Chapter Twenty One; The Great Stripping Adventure

If you ever want to know what is going on with me and my life, just check out the state of my home decor.

I fully admit I am a closet Martha Stuart wannabee (minus the insider trading scandal). My idea of a good time is wandering through Pier One leisurely sniffing scented candles while remarking, “Oh, look at this picture frame,” or “Now this would be cute in my bathroom.” I like to live in a state of constant decorating motion. That is who I am. That is me.

The last year, yeah, I got a little fuzzy on things that make me me. Divorce can do that.

In fact, I don’t think I’ve stepped one heeled shoe in Pier One in over a year. And come to think of it, I don’t even own a scented candle at the moment.

But this fall, as my life transformed on several levels it only seemed appropriate that the house make some transitions as well. Forget the candles and the picture frames; I got out the sledge hammer. (And the credit card!)

I ripped out some built in cabinets, bought all new living room furniture, a cool high def flat screen TV, and completely switched the functions of a couple of rooms. The result was amazing. And I knew, I’d found myself again.

A few months later, Audra strikes again when I decide to tackle my dining room. I start by wrestling down the dreadful oversized floral drapes in my dining room, all the while questioning the sanity of the former owner. Who would actually choose these on purpose? Was she held a gun point by the material mafia? It’s a mystery.

Annie joins me in my redecorating madness the next day for what will forever be known as “The Great Stripping Adventure.” (Of the wallpaper variety, people. I haven’t gone THAT nuts through this divorce process.) I secure a steamer from a friend and Annie and I eyeball is suspiciously. It looks a little foreboding and I secretly pray that I do not end up describing this project at a later date using words like nightmare, debacle, or worse yet: explosion.

We find a seam in the paper and apply the magical contraption to it. I explain to Annie (who has never stripped wallpaper in her entire pampered life) that this is either going to be super easy and take a couple hours if the paper comes off well, or . . . I am going to spend the next month scraping off quarter sized bits of paper and convulsing in a fetal position on the floor.

The moment of truth has arrived.

I pry. I pull.

I scream!

For joy!

The wallpaper comes off in ONE gigantic sheet! I have a wallpaper orgasm and Annie, home improvement novice that she is, doesn’t really understand this need for true celebration but she joins in my ecstasy and we whoop away!

One hour later, the dining room is stripped naked and in full monty form.

And although I do rejoice the ease in which this was accomplished, I am kicking myself for living with that repulsive decor for three years when in an hour, it was gone.

Sometimes, we spend so much timing thinking about things that we psych ourselves out and convince ourselves that the process to reach a goal will just be too hard, and we make up excuses, or even run away.

But the truth is you just don’t know how things will ever play out. No one has a crystal ball and life is always and only lived one hour at a time, and uncovered one layer at a time.

So the next time you look at something that you think might be too difficult to even attempt, just forget fear and take a chance on debacles, nightmares, or even explosions. Who knows? It might not be as painful as you think and you may just end up jumping for joy in your dining room.

Chapter Twenty: Out of the Grave!

What do you get when you combine childish regression, a ten foot paper rock, food so good it could qualify as heaven on earth and one afternoon spent doing home improvement with the most positive and talkative woman on the planet?

The best Easter ever!

Alright, so Susie and I do not go to the synagogue or practice impossible yoga in order to cope with our children’s absence on this, our first post-divorce holiday alone.

Instead, these two Catholic chicks set off on an adventure that starts with our hitting the biggest Fundamentalist Christian church in town. (Over achiever that I am, I watch the entire Martin Luther Reformation documentary on the History Channel the night before. I wanted to be prepared in case there is some kind of test.)

I pick up Susie bright and early, blaring the theme song to Lilo and Stitch as I skid into her driveway, rationalizing that a little Disney infusion would ensure a zany start to our Easter escapade.

Twenty minutes later we are in an arena masquerading as a church singing away. We are good. We can totally do this! Catholics sing too, how far out can this possibly be? Although, we are little distracted by the titanic theatrical paper tomb on the stage below, above which hangs a colossal sign heralding the good news, “Out of the Grave.”

“What do you think they are going to do with that?” I ask Susie.

“Who knows but I have an idea!” Susie announces, the little wheels behind her eyes just turning away, “Grave? Dead marriage? You with me? We are out of the grave, Audra! It’s our symbol! Let’s take some pictures by that thing when this is done!”

I enthusiastically agree, as of course I am so on board with all things metaphor.

