Princess: Look, look! Over here! |

Princess: Look, look! Over here!

So let me paint the scene: It’s 9:24 a.m. and I am sitting at my desk, looking out at the burnt orange leaves of the scrub oak trees that grow right through our deck; everything is backlit so the colors are illuminated against the shadowy mountain backdrop.

As the leaves start to fall, the view of the river becomes more visible, and I can start to see the sun reflecting on the water. With the low angle of the sun it sparkles throughout the day. Pretty purple eaters dance across the sky.

That was a test. Are you still with me?

I’m thinking not. I’m thinking y’all are starting to grow bored of my waxing poetic about the Frying Pan or about my family or my pug. I’m thinking my being a Desperate Housewife of Basalt does not bode well for my column in The Aspen Times, no matter how many unique analogies I can come up with to describe Whole Foods. You’ve been there. You know how it is. And yes, I am the only woman there between the hours of 11 a.m. and 4 p.m. who does not have at least one child in tow. I’m like a soccer mom who drives around all day doing mindless things, except I don’t have any kids.

But more about the scene: So I’m sitting here trying to figure out how to push this cursor across the screen with enough letters to fill my 750-word maximum requirement in a reasonable amount of time for the pathetic amount I get paid for this weekly effort. While it is a labor of love, I’m human, after all. Like my mom always said, “You get what you pay for.” Sorry, but it’s true.

That’s only 306 words so far. I’m only a third of the way done.

The other piece of the writing equation is that I am sitting here all alone with no concept whatsoever of having an audience. It’s like talking to a wall. You feel a little crazy sometimes, banging your fists and head and crying when no one answers you.

I can’t even tell you how many times I’ve met someone and start talking about myself and they go, “I know all that already. I read your column.” This is always startling to me. Not only because they’ve interrupted me and I can no longer go on talking abut myself, but because I know there are people out there reading this crap.

So each week I post my column on Facebook and Twitter, and each week I check The Aspen Times website to see how many “recommends” I got and to see if anyone left a comment. On a good week, I’ll top a dozen “recommends,” maybe get a comment on the website that isn’t from the same six crazy people who comment on every story every day and are probably in jail. My Facebook followers will chime in and if I’m really on fire, they’ll share the link. I might pick up a few new Twitter followers, though after however many years of having that Twitter account, I still haven’t broken 500 followers.

Last week I had zero.

Zero recommends, zero comments, zero likes, zero followers, zero shares.

So I posed the question on my Facebook feed: Have I been, like, totally sucking lately?

And no one had the balls to reply.

Look you guys, I tell you everything. I tell you when I get my heart broken. I tell you when I fall on my face in the alley behind Eric’s. I tell you when I drool on my pillow and when I found out I can’t have children and when I got dumped and when I found love. Can’t you be honest with me just this once?

I know you’re probably not even home. All my best friends are out of town. Sarah went to Vermont (Hi, Vermont mama! Love you!), Catherine is jetting off to France today, Ambere is in Seattle, and Kate just got home but she’s leaving again to go to Mexico tomorrow on another yoga retreat.

Meanwhile, Ryan is off hunting for a week, and he might as well be on the moon with how often I get to talk to him. It’s like having a husband in the military who’s been deployed for combat, except he’s trying to kill elk instead of people. Hunting is a really big deal. He looks forward to it every year and usually starts talking about it in August, so maybe obsessing is the better word. He lives in what looks like an army barracks for a week with a bunch of dudes, doesn’t shower, grows his beard and comes home smelling like blood and cigarettes. It’s pretty gross. I miss him so much, but not enough to hug him tight until after he showers.

See, that was good right?

But I hear you guys. I hear your silence. I need to step it up, not only in this column, but in my own life. I need to get out more. I need to go past the roundabout, only in the opposite direction (that one’s for you, AJ). I need adventure. I need to travel. I need to crack open my career a little wider than this tiny little newspaper and this tiny little paycheck and this tiny little audience who has been, like, totally ignoring me these last few weeks.

I hate being ignored. Pay attention to me right now!

While I doubt that indulging myself in this little rant has helped matters much, I have hit the word limit. That means if I just come up with another sentence or two, I’m done.

Let’s just hope I’m not over.

Thank god the Princess got a Brazilian blowout from the Queen B so she doesn’t have to straighten her hair everyday anymore. Email your love to