My Eternally Impossible To Do List

I make a “to do” list every day. And I am not sure it is something I should be proud of. It sounds kind of anal retentive, mildly neurotic, and absolutely futile. But I do it anyway.

One for work. One for the rest of my life.

From conference calls to dentist appointments, it’s all there, mapped out and meticulously crossed off as accomplished. Unfortunately, some days I wonder if my to do list crawls off my counter, puts on a naughty little number, hits the bars, and brings home another shady to do list, gets busy, and gives birth to a whole slew of additional tasks. Because I don’t know how this multiplication happens but some days my list is longer at the end of the day than it was at the beginning.

Perplexing.

My point? I am busy as crap.

Case in point: when people ask what my favorite tv show is I just kind of glaze over and get all slack jawed because honestly? Who has time to watch tv? I do not. Maybe I should make time, but I simply cannot imagine having the luxury to just sit on the couch and do nothing. I have kids, pets, a job, a house to clean, laundry to do, bills to pay and a yard to mow. I know everyone else does too so maybe they know something I don’t? Or they have maids, gardeners, and a laundry service. Or else they don’t and they live in filth, have knee-high grass and wear the same pair of underwear for days on end.

Who knows?

All I know is I am damn busy chasing after the eternally impossible to do list.

The one thing that I do make time for on that list though, no matter what, is my daily run. That is my escape. That is my sanity. It is the one task on my to do list that trumps everything else. (Well, I don’t let my children starve or run around in the same outfit for three days in a row, they are a priority, but you know what I mean.)

Today was an exceptionally crazy day and gave up on my to do list for good at around 7pm. There were still tasks left but I threw in the towel and waved a flag of surrender in the form of my running shoes and iPod. The bathroom was dirty, the laundry needed to be folded, and the kitchen was experiencing a dirty dishes hostile takeover.

Screw it. I’m going for a run.

And that’s that. Cranked up my favorite Lady Antebellum song and hit the trail.

Good bye to do list.

I’ll see you.

Tomorrow.
*************************

I Run to You ~ by Lady Antebellum
Music Video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Rs38lKxmtI4

I run from hate
I run from prejudice
I run from pessimists
But I run too late

I run my life
Or is it running me?
Run from my past
I run too fast
Or too slow it seems

When lies become the truth
That's when I run to you

This world keeps spinning faster
To a new disaster
So I run to you . . .

Sanctuary from the Wind

I was in a wedding this weekend.

Therefore I feel like I should write either something profound about marriage and commitment or just merely document the silly stuff, like how my daughter thought my bright pink bridesmaid dress made me look like a cake. Or a beehive.

Although I don’t think beehives come in fuchsia so I'm gonna go with the cake.

The wedding was outdoors and because of hurricane force winds, had to be held in a tent. Have you ever been in a tent during 40mph winds? It isn’t exactly romantic. Frightening may be a better description.

Yet the bride and groom beamed through it all as the tent creaked, flapped, and threatened to collapse on the nuptials and earn the wedding some unwelcomed publicity on the ten o'clock news. (I tried to strategically stand away from a support beam as I really didn't want to be on the news looking like a bleeding beehive.)

Having been married, very awfully married, I try not to be cynical at weddings. Especially when I’m dressed in pink and holding hydrangeas. I am a romantic person at heart so of course I want to believe I am witnessing the beginning of someone’s happily ever after, the end of a fairy tale that has only truly just begun.

So I’m standing there, my feet aching in 4 inch stilettos, hoping the tent holds up, while watching my friend in her Monique Ihuillier dress, complete with Swarovski crystal belt, and I find myself wondering how this couple is going to handle the winds of life: How will they do the first time their “someday” newborn screams for three days straight from an ear infection? What about baby barf, bills and a distant future where boredom may invade the bedroom? What about job loss, death in the family, or daunting diagnosis?

For the storms come to everyone, howl around our shelters and try to break inside and ruin our perfect plans. For no matter how fancy the dress, impressive the flowers, or entertaining the band at the wedding dance, ultimately marriage is just about building the kind of foundation that can weather the storms when they descend.

I smile to myself as I realize this is a very fitting beginning, this crazy windy circumstance. For as hard as the wind whipped, screamed, and yelled, it did not break in. The tent held. The couple smiled. And the beginning of a life long journey was sealed with a kiss.