Of course, when I struck this deal I was blissfully unaware that the evangelical/fundamentalist/Pentecostals of the world are far more hard core than Catholics when it comes to suffering. This service took longer than it takes for the Catholics to choose a new pope as halfway through I am literally starving to death. (I don’t even get a tasteless communion wafer or sip of wine to tie my over? Who are the martyrs now?)

But wait, I soon forget my salvation starvation when the lights go down, the music goes up, and the paper boulder’s purpose is becoming increasingly clear when the service turns into the Price is Right, the preacher morphs into Bob Barker and the I Got Saved game show begins!

Testimonials pour forth from the gigantic screen in the front and a girl named Jenny announces, “I got saved at Kid Camp at the age of five!” People clap and holler, the pianist behind the preacher plays at a show tune pace on his electric keyboard, the spot lights zoom in on the artificial tomb and the pastor leads the crowd in dramatically chanting:

“Jenny! You are . . .OUT! OF! THE GRAVE!”

Jenny bursts forth from the boulder, high five’s the pastor and sprints down the aisle leaving sin in the dust! The drums are a drumming, the bass player is a rocking and the congregation goes into an Amen tizzy fit.

All the while, two Catholic woman stand with their mouths agape as this repeats no less than 157 more times. Bobby, Bill, Cathy, Diane . . . they are all:

OUT! OF! THE GRAVE!

Our stunned silence can only last so long. This is, after all, Susie and I.

We quickly move on to stifled heathen hysterics trying SO hard to be respectful of the salvation show. I am clinging to her, she is gasping for air and we are turning every shade of magenta trying not to appear to be the blasphemous babes that we are.

We are failing.

People are staring.

It is obvious to all bible bystanders by now that Susie and I don’t have a snowball’s chance in Hawaii of making it outta the grave and that our poor unsaved souls will be taking up permanent residence IN the grave. (We are clearly not good contestant material for Tomb or No Tomb.)

An hour later, I am weak with hunger (someone throw me a Jesus wafer, will ya?) as the super saving ceremony comes to a close. We slither up front and boldly ask the pastor to take our picture in front of the big fake rock. Reverence goes out the window as I strike a Vanna White pose and snap, photographic evidence to forever commemorate one interesting Easter Sunday is secured.

The rest of the day finds us having a truly religious experience at an Easter buffet (I am still dreaming about that apricot glazed cheese filled crepe thingy), donning our painting clothes and tackling my formerly hideous dining room. I am blessed with Susie’s constant chattering the entire time and we finish up in a couple hours. I think I hear angels sing as I survey the paint job.

My Easter this year looked nothing like those of Easters past. It did not include an egg hunt, chocolate bunnies, my giddy children, a reverent mass, and my homemade glaze atop a ham for the first time a dozen or so years.

But what it did contain was an adventurous day with the two components that makes living this life a trip and anything but dead: endless laughter with a true friend.

And I am feeling pretty darned saved because of it.

Chapter Nineteen; Birth, Booze, and other Bad Ideas

One little two little three little Advil, four little five little six little Advil . . .

I liken the experience of drinking oneself into oblivion similar to giving birth.

I mean really, both decisions originate with similar thought processes that have many people expounding later, “Boy, it sure seemed like a good idea at the time!”

Coincidentally, both decisions not only start the same but are marked by strikingly parallel experiences: intense physical agony and the obliteration of brain filters that would normally prevent a typically smart girl from articulating primal emotional thought processes of the very idiotic and irrational variety. (i.e. threatening castration of the child’s father if you live through the birth. Or, say, oh, I don’t know, drunk dialing an old boyfriend at midnight simply to inform him he is an ego maniac. Whoops . . .)

Oh yeah. Big time.

The obvious disconnect in this comparison is that the birthing scenario does result in a bundle of joy after all that pain. The drinking one? Not so much. (Well, it can end with a kid too but let’s not walk that dog, shall we?)

The only bundle in my most recent intoxication situation had me wrapped in my comforter at the end of the night desperately wishing my bed would stop spinning. As for any joy, the fact that I did actually have some Advil was probably about the only “Whoopee!” moment I experienced the rest of the following day.

And finally, both adventures also lend themselves to amnesia. Because obviously in order to wash, rinse, and repeat we tend to forget the labor pains and the hangovers. Short term memory loss in order for a year or so down the road to once again find yourself thinking, “Hey, now that sounds like a good idea!”

No, I didn’t go into labor this weekend (thank God). But the bed just stopped spinning a little before noon and I am almost out of Advil.

Last night was oh so, not a good idea.

Chapter Eighteen: A Man Free World?

The lesbians of this world might be on to something.

Or the nuns in the convent.

Both lifestyles, after all, are testosterone free.

