continued sorting through my boxes of junk, I wondered:
Do I really mourn the loss of my youth? Hmmm. Well, maybe some things. But I am in my 30’s in the age of botox, gym memberships, and teeth whitening. I don’t look half bad for my age. The little bit time has done, I can live with. Yeah, I have stretch marks, but I take care of myself so underneath them are abs of steel. And lest not forget, I have two fantastic kids. I think they were worth it.
And truly, when I look back at those pictures, yeah, I had a lot of hair, but what was underneath that 80’s mane was the spirit of a young woman who had so much yet to learn.
Would I really like to go back there?
Are ya kiddn’ me? No way Jose’.
After I really thought about it, time doesn’t steal so much as it bestows.
When I was in my 20’s I thought I knew everything yet I wasn’t quite sure enough of myself to live like I did. I second-guessed all my decisions, and if I didn’t, then I stood behind them with extra helpings of conviction, just to make sure.
Life seemed to have a black and white road map back then and I stuck rigidly to the course. I lived my life how it was supposed to be. I was militant about following the guide books. And always did what I perceived to be the “right” thing.
But then I turned thirty, and life got grey. Things didn’t go as I had planned, and suddenly everything I thought I knew just . . . disappeared.
And now, I’m past the mid-way point of my 30’s, and these grey areas, honestly? Are far more comfortable. I understand that people, myself included, don’t fit neatly into all the boxes I had drawn in my 20’s. There’s overlap, muddy places and sometimes everyone around me is just coloring outside the lines.
Oh well.
You see, I feel a peace about life now that I never could find a decade ago when I tried to shove everything into neatly labeled boxes of my own making.
But now? The boxes are gone. I let things flow. And peace has miraculously descended.
So let time march on. Let the grey dance slowly into our hair.
But more importantly, let the murky areas of life seep into our realities. For with time, and age, comes wisdom, acceptance, and peace.
In many shiny and stunningly beautiful shades.
Of grey.
Why I Never want to be 25 Again
The best part of cleaning closets, I think, is the part where I stumble across a box of old photos, cards and letters. And then promptly lose myself in the past for a good twenty minutes.
Last weekend I did just that. While sorting through the contents of the top shelf of my bedroom closet, I couldn’t resist cracking open a photo album from my college days. Of course, my initial response was to cringe at my hideous hair (I swear, I never smoked pot in college. But with hair that high and huge, it is almost embarrassing to admit that I did that to my myself sober. And on purpose.)
One of the pictures was of an old boyfriend I am still in touch with. I couldn’t resist snapping a camera phone copy and shooting it off to him immediately.
“Check this out,” my accompanying text message read, “I found this in an old album, had to send it to you.”
I wondered what he would say.
After all, almost twenty years had passed (okay, only eighteen, but still) since he and his friends had leaned against my dorm room wall and smiled into my camera lens.
He texted back in about five seconds, his response exactly on target.
A simple observation summing up what almost two decades of living had done.
“I miss my bangs.”
Was his reply.
I just rolled around on my closet floor for a while laughing. I did. I absolutely did. So much for any profound nostalgia.
When it comes down to it, the guy just misses his hair.
And so began a texting repertoire documenting our lost youth. On my part, I missed my pre-baby no stretch mark 20-something body. He was on a hair kick I guess because he texted back how he missed not having grey in the hair he does have. Oh fine, I jumped on that bandwagon and gave thanks that although mine isn’t greying (yet, knock on wood) I certainly do miss having all that hair (even if it was big enough for its own zip code.)
On we went, lamenting what time has stolen.
Eventually I had to get back to cleaning that closet. I thanked him for the chuckles and wished him a good bang-less kinda/sorta greying fabulous day.
And as I continued sorting through my boxes of junk, I wondered:
Do I really mourn the loss of my youth? Hmmm. Well, maybe some things. But I am in my 30’s in the age of botox, gym memberships, and teeth whitening. I don’t look half bad for my age. The little bit time has done, I can live with. Yeah, I have stretch marks, but I take care of myself so underneath them are abs of steel. And lest not forget, I have two fantastic kids. I think they were worth it.
And truly, when I look back at those pictures, yeah, I had a lot of hair, but what was underneath that 80’s mane was the spirit of a young woman who had so much yet to learn.
Would I really like to go back there?
Are ya kiddn’ me? No way Jose’.
After I really thought about it, time doesn’t steal so much as it bestows.
When I was in my 20’s I thought I knew everything yet I wasn’t quite sure enough of myself to live like I did. I second-guessed all my decisions, and if I didn’t, then I stood behind them with extra helpings of conviction, just to make sure.
Life seemed to have a black and white road map back then and I stuck rigidly to the course. I lived my life how it was supposed to be. I was militant about following the guide books. And always did what I perceived to be the “right” thing.