May this be the metaphor on which they build their future. Let them construct a strong sanctuary where they can huddle together as the winds of life blow all around them.

And never collapse their union.

********************************************
"I do to the future!" Congratulations my dear friends!! I couldn't resist commenting on that wind situation . . . it made for a great story and will always be something you will remember about your wedding day. I wanted to tie to something beautiful. So when the "winds of life" blow, just remember: that tent didn't collapse on May 22, 2010.

And may your marriage be the same: strong and sheltering, forever and always.

~Audra

Tuesday . . .

This week's Monday post will appear tomorrow . . . I had a Tommy Boy sales trip last week followed immediately by a wedding (not mine!) I was a bridesmaid, doing the twist in a fuschia frock to the greatest local band ever, The Front Fenders. (Okay, my cousin is the lead singer, but they're still tremendous!)

For those of you who followed my "Divorce Land" blog a few years ago . . . the "Divorce Land Girls" are one by one saying "I do, to the future!" Sonja married the love of her life this weekend . . . Smiley Susie Sunshine is next in a few weeks!

And do not even ask about my personal life . . . all I am going to say, is that I think . . . I might actually have one . . . Shocking, I know.

See you here tomorrow, blogarama fans!

~Audra
P.S. Muah to my "cab driver" on Saturday night . . . !! :-) And silent grateful blessings for the Christmas Eve miracle of 1984 . . .

We'll return to our regularly scheduled program . . .

. . . after the break.

Sorry, blogarama fans! I'm on a business trip and my hotel has (*#$&#(!!% for a wireless connection . . . and it's a nice hotel too! I figured out this morning that I have a great connection in the living room area of my room, just not in the bedroom area of my room (where I was when I was attempting to get online last night). Soooo . . . too late to throw some thoughts out into the universe today. I'll be back on Monday!

Muah!
~Audra

I'm Such a Dirty Girl

There’s a picture of me taken when I was five years old. It’s 1977. I’m standing in a field next to the freshly poured foundation of my family’s new home. Well, new to us. It was actually an abandoned farmhouse my parents got for free. All they had to pay for was the construction of the basement and the moving fees. The rest they bought with a currency made of sweat and elbow grease. My dad and grandpa spent the summer remodeling the old house that would be our family’s home for the next three decades.

I love this picture of me. I’m in pigtails and a cookie monster tank top. My legs are brown and my face expectant. But what I love most about this picture?

Is the dirt.

Because even though it’s a blurry shot I am fairly certain I’m covered in it. My outstretched palms, I can assure you, are filthy, my fingernails harboring more mud than the bottom of a shoe, and more than likely my legs really aren’t as tan as they look.

They’re probably just that dirty.

It was glorious.

Because on a farm life happens in the dirt. The soil holds the secret to each crop’s success or failure, the muddy puddles of spring bring endless opportunities for farm kids to slosh and explore, and the family’s gardening is carefully planted, tended, and harvested in the earth’s cool darkness.

Dirt is life. And it’s everywhere.

But it’s not 1977 anymore and I no longer live on that farm. I gave up my country mouse ways long ago and traded them in for a little historic house on a shaded street. Although my cottage did come with something spectacular: Dirt.

And a lot of it.

The home was meticulously landscaped when I bought it and it is my honor and joy to maintain its endless perennial gardens, trim the roses, and make way for each spring’s release. The sun was barely up on Saturday when I found myself intending just to do a bit of yard work. Two hours later, I hadn’t started anything I’d set out to do (like mowing) but instead had dug out two dead bushes, edged the front yard, weeded the shrubs, trimmed two bushes, and dug out a couple dozen dandelions. I was filthy and bloody.

But mostly.

Happy.

For although I wasn’t wearing a cookie monster shirt and pig tails I was very much at home surrounded by the scent of earth and flowers, soil and sun.

Doing what I love to do most.

Playing.

In the dirt.

Link to my KFGO Radio Interview; April 22, 2010

Great news blogarama fans!

I actually figured out how to archive my radio appearances for play back later online. Sooooo . . . if for some horrifying reason you missed my last radio interview on KFGO: never fear technology is here. (In fact, rumor has it you can download this file to your iPod and . . . holy cow, I think I just made my first pod cast!)