But the truth is one thing I never want to be is a man hater. I certainly am not going to lump all of mankind under one giant “They are all assholes/idiots” heading. That is just not me.

But seriously. The men in my life in the last twenty fours have just left my head reeling.

First, there is the ex-husband: Mr. Drama on a level that would cause the words in this blog to overflow the screen, fall onto the floor, and leave everyone reading this standing in verbal vomit, and we can’t have that. I hate to “go there” but let’s just say by the end of the day yesterday, I was practically giddy with the thought that I no longer (or ever again for that matter) have to live with or wash the boxers of this irrational man. (And as Forest Gump would say, “That’s all I have to say about that.”)

Secondly, there is my gym stalker. Well, not really. Nice guy. Funny guy. (Okay, hot guy, there, I said it. Happy?) And a very not so subtle oh so after me for no less than six months guy. Somehow I ended up in a sweat flicking contest with him yesterday. “I sweat more than you do! No I do! No I do, take that!” What kind of middle school regression ritual is this? I think it’s called flirting but I haven’t done very much of it since 1993 so I’m not sure exactly.

And lastly, there is the aftermath of my former Dating Land Traveling Companion. I am inclined to lump all that that was and is into the category of “a good thing.” Even though it was hard, I celebrate that toward its end it differed significantly from my prior relationship track record. Back in Act One, I always played the role of stubborn control freak living in a stone tower, wearing a suit of armor and seeking pseudo protection behind emotional walls thicker than the earth’s crust (43 miles at its most pronounced depth).

But this time around I lost the steel suit, took a wrecking ball to the stone walls, and instead opted to try on some (GASP!) vulnerability and (SHOCK!) raw emotional honesty.

Not bad. Not bad. Checked myself out in the mirror. Hmmm, looks good on me. Fits better than I would have assumed. The vulnerability is still a little snug, but it might stretch out if I wear it for a while.

And besides, the view is so much better from here without so many walls in the way. I think I can actually see my reflection more clearly now.

And so . . . lesbian or nun? I do wear a lot of black, the nun thing could work? Sister Mary Audra Elizabeth, maybe? But lesbian? Nah. I'm eternally entrenched on this team and I don't plan to entertain the concept of a switcheroo there any time soon (or ever).

So, even if I have endured some testosterone driven confusion as of late, I will never wave the man hater flag.

THAT much I do know.

Chapter Seventeen: The Mysterious Stink

It’s 3:00AM.

Holy crap, what the? Argh . . the dog peed. Somewhere . . . in/on/or near my bed.

Good GAWD.

I feel nothing wet but the stench is unbearable, sour, and gross. And I can’t figure out what exactly he peed on. My pillow? Sniff. No. My comforter? Sniff. Not there either. Argh… I can’t find the source. Geez Louise. (Well, I am a mother. Bodily fluids yuckier than this have accompanied me to bed in my lifetime, none of which I feel like expounding upon here. Hence, I decide to just roll over, away from the agonizing aroma for the remaining four hours of sleep I have left. I tell myself, “I will find the pee tomorrow while humming the theme song to Mission Impossible.”)

But what is this? When I shift the other direction, I discover that the air on the other side of my bed is filled with the intoxicating scent of the lilies on my nightstand (a gift from my Mom for Easter). I can’t believe the fragrance, it takes me off guard. Wow. Who knew flowers could smell so good without having to shove your nose into the petals. I breathe in deeply.

Turn my head to the right. Ew. The pee.

Turn my head to the left. Ah. The lilies.

Needless to say, I slept with my head turned to the liberal lilly left all night long.

As a writer, my metaphor radar is constantly up and this one is so blatant how can I not comment? Obviously, life itself is filled aspects that are a mix of sorrow and sweet, depressing and delightful, stinky and sensational.

It makes me wonder. Is there really such a thing as a pissy rotten day?

Or is it simply a matter of which direction I turn my head?


(And yes, I zeroed in on the super secret pee spot the next morning. And yes, I washed that blanket. And yes, one dog up for sale/adoption/abduction.)

Chapter Sixteen: The Fake Easter

“I am thinking the synagogue, seriously.”

“I am pretty sure the practice of Judaism does not support Easter. If it did, the followers of this faith would not be Jewish.”

“Exactly.”

Susie and I are plotting our first Fake Easter, i.e. our first holiday without our children. Both of us will be experiencing this divorce reality for the first time and we have vowed to spend the day together while attempting to be as creative and positive about it as possible.