But then I turned thirty, and life got grey. Things didn’t go as I had planned, and suddenly everything I thought I knew just . . . disappeared.
And now, I’m past the mid-way point of my 30’s, and these grey areas, honestly? Are far more comfortable. I understand that people, myself included, don’t fit neatly into all the boxes I had drawn in my 20’s. There’s overlap, muddy places and sometimes everyone around me is just coloring outside the lines.
Oh well.
You see, I feel a peace about life now that I never could find a decade ago when I tried to shove everything into neatly labeled boxes of my own making.
But now? The boxes are gone. I let things flow. And peace has miraculously descended.
So let time march on. Let the grey dance slowly into our hair.
But more importantly, let the murky areas of life seep into our realities. For with time, and age, comes wisdom, acceptance, and peace.
In many shiny and stunningly beautiful shades.
Of grey.
Monday, April 12, 2010
Desperate but not a Housewife
Sorry, my "real" post is going to be a day late. I collapsed last night after 8 hours of yard work this weekend! I'll post tonight, thanks for your patience, sorry for the delay. :-)
And yes, I could use a gardner. Preferably 6'4, dark hair, and shirtless. Tatoos optional but a definite plus.
~Audra
And yes, I could use a gardner. Preferably 6'4, dark hair, and shirtless. Tatoos optional but a definite plus.
~Audra
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Cryptic Messages and CIA Training
So I get a voicemail last week from a guy I dated briefly last summer.
Hey, Audra. Gimme a call. There’s something I want to discuss with you.
I haven’t seen this guy in almost a year. Oh great. He has AIDS. I freaking knew it.
I call him back and when he answers I brace for the bad news.
It’s worse than I thought.
He wants to sell me Amway.
************************************
This is my life. My dating life anyway. Brief moments of optimism sprinkled on top of a giant soufflé of weird.
Of course, the weirdos all seem so normal at first. I would like to make a motion that we start requiring single men to come with warning labels. Like cd’s or cigarettes. “Dating this dude is dangerous to your social, mental, spiritual, and/or emotional health” or something more specific like “Has been known to exhibit stalker qualities after two dates.” Hell, I would even appreciate the occasional “Pyramid Scheme Sucker” footnote. (At least I wouldn’t have an STD heart attack when he randomly calls several months later and leaves a cryptic voicemail.)
Sometimes I wish I could just Wikipedia a guy before even going on one date. Get the low down. The scoop. The dirt. Call it something like The Dating Girl’s “Guy’d” to the Universe.
Ooh. I love that one.
Unfortunately, if I tried to start something like that it probably wouldn’t go over too well.
Yeah, it’s called slander and it’s not exactly legal.
Sigh. Why is the fun stuff always against the law?
And so, like a dating detective I watch for red flags, take mental notes about the contents on Facebook, ask around trying to discern if this dude has a bad reputation, several illegitimate children, or a wife in Idaho. And all the while smiling politely, giggling when appropriate, and making witty conversation.
A few more years of this dating shennanigans and the CIA really should consider hiring me. I'll be so damn qualified at subtly assessing someone's character that I'll be able to determine citizenship and blood type three bites into a steak dinner.
That's a talent that's gotta be worth something.
Oh well. For now, all I really care about in my little dating world is that the next time the phone rings.
It isn't some former frog calling.
Trying to sell me Amway.
Hey, Audra. Gimme a call. There’s something I want to discuss with you.
I haven’t seen this guy in almost a year. Oh great. He has AIDS. I freaking knew it.
I call him back and when he answers I brace for the bad news.
It’s worse than I thought.
He wants to sell me Amway.
************************************
This is my life. My dating life anyway. Brief moments of optimism sprinkled on top of a giant soufflé of weird.
Of course, the weirdos all seem so normal at first. I would like to make a motion that we start requiring single men to come with warning labels. Like cd’s or cigarettes. “Dating this dude is dangerous to your social, mental, spiritual, and/or emotional health” or something more specific like “Has been known to exhibit stalker qualities after two dates.” Hell, I would even appreciate the occasional “Pyramid Scheme Sucker” footnote. (At least I wouldn’t have an STD heart attack when he randomly calls several months later and leaves a cryptic voicemail.)
Sometimes I wish I could just Wikipedia a guy before even going on one date. Get the low down. The scoop. The dirt. Call it something like The Dating Girl’s “Guy’d” to the Universe.
Ooh. I love that one.
Unfortunately, if I tried to start something like that it probably wouldn’t go over too well.
Yeah, it’s called slander and it’s not exactly legal.
Sigh. Why is the fun stuff always against the law?