So, if you want to hear me expound upon some of my more jaw dropping social debacles that never made the blog, click the link above to download the audio either to your computer or an iPod. You can take me on your walk/run/trip to the grocery store.

After all, I am here to entertain.

Thanks for reading (and listening)!

~Audra

Some Days I Just Wanna be a Dude

It has been raining for far too long the past couple weeks. And there is nothing worse than a string of gloomy days to make me all introspective and philosophical. At least that’s what happens to me when Mother Nature gets all soggy on me. I start musing over this that and the next thing, examining the wayward dynamics of life on this human journey.

Good thing I don’t live in Seattle.

I’d probably be a poet. And flat broke. Because I am not a poet and I know it. Any prior attempts I’ve made to construct a creative verse or two just reads like the insane ramblings of a homeless maniac.

Where is my life?
Where has it gone?
It was here a moment ago.

I think I left it on the counter.
Next to my keys . . .

See?

Crap.

Told ya.

So instead I’ll just torture my blog fans with my rainy musings of late which is:

What is it with women and friendships? We are either clinging to each other like Titanic survivors or ripping each other to shreds with unnecessary drama. Truly, some days I find myself wondering: if I had a penis would my life consist of blissful boring exchanges about beer and bimbos?

After all, men don't appear to have any drama, not the kind women do. No matter what happens between them they just sail along all even and blah. No matter what.

They do! Don't believe me? Well, when is the last time you’ve overheard a couple guys exchange the following:

“That Doug, I tell you. I could not believe he gave my secret BBQ recipe to Stan. He knew it was a secret, yet he just went blabbing it with zero regard for my feelings. So you know what I did? I sent him a text and told him exactly what I thought about that. Yes I did. See if I invite him to my Super Bowl party. And he can forget about that hunting trip to Montana in the fall.”

Uh, yeah. That doesn’t happen. Men are more like this:

“Doug, you gave Stan my BBQ recipe? What the f*ck?”

“F*ck You.”

“Oh yeah? F*ck you.”

Two seconds of silence.

“Wanna get a beer?”

“F*ck yeah.”

Hello? They grunt at each other and drop a few f-bombs. Either men suffer from short term memory loss and verbal communication shortfalls or they totally have friendships figured out.

Because really? I think we women routinely make Everest out of speed bumps. We don’t let anything roll off our back. We brood, we sulk, and then we tell five other girlfriends all about how we were wronged in a transparent effort to rally the troops to our side should “she” start talking smack behind our backs.

It is exhausting.

I have two great friends I’ve had for twenty years. They’ve seen me at my worst and they still love me, and vice versa. It's effortless.

In other words, we’ve evolved to a guy type of friendship. We’ve been through so much together that if things ever do go south and one of them gives my super secret aunt Edna's BBQ recipe away you know what will happen?

This:


“Thanks for pimping out my BBQ to Marge, bee-otch."

“Kiss my bumper, ya hooker. Marge won't remember it anyway."

Two seconds of silence.

“I've got some wine chilled, want a glass?”

“Absolutely.”

Now that’s.

What you call a real friendship.

(And I didn't even need to grow a penis!)

Happy Monday!

Yesterday was Mother's Day so I took full advantage of the lazy pass . . . that is, right after I took my kids to church, my mama out for brunch, and volunteered at my daughter's dance recital. Oh yeah, and I let my mom drag me to the flower shop where I promptly lost her in the hanging baskets. "Mom? Mom? Mooooooooooom!!"

I almost had to put out an Amber Alert . . .

At the end of the day, I finally collapsed on the couch, Riesling in hand. And needless to say, I did not crack open the laptop.

This mama will be bloggin' tomorrow. I hope all the mom's who read this had a fantastic mother's day!

~Audra
P.S. Oh, I did finally find my mom. She was in the geraniums.

Tell Me a Story . . .

“Mom, tell me a story when you were little.”

This is my little girl’s nightly request. I have no idea how somewhere along the line she decided that my childhood was good bedtime fodder. Maybe it’s because of the time I relayed the story of how a tornado once lifted my family home into the mystical land of OZ. (Hey, a person can only tell so many stories about growing up on a cattle ranch before taking liberties with established plot lines. That being said, no comment about the time I woke up to find three bears looming over me while I napped in Baby Bear’s bed.)

I wrestle with her plea and finally settle on one of her all time favorite stories, one she loves more than OZ and bowls of porridge.