I am lobbying that we spend our Easter Sunday at a temple somewhere chanting and meditating in a painful Yoga pose. I am thinking if I can just get my ankles behind my head I might be able to distract myself from this sucky dimension of divorce. Susie is 100% on board and has already begun stretching every night in preparation. “I can, I can put my toe to my nose. I am almost there!” (The mere visual of her attempting this physical feat while on her cell phone is almost enough to cure me of my whining about the whole Easter deal. What a nut!)

The weekend prior, I had what I referred to as “The Real Easter” with my children.

The Easter bunny came a week early, my daughters donned their pastel dresses, and we treated Granny (my Mom) to an all you can eat Sunday buffet after church at Granite City. My kids thought it was great and seem to honestly view the “double holiday” as a perk and benefit to having divorced parents. (At least, that is the cunning lie I tell myself. And I am not a very good liar so it isn’t working all that well.)

The truth is that holidays are the staple of pain when it comes to divorce. And since I don’t want to be a pain hog, I fully acknowledge that my children will bear the brunt of this division. For the rest of their childhood they will celebrate two of everything. All I can do is acknowledge the burden they will bear because of a decision they had nothing to do with while my ex-husband and I work together to do everything we can to minimize their trauma.

And shower them with far too many chocolate bunnies.

And so next Sunday Susie and I will not be sitting in the church we always sat in on Easter. It will be too hard and only serve as a reminder of how different, scary, and even lonely our new independence may be at times.

Instead, we will be struggling to twist ourselves into pretzels at a temple somewhere, giggling instead of chanting, and making it through our first Fake Easter in the best possible way:

Together.

Chapter Fifteen: Green Beer and Glitter

When my day ended yesterday, I knew it had been a good one based solely on the fact that I was washing green glitter off my face before heading to bed.

After all, any day that leaves me literally sparkling has to be worth noting.

St. Patrick’s Day. I have never actually celebrated it. Not really. Oh, maybe I’ve been known to bake a shamrock shaped cut out cookie or two in my life or worn the obligatory green attire, but other than that I have spent my adult life at home on this pint drinking day of leprechauns and Irish folk tunes.

“There is an Irish band playing at the Aquarium downtown, want to go?”

I am all set to turn down this eleventh hour invitation from one of my girlfriends. It is a Monday, people. I have a job. Besides, that’s a total college hang out and I would feel extremely out of place. But then I reconsider.

And call a sitter.

After all, this is Act Two. This is a new life. And the new me. And the new improved version of me decides that if I was hit by an asteroid tomorrow wouldn’t it be a shame that I’d never danced a jig while downing a green beer? Tragic.

Faster than you can say pink hearts, yellow moons, orange stars, and green clovers I am in the only emerald shirt I own standing in a cloudy bar sipping grass colored beer and stomping my feet to what I swear is the soundtrack from Titanic, the scene where they have one hell of a party below deck in C class. I practically expect Leonardo de Caprio to sidle up to me at any moment and whisk me off my feet. (Eat your heart out Kate Winslet.)

Instead, I am abducted by some curly haired kid who twirls me around and slurs that I am the prettiest girl in this whole damn bar. Actually, the whole damn town. Maybe the whole damn world. I just laugh at his alcohol induced awe, drink the compliments instead of the beer, and allow him to whirl and weave me from one end of the dance floor to the next. At one point some girl tosses glitter across the dance floor and we are both doused from head to toe in sparkles.

The band is exuberant and joyful, and I soon lose my drunken dance partner (intentionally) and trade him in for my girlfriends who are taking up the entire front row, clapping and singing along.

And in the midst of the singing and the music I take just a second to inhale the energy all around me and give thanks.

For life and music. For friends and glitter.

But mostly for a second chance around that seems to be suddenly lucky and charmed, and oh so magically delicious.

Chapter Fourteen: Future Feathers and Falling in Love

I think this is the year I am going to finally fall in love.

In fact, the person I would most like this to happen with has already begun to pamper me on a level I have never experienced. Just last week we were shopping and I was encouraged to pick out items that normally I would have found a bit frivolous, and even embarrassing. But this person whispered seductively in my ear, “Go ahead. These are lovely things, and you deserve all things lovely in this world.”

“Damn’t, I do,” I found myself believing.

And so I heeded the gentle coaxing voice of my new love, and found myself toting home a plethora of romantic and indulgent items from new bedding to a flowing little dress that I have absolutely no idea where or why I will ever wear, as well as two new bikinis and more frilly little panties from Victoria’s Secret than I have ever had in my life. I might need to reassign an additional underwear drawer in my dresser . .

When I arrived home, my bed was first.