And so, like a dating detective I watch for red flags, take mental notes about the contents on Facebook, ask around trying to discern if this dude has a bad reputation, several illegitimate children, or a wife in Idaho. And all the while smiling politely, giggling when appropriate, and making witty conversation.
A few more years of this dating shennanigans and the CIA really should consider hiring me. I'll be so damn qualified at subtly assessing someone's character that I'll be able to determine citizenship and blood type three bites into a steak dinner.
That's a talent that's gotta be worth something.
Oh well. For now, all I really care about in my little dating world is that the next time the phone rings.
It isn't some former frog calling.
Trying to sell me Amway.
Monday, April 5, 2010
My Easter Nuggets
Someone I used to know once referred to those moments in life that teach you something as nuggets. Golden bits of truth, clarity, and resulting wisdom. I think Oprah calls them Ah-ha moments.
I try to discover one every day. I figure life probably has plenty of lessons to teach. So each day I try to turn experiences inside out and lift the foggy veil of mysterious reasons why things happen the way they do. I try my hardest to find those little golden treasures when life is especially confusing, dissappointing, or just plain crappy.
This past Easter Sunday had quite a few.
First of all, I didn't have my children this Easter, they were with their dad. Its a painful experience that I don't wish upon any parent, not having your young children next to you on a holiday. It's like trying to put a shoe on a phantom limb. Nothing but air and emptiness.
But I tried to make the best of it. I went home with a girlfriend. And she is one of 14 children. I met her mom. She's 80. She looked really tired. I tried to just stand next to her and syphon off some of the incredible strength this woman must have had (has?) to have had that many kids and still be standing.
Nugget number one. Women have come a long way in the past 50 years. I didn't spend my life working on a dairy farm and having a baby every other year. Granted her family is awesome, I still gave quiet thanks that I live in a world where now if chidren outnumber parents seven to one TLC follows you around with video cameras.
My second nugget showed up while visiting with one of the family members about what we do for a living. I work from home and do IT sales. I talk on the phone, send emails, and go for mind clearing and energizing runs over my lunch break. She works in a factory and has to be there by 6:30am. She is also divorced but doesn't have custody of her children.
Nugget number two. At the end of the Easter weekend, my children come back to me. And I don't have to go to work on an assembly line at the crack of dawn. My work days starts in my cozy kitchen with a cup of coffee and a laptop. A hard day for me is an early morning conference call. From my couch.
My last nugget was harder to find. I accompanied my friend's mega family to church that morning and sang in the choir with some of the family members. After the first song the choir director marched over to me and told me to quit singing so loud and so well because I am not a member of this church. Holy small town ego attack.
I felt my nose do that burning thing and I tried not to cry. I am a member of my own church choir and obviously I would rather be there right now with my children smiling at me from the front row. Instead, I sucked down the tears and sang softer in an unfamiliar place with unwelcoming strangers.
Nuggest number three. I am not a crabby old choir directing fat lady who is mean to others on Easter.
So, it wasn't the best Easter ever but instead of dyed eggs I hunted a few nuggets instead. Mainly, I found myself giving thanks for MY life.
It may not be perfect. But its mine.
And there are some pretty darn good golden sparkly parts to it that are easy to find.
If I just look hard enough.
**************************************
Thanks to everyone who has taken the time to comment lately! It always amazes me when I get comments, it reminds me "Oh yeah, people really do read this..." I am eternally humbled and honored. :-) Look for your own nuggets today, I assure you they are there. For even on our gloomiest days, the sun isn't gone, it's just behind the clouds.
~Audra
I try to discover one every day. I figure life probably has plenty of lessons to teach. So each day I try to turn experiences inside out and lift the foggy veil of mysterious reasons why things happen the way they do. I try my hardest to find those little golden treasures when life is especially confusing, dissappointing, or just plain crappy.
This past Easter Sunday had quite a few.
First of all, I didn't have my children this Easter, they were with their dad. Its a painful experience that I don't wish upon any parent, not having your young children next to you on a holiday. It's like trying to put a shoe on a phantom limb. Nothing but air and emptiness.
But I tried to make the best of it. I went home with a girlfriend. And she is one of 14 children. I met her mom. She's 80. She looked really tired. I tried to just stand next to her and syphon off some of the incredible strength this woman must have had (has?) to have had that many kids and still be standing.
Nugget number one. Women have come a long way in the past 50 years. I didn't spend my life working on a dairy farm and having a baby every other year. Granted her family is awesome, I still gave quiet thanks that I live in a world where now if chidren outnumber parents seven to one TLC follows you around with video cameras.
My second nugget showed up while visiting with one of the family members about what we do for a living. I work from home and do IT sales. I talk on the phone, send emails, and go for mind clearing and energizing runs over my lunch break. She works in a factory and has to be there by 6:30am. She is also divorced but doesn't have custody of her children.
