The best thing about being a woman is the prerogative to have a little fun.”

I spring out of bed and shut off my Shania Twain alarm clock. I love starting the day by listening to our national anthem.

I take a mug of coffee out to my colonial porch and watch the sunrise over the Miranda Lambert river valley. An old basset hound named Spud is sunning himself on the porch steps. I stare into Spud’s eyes and feel a deep connection between human and animal. Spud is not my dog and I have no idea how he gets to my porch every morning.

In only 20 minutes I’ll be at my office job in the city. Free bullet trains make it easy to be a city-slicking businesswoman with a hometown country heart. A government-sponsored alert on my phone reminds me that the sun rising is a metaphor for my inherently womanly ability to keep climbing even when things get tough.

On my way to the train station I pick up a rock and heave it at the window of my ex-boyfriend Trevor’s house. I’m legally allowed to do this because he cheated on me last month. In the past four weeks alone, I’ve popped his car tires, thrown 20 drinks in his face, and stolen the transmission out of his truck. Had he abused me mentally or physically, I would have been allowed to murder him in cold blood.

As I’m on the train I get a call from daddy. I talk to my daddy every day and have a ton of respect and reverence for the values he instilled in me. I still call him daddy, even though I am an adult woman. In fact, everyone does this and no one thinks it’s weird.

I trudge down Heartbreak Avenue, stopping to pick a bouquet from the wildflowers that grow all along the city streets. I finally get to work, giving a wave to our male receptionist. I pass by the conference room and the disco room. Every office is required to have a disco room where people can dance out their feelings. I see my boss is in there, gyrating to a beat and screaming something about how “the world won’t tame this stallion.”

Checking my schedule for the day, I see that I’ve blocked off the whole morning to feel nostalgic. I get right to work, grabbing a withered photograph of my mother teaching me how to ride a bike. I contemplate beauty, motherhood, and what it means to raise a child. I think about how even though mama and I often fight, it’s only because I’m just like her. It all becomes a little too much to handle, so I take a minute to pour myself a whiskey on the rocks from the office whiskey tap.

Almost as if on cue, the mail guy delivers a postcard from my mom. She’s visiting Mount Rushmore. I turn the card over to see the faces of Reba McEntire, Dolly Parton, Carrie Underwood, and Faith Hill carved into the granite rock. It’s a shame the artist couldn’t fit the Dixie Chicks in there. Then again, they’re already on all of our money.

Pretty soon, it’s time to head home. I pass through a park and gaze up at a huge bronze statue of Elvis. It’s the only known statue in the world that depicts a man.

Through a coffee shop window, I can see a news program showing our secretary of defense, Kacey Musgraves, declaring our 200th straight year of world peace.

I ponder taking the train, but decide to just rent a horse. I could use more time to think. As my trusty mare begins to trot on our journey back to the country, she gets spooked by a passing car and throws me off. At first I’m upset, but I ultimately decide it’s for the best.

After all, getting thrown from my horse is a really great metaphor.


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