And it was slightly ceremonial I confess. After all, some of this bedding I had had since my wedding day, and we all know how that ended. Out with the old and in with the new was long over due there, no doubt about that one.

I had purchased a feather bed topper, a down comforter, an assortment of down pillows, and all the blissful perfectly matching items that when assembled transformed my bed in a cloud of wispy wonder that I am sure turned the clouds themselves inside out with fluff envy.

Marveling only momentarily at this ensemble of poofy perfection, I dive in for a test drive.

Oh. My God.

The pleasure of this feather fest almost robs me of my sanity, for I find myself almost wishing for a terminal disease so I can simply die in the delightful dream that once was my boring bed.

I reluctantly recover and leave my downy delirium only to then try on every single item of clothing I purchased that afternoon. (Although truly, where I will ever wear this cute little polka dot dress is an absolute and total mystery.)

And as I tried on each item, I looked my new love straight in the face.

Because of course, I am in front of a mirror. And of course, that is the only place that I can look my new love right in the eyes.

For it is myself that I am falling in love with all over again.

Thank you, self. I don’t know anything about this life that is before me. But whatever it is, I am hopeful and firmly believe that it might be pretty exciting.

Because after all, when I arrive in that future place I will make my entrance in a delicate polka dot dress (made complete only by the secret that are my new frilly panties) and ending every future day in more down feathers than a gaggle of 10,000 geese on their way to Argentina for the winter.

And there is only one thing to say about a future with all those promising elements:

Rock freaking on.

Self, I love ya!

Chapter Thirteen: Baggage and Addictions

I can usually go about three days without a fix.

I haven’t gone longer for over two years now.

By the third day I am a desperate haggard addict who will stop at nothing to get her hands on that release. Frantic and irritable, my only inner dialogue is a constant chant, "I have to have it, I have to have it, I HAVE to have it!"

And when I finally get it, it is exhilarating. I am literally flying. My feet barely touch the ground, my breath is rhythmic and hypnotizing, and my body and mind meld into one.

I am free.

My drug is endorphins.

I run.

Some days I am running away. It’s true. I admit. There’s a park directly in front of the window at the gym I belong to, and I soar through those evergreens and into the setting sun. Just flying away.

And every time, whatever gigantic piece of emotional baggage I had with me when I got on that treadmill, my run evaporated it. Zapped it. Melted it. (Something like Northwest Airlines does I am sure, probably a similar concept.) I am not sure where all this unwanted luggage goes, but I am constantly thinking, “What happened to that 100lb bag I brought in here with me? I am sure I was carrying it when I got on this flight?” And no, I didn’t insure it when I checked in. And no, I don’t want it back if you find it accidentally got on a flight to Albuquerque. I shouldn’t have been carrying it anyway. It was full of a bunch of crap I obviously didn’t need.

And some days I am running to something. Life has been sweet and shown great promise for a tomorrow and I run from happiness and excitement. I am running toward something, not away. And on those days I leave my flight with only the sensible carry on that I need for the journey at hand. Nothing in it but an extra tooth brush, a good book, oh, and of course, my sanity.

Without running, I am not sure how I would have gotten through the last two years of my life. I would probably be in a fetal position on the floor. Or be all hunched over from carrying around all that heavy junk we all pick up needlessly on our travels through life. (And at the very least, my ass would not look very good. Hey, running does have its benefits!)

Today I pounded out a couple miles in no time flat as the treadmill read 7.2 mph. It was all I could do not to run even faster. “The Killers” were rocking out on my iPod and beckoning me to throw down a month’s worth of crap and run away. And so I did.

A friend of mine once commented, “You’re a little on the short side. Why are you running so damn fast? You look like you’re running for your life!”

Little did he know.

I am.

7.2 baby. Just try to catch me.

Chapter Twelve: Stop Sabotaging my Solitude

"I found a pediatrician!" Susie pants breathlessly into my ear. She is a die hard hockey fan and people are screaming and roaring all around her. I can barely make out what she is saying.

"Did you say pediatrician?" I yell into the phone to be heard over the ruckus, "My kids already have a doctor," then I pause to process the audacity of this announcement, "And why are you calling me from the hockey game at 9:30 on a Friday night to tell me this?"

As if I had to ask . . .

"Not for your kids! For YOU!"

Oh Good God in heaven. Here we go again.

Ever since I left Dating Land, the girls have been trying to set me up. Apparently it is a cardinal sin to be single longer than a week when you are in your 30's. Honestly? My grand scheme was to stay successfully single for at least year after my divorce. My detour into Dating Land was totally unexpected, and I am vowing to stay the course this time around. But the Divorce Land girls are not helping.