Nugget number two. At the end of the Easter weekend, my children come back to me. And I don't have to go to work on an assembly line at the crack of dawn. My work days starts in my cozy kitchen with a cup of coffee and a laptop. A hard day for me is an early morning conference call. From my couch.
My last nugget was harder to find. I accompanied my friend's mega family to church that morning and sang in the choir with some of the family members. After the first song the choir director marched over to me and told me to quit singing so loud and so well because I am not a member of this church. Holy small town ego attack.
I felt my nose do that burning thing and I tried not to cry. I am a member of my own church choir and obviously I would rather be there right now with my children smiling at me from the front row. Instead, I sucked down the tears and sang softer in an unfamiliar place with unwelcoming strangers.
Nuggest number three. I am not a crabby old choir directing fat lady who is mean to others on Easter.
So, it wasn't the best Easter ever but instead of dyed eggs I hunted a few nuggets instead. Mainly, I found myself giving thanks for MY life.
It may not be perfect. But its mine.
And there are some pretty darn good golden sparkly parts to it that are easy to find.
If I just look hard enough.
**************************************
Thanks to everyone who has taken the time to comment lately! It always amazes me when I get comments, it reminds me "Oh yeah, people really do read this..." I am eternally humbled and honored. :-) Look for your own nuggets today, I assure you they are there. For even on our gloomiest days, the sun isn't gone, it's just behind the clouds.
~Audra
Thursday, April 1, 2010
If Elected I promise to . . .
. . . keep my bra on.
I lost you? Oh, sorry, a little background:
It's the last week of voting for the Fargo Star contest that I entered. If you haven't cast your vote for moi, you really should consider doing so.
And here's why:
In my video audition I am singing Amazing Grace in my home office because . . . well? I thought this looked like fun. And life is too short not to try something that looks fun (granted, it's the kind of fun that is legal and video evidence of it showing up later in life will not thwart any of my some day public office aspirations). I think auditioning for this contest falls into my personal "acceptable level of humiliation" category, parameters that were established back in 1987 when my friend dared me to run my bra up the school flag pole. Hello? I was 14. My bra was more like a tank top. What made me think that was a good idea? Hence, "Bra up Flag Pole Idea" forever equals unacceptable public humiliation. I will not expound upon the ridicule I (rightly so) endured.
By comparision, making a video of myself singing (at night, you will notice, because everyone looks better in the dark, that's just a fact, Jack.) is not nearly as self depricating, or stupid. (Ah, the lingering lessons of adolescence . . . )
So here's the deal, vote for me if you want to vote for someone who doesn't let life get her down, who keeps on keeping on, who stumbles upon a singing contest and says, "Ok! Let's give this a whirl!", who fires up her video camera, plugs in her microphone (ignore the fact I own a microphone, will you?), and records one take of herself yowling and throws it on You Tube.
Vote for a woman who takes chances, throws caution to the wind, and says, "Why not?"
So if I do make the top ten, I'll wave a flag of triumph. Not a training bra.
http://fargostar.inforum.com/?contestant=115
Thank you for your support!
I lost you? Oh, sorry, a little background:
It's the last week of voting for the Fargo Star contest that I entered. If you haven't cast your vote for moi, you really should consider doing so.
And here's why:
In my video audition I am singing Amazing Grace in my home office because . . . well? I thought this looked like fun. And life is too short not to try something that looks fun (granted, it's the kind of fun that is legal and video evidence of it showing up later in life will not thwart any of my some day public office aspirations). I think auditioning for this contest falls into my personal "acceptable level of humiliation" category, parameters that were established back in 1987 when my friend dared me to run my bra up the school flag pole. Hello? I was 14. My bra was more like a tank top. What made me think that was a good idea? Hence, "Bra up Flag Pole Idea" forever equals unacceptable public humiliation. I will not expound upon the ridicule I (rightly so) endured.
By comparision, making a video of myself singing (at night, you will notice, because everyone looks better in the dark, that's just a fact, Jack.) is not nearly as self depricating, or stupid. (Ah, the lingering lessons of adolescence . . . )
So here's the deal, vote for me if you want to vote for someone who doesn't let life get her down, who keeps on keeping on, who stumbles upon a singing contest and says, "Ok! Let's give this a whirl!", who fires up her video camera, plugs in her microphone (ignore the fact I own a microphone, will you?), and records one take of herself yowling and throws it on You Tube.
Vote for a woman who takes chances, throws caution to the wind, and says, "Why not?"
So if I do make the top ten, I'll wave a flag of triumph. Not a training bra.
http://fargostar.inforum.com/?contestant=115
Thank you for your support!
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