In my home office is the wedding picture of my great great grandmother, Minnie Nelson, a brave Danish immigrant who left her family and home in 1906 for the promise called America. And in my living room is her trunk, a modest century old wooden vessel, leather straps still intact, that held all of her material possessions and misty dreams.

A mere six years later, a different wooden box held all those dreams.

A coffin.

Minnie died of an infection shortly after giving birth to her fourth daughter. She’s nothing but a historical statistic on childbirth related deaths in the last century but a vital branch on the tree of our family. The ten-day-old daughter Minnie left behind was too much for her Norwegian husband to handle. The newborn was given up for adoption, disappearing from our family like a gasp.

The oldest of her remaining three little girls, my great grandmother, Agnes, was six years old when she lost her mother. And a mere two years later, she said goodbye to her littlest sister. Her name was Hazel. And she died from pneumonia at the age of four.

Little Hazel still rests in a shaded cemetery next to her young mother. I visit them with my daughters every spring and place fragrant lavendar lilacs on their graves.

And so I tell the story to my little girl again. The story of Minnie. Of the missing baby. Of little Hazel’s death. And of her great grandmother, Agnes, and how all of these women were here before her, and how she is here, because of them.

My little girl knows the rest of the story by heart:

How Agnes grew up and became a well-loved teacher in one-roomed schoolhouses scattered throughout the county. How she married a carpenter named Clarence and had a little girl named Cynthia. How twelve-year-old Cynthia met a boy named Alan one day while visiting her mother's rural school, and how Cynthia thought he was such a repulsive farm boy with cow hair on his hat. And how those two grew up and went to high school together, and how Cynthia must have gotten over the cow hair because she married Alan. And how they named their first born daughter Pam. And how Pam grew up a tomboy but became a beautiful girl in bell bottom jeans only to fall for a rebellious boy from the next town who drove a sports car and liked to laugh. And how Pam married that boy, moved to his family's farm and had a daughter named Audra who spent her childhood playing in the haybales and romping through the prairie with the wind in her hair. And how Audra grew up and had two daughters of her own.

She knows all of it. The story of her. The story of me. The story of Pam, and Cynthia, and Agnes and Minnie.

The story of our family and all of the girls.

When we were little.

Pain in the Booty? Try Budda.

I’m kinda crabby.

And this is why.

I truly am a perpetually positive person but I have this sabotaging force in my life called “the ex-husband” whose presence is as constant and unwanted as a hemorrhoid. Which personally, I feel is a perfect analogy considering the anatomical geography of such an affliction.

Unfortunately, this patooty pain is the father of my wonderful children, a fact that requires me to smile politely and nod when he says or does something completely and absolutely asinine instead of saying, “That was completely and absolutely asinine!” I have to bite my lip, say nothing, and instead be satisfied by simply thinking to myself:

“That was completely and absolutely asinine.”

Yeah.

Not so satisfying.

I am a Christian, Catholic actually, but I really think that divorce (when children are involved) should require a person to temporarily borrow from the Buddhism buffet when times are trying:

I’ll take the “every other weekend” helping of nirvana, please. And why yes. A dash of grated enlightenment sounds wonderful. But just a sprinkle.

You see, I am well aware that Christianity is founded on a plot line all about endurance and suffering, one that leaves we believers subsequently touting “we all have our cross to bear.”

Yep. We sure do.

And mine is about 6’2” and 195 pounds.

But in this divorce situation, I think I may have to start practicing a limited version of Buddhism. Because the gurus aren’t so much down with cross toting as they are with tolerance, which is just a fancy way of telling people to just ignore something. (If this is true, Christian mamas everywhere are preaching Buddhist doctrine on a very regular basis. After all, who ever heard their mother tell them to forgive their little brother’s incessant irritation? Nope. It’s more like, “Just ignore him!”)

So if I am going to be a weekend Buddhist, that conveniently means I don’t have to forgive my ex-husband's challenging moments. Instead I can simply say: Not my problem. My peace and happiness is not going to be driven by your unpredictable insane train. Enjoy the ride, I am not buying a ticket, stopping at the station, or even watching you chug on past. I am going to:

Ignore you.

The philosophy is quite liberating actually. Because life is just far too short for crabby pants and crazy trains.

(Or six foot tall hemorrhoids . . . ouch.)