"Susie, I told you. I am not dating anyone new. Stop trying to set me up."

"But he's a doctor! And he has hair!"

She must be drunk. Because since when did my dating criteria consist soley of a high annual income and a family history free from male pattern baldness?

"Susie!" I chastise her. "Stop it right now. I don't want to date anyone. I'm still not recovered from my Dating Land traveling companion and if anyone knows that it is YOU. You need to respect that."

An exaggerated sigh comes out of my phone. "FINE," Susie surrenders. "I liked him too, you know I did, great guy, but seriously, you need to move on already because if you seriously do not want the pediatrician I have an attorney in mind." She paues only briefly to scream something about a goal her team just made, but quickly returns back to her harping in my ear, "But I think he might be receeding slightly. Very Jude Law-ish though. It's hot."

She is relentless.

When I finally get Susie (i.e. Molly the Matchmaking Maniac) off the phone I go to bed (and there is a lot to be said for a queen bed all to one's self) and ponder the fact that everyone is trying to ambush my alone time. The past two weeks I have been bomarded with, "I want you to meet my brother/cousin/co-worker/uncle's best friend's sister's nieghbor's friend who is a pilot/doctor/attorney/business owner."

Is solitutde no longer sacred? Must I be dining with a complete stranger who paid for my steak in order to justify my existence? What's wrong with spending a comfortable Friday night in faded sweats in bed with my . . . laptop. (My writing, not porn, people.) Doesn't some of the best soul searching happen when people are . . . alone? You can't figure life out if you are constantly pining and searching for someone else to make you whole. That much I know.

There is lonely. There is alone. And there is solitude. Sure, I've been all three and more. I am only human. But I am also not depressed or dependent. Just divorced.

And trying to make the most of the quiet I am finding in this new life of mine.

In the meantime, I plan to tell the girls to stop sabotaging my solidtude. I don't want hear about the rich successful coworker's nephew who you showed my picture to and thinks I'm cute.

I don't care how much hair he has.

And I can pay for my own steak, thank you very much.

Chapter Eleven: The Miracle at the Tanning Salon

It is a marvel that I don’t have ten children.

Because I am such a mother hen.

Other people’s sadness almost puts me over the edge. I just want to scoop up the whole world and in one fell swoop put an end to war, murderous tyranny and all other things awful described in detail daily on the nightly news. (I once tried to boycott the news, but my high school civics teacher must have slipped my class the equivalent of the blue pill in the Matrix because I am absolutely incapable of apathy when it comes to current events. I dream of sweet ignorant bliss. Those lucky Democrats . . . I digress).

Mostly in my little life I try to dismantle any negativity I encounter by being a crazy nut who talks a mile a minute and makes jokes at extremely inappropriate times. I am not exactly sure it is working very well but it’s pretty much all I got in my “first aid kit” for dealing with life.

Apparently except when it comes to one topic: divorce. I am like the divorce sniper. The divorce SWAT team. The divorce paratrooper! If I stumble across someone going through a divorce right now, I am the first one on the scene to radio for help, stop the bleeding, and call in for more back up if necessary.

Case in point: My tanning lady.

So here I am, doing something I have not done in fifteen years. I am at a tanning salon. And I am not sure exactly why. I am anti-wrinkle, anti-aging, and anti-old. In other words, I do all things humanly possible to convince the world that I gave birth to my first child at the age of eight. (She’s almost fourteen, so that would make me 22.) So how I decided this was a good idea I am not sure. It was probably the day I looked in the mirror and a corpse looked back. And if the Mayan calendar is correct, the world is ending in four years anyway so how wrinkled can I get between now and 2012, that’s what I would like to know?

So here I am, plopping down cold hard cash so I can look hot in the short term and hideous in the long term, when the lady selling me my tanning package reluctantly reveals that she knows me. We met three months ago at a mutual friend’s house.

“And you are getting divorced, right?”

“Yepperooni! Signed sealed and delivered as of December!” I enthusiastically confirm, inappropriate humor totally hanging out for the whole world to see.

“Me too.” She solemnly admits.

In three minutes flat I hear a story so sad and awful I am almost near tears! And in two minutes flat I am behind her desk frantically writing the names of books that she should read immediately. Books about children and divorce, scripture and divorce, making it through a divorce and even dating and divorce (hey, life goes on!) I am writing like a maniac and talking a mile a minute at the same time. I tell her about a scripture based group session at a local church that she simply must attend, and all the while, she is gazing at me like I am her new best friend.

She scribbles down her cell phone number on a card and we promise to have coffee. Right after she spends a small fortune at Barnes and Noble.

I leave the tanning salon and realize just how huge Divorce Land is. The magnitude of it is overwhelming sometimes, and I am just one soul who honestly, has no idea what she is doing most days.

But I realize that probably the greatest gift I have in this life is to learn from everything I encounter. And for me right now that is the experience of divorce. And if I would just sit still and stop talking and stop trying to make jokes about everything, I just might find an opportunity or two to swoop at least part of the world up into my arms and take away some of the sadness.

One divorced tanning lady at a time.

Chapter Ten: A Hummer Limo and a John Deere Wedding

My life after divorce or as I like to call it, “Act Two,” is that of a newly single woman redefining her identity. Coincidentally, I find myself consistently in situations that the married version of myself never would have imagined, concocted, or even been invited to participate in. And, boy is it fun! And I am not talking about anything insane, just social invitations more fitting to Ms. Independent than the better half of Mr. and Mrs. So and So.

Hence, last Saturday I find myself hurtling down the highway in a Hummer limo, a vehicle that is clearly the epitome of redneck class, on my way to a casino, i.e. the Mecca of convicts, carnival workers, and every single individual missing a front tooth in the tri-state area. Certainly not the typical weekend fare I would have embarked upon back in Act One, that’s for sure.

Halfway to our destination we make a pit stop at a small town bar where a local wedding party is whooping it up. Because in this part of the country, most of us start our wedded bliss off in our rural home towns, flanked by every second cousin we have and doing shots in our wedding dresses next to Uncle Bucky.

This bride is no exception.

Upon entering the grimy bathroom, the girls and I discover the bride’s best friends. Or are they her enemies? Because how on earth could a bride choose to outfit her top five girlfriends in fashion fiascos like this: blinding sunshine yellow bridesmaid dresses that I am sure are visible from the space station. On a cloudy day.

I can not contain my horror and find my blunt self blurting, ‘Oh, you poor thing!” to the first victim I see emerging from the stall.

“I KNOW!!!” she practically wails, thankful for someone with the ovaries to vocalize the truth that is this bridesmaid blitzkrieg. “It’s horrendous, isn’t it?”

“Honey,” one of my friends sympathetically offers, “That. Is an understatement.”

“Well,” the banana confesses, “It is a John Deere themed wedding. The groomsmen have green accents in their tuxes. The bride and groom are farmers after all.” As if this justification offers some level of qualification and understanding. I just nod my head and frown.

Yes, we have stumbled across my Big Fat Redneck Wedding. It is true.

It is all I can do not to inquire about the details of such a grand affair as images of a green and yellow wedding cake adorned with a miniature bride and groom driving a John Deere tractor complete with manure spreader flashes through my brain. (Although that would be quite the creative use of chocolate frosting, you have to admit.) I don’t even want to ask what the centerpieces were at the reception. Or if they are planning to delay the honeymoon until the fall so it coincides with deer hunting.

Urban superiority complex aside, after the good laugh in the bathroom we all return to the bar and wish the bride and groom our best. After all, we all know that it is not about the wedding, it is about the marriage.

Who knows, these two crazy hillbilly kids might just celebrate their golden anniversary fifty years from now atop a shiny John Deere tractor, pulling a bushel of grandchildren dressed in sunshine yellow dresses and little green bow ties.

At least let’s hope so.

After all, no one wants this woman to remarry. Goodness gracious. Her Act Two would have her outfitting five girlfriends in tea length camouflage flanked by groomsmen in bright hunter orange.

Oh my.

Chapter Nine: Prayers and Mottos

Smiley Susie Sunshine is at it again.

And here is why:

One crazy night shortly after my divorce I spontaneously decide to catch the red eye out of Divorce Land into Dating Land. And only one thing is for sure: We aren't in Kansas anymore, Toto. The signs are all in Japanese, a language in which I am certainly not fluent, and the customs are just as foreign and confusing. However, I am feeling certain that I can navigate my way based solely on confidence and logic. Before long, it is boldly obvious that I am a lost traveler who really has no business attempting to blend in with the locals.

As my journey in Dating Land enters ambiguity and my departing flight looms, I mourn the fact that I am not sure when and if I shall return to this place again. But thankfully, when I land back in reality my personal Divorce Land paramedics are there to meet my plane. And who else but curly haired Susie is behind the wheel of ambulance driving like Mario Andretti. She takes my pulse, feels my forehead and announces that I will be just fine in about a month, all I need to do is say one prayer daily to recover, "I don't understand God, but thank you."

It's sweet and nice and I accept her advice and prayer. But only for the time being. I don't have the heart to tell Susie that this prayer does zip zilch zero to decrease the growing pile of Kleenex on the floor next to my nightstand. Because Dating Land was fun. And wonderful. And intoxicating. And who wants to say goodbye to adjectives like that? Even if it was foreign and confusing, it seemed so well worth the inflated airfare for the trip.

Two nights after my arrival back home, I am reading in bed absorbed in Elizabeth Gilbert's book, "Eat, Pray, Love" that I quote in the "About Me" section of this blog. Liz, the author and protagonist, is sitting in an Italian Internet cafe in Rome. She has just ended an intense love affair with a man named David, her personal reprieve after the demise of her own marriage.

She has finally gathered the courage to accept the looming reality that she and David are more than likely not meant to be. Thus this scene finds Liz reading David's response to the sad and sorrowful goodbye email she sent a few days prior. As she reads, she is outwardly understanding and accepting of his agreement to move on, but internally hoping desperately that he has instead written, "WAIT! COME BACK! DON'T GO! I'LL CHANGE!" . . . but unfortunately the reality on the computer screen is made up of many many words, but none of them coming together to formulate such an exclamation.

David is not coming back.

Liz looks up from the email, tears streaming down her face, and announces to the wrinkled Italian woman mopping the cafe floor who does not speak one syllable of English: "This blows ass."

I drop the book into my lap and almost collapse with laughter! Grabbing my cell phone off my nightstand I text Susie the following:

New Divorce Land prayer (and motto!)

I don't understand, God. But Thank You.

P.S. God, in the meantime, you have to know just one thing . . . This blows ass.

I am thinking God will not question the sincerity of such a prayer, as I am thinking the big guy upstairs knows a thing or two about broken hearts.

Chapter Eight: Tears and Snot Rags

As a Divorce Land Girl I have become fluent in snot speak, blubbering babble, and howling hysterics.

Here is an example of a recent voicemail I had to translate:

"Audra!" a recent message from one of the girls started out, "I just talked...." deep short breathing...."to".....incoherent blathering smothered with sobbing...."and he said".....forced gasps mixed with howling...."and I just can't believe"....incomprehensible words are blanketed with a minute long crying jag that rivals a colicky infant ...."call me! I can't believe this!"

I hang up the phone and think to myself, "I can't believe he really said that!" and call back immediately to offer comfort, support, and empathy.

Because yes, the larger language of divorce is not about legal terminology or visitation schedules. It is tearful truths, agonizing acknowledgments, and syllables sprinkled with sadness. It is a language of raw emotion and naked humanity, when the truth is public and the pain is no longer private. In other words: you will spend a small fortune on Puffs Kleenex with lotion.

When I was first entering into Divorce Land last summer, I ended up confiding in a work colleague at a conference who was in her second marriage about the pending demise of my own. The most prevalent piece of her experience that she shared with me was this, "I think back to the time of my divorce and I just remember all the bawling. At the grocery store. The gas station. Hell, if I didn't eat enough fiber that was bad because it provided too much contemplative time on the can and I would cry there too."

Yes, she really said that. And yes, I instantly thought of Elvis dying on the throne for some odd reason.

The point is that crying is a huge part of this process. It's a loss. And you can't escape.

So just buck it up and break out the snot rags if you find yourself residing in Divorce Land; for the only path home is flanked by a very salty sea.

Chapter Seven: When Idiots Attack

Poor Julia.

She is surrounded by idiots.

I no sooner post the Divorce Nuggets and she is being bombarded with email commentary from individuals disguised as friends but who I suspect are really undercover agents on a mission to make sure that the whole world stays married (with adjectives like "happily" or even "semi-contently" as purely unnecessary trivial details).

Because after all . . .

"Why would you get divorced? You just bought a house?"

Who knew real estate was the key to happily after, that's what I would like to know. As if simply having four walls guarantees that the life going on within them must be worth sustaining at all costs.

Or how about this one:

"Are you sure this isn't just a simple misunderstanding?"

Of course! After all, this is all about the toothpaste tube, the underwear on the floor, and leaving the garage door open at night. Silly, silly me . . .

Sometimes I wonder if people really think that divorcing people simply just wake up one morning and think to themselves, "Look at this, I don't really have a lot going on for the next six months. Hmmm, what to do, what to do. You know, husband version 1.0 is getting a little outdated. I know! I'll get divorced! That should make life interesting."

Really people. Really?!?!?

Take heart, Julia.

The rest of your friends know this has nothing to do with the nice house or the toothpaste tube.