Chapter Twenty Six; Sonja's Divorce Land Diva Debut

"Sweet Mother of France!"

The text message staring me in the face says it all. Sonja's celibacy has come to an end. Gee, I hope that week long drought doesn't send her running to the convent.

The latest to stumble into the unhitched happenstance that is the Divorce Land Girls, Sonja is the epitome of feminine success. Only 26, the woman holds down an impressive sales job, owns a house three times larger than my own and is also recently divorced. Tragic high school sweetheart saga gone awry, she is now post-starter marriage divorce' diva.

I am not really the texting kind. Texting requires me to be concise, specifically 160 characters concise. I can barely convey a complete thought in 160 words so whoever invented that restriction forgot to get my 200 cents. Besides, I am driving when I see this digital declaration; and ever since another DLG (Divorce Land Girl) who shall remain nameless (cough! Julia!) is out one bumper due to a texting in traffic debacle I opt to speed dial Sonja back.

I don't even say hello but simply move the dialogue from text to talk, "You just morphed the phrases, "Sweet Mother of God" and some saying about the Queen of England into one. France has no mother, at least none that I am aware of."

She cackles appropriately and quickly points out that her creative exclamation is not the point. Her point is Party Boy is back.

I can't keep up with Sonja. Her version of Divorce Land is, well, point blank, far more interesting than mine. She has no children, isn't yet 30, has money to burn and with a body hot enough to provide its own fuel to start said bling blaze. I am nine years older than she and I do have children. I basically don't have the time, energy, or luxury to live the life she does. In addition, my marriage may have ended up in fragments but my Catholic guilt is still very much intact. So instead, I consider myself lucky to stand on the sidelines and watch Sonja live the kind of life that inspired Sex in the City. As for me, my life is more akin to Celibate on the Farm. The ying to Sonja's yang. And boy does that woman get a lot of yang.

My favorite Sonja story involves a tryst with a mortgage broker. It was one night of silly stupidity followed by appropriate silence. Numbers were exchanged but neither one ever did call the other, and that's a good thing. Two weeks later, Sonja discovers a letter in her mailbox from said fling. Okay . . . what is this? A little “Thanks for the memory, want to make another?” invitation? Oh no, it literally was a business letter inquiring about her mortgage.

Two seconds after opening said letter my cell phone rings. Sonja is laughing so hard I almost think it's a prank call, "He wants to discuss my mortgage! My mortgage!"

She framed the letter and hung it in her office. Right next to her MBA.

After all, we've all heard “the pretty” assigned many an alias, but mortgage is a first. Definitely a memento worth framing.

Party Boy, now then, he is interesting. He's the anti-Sonja. He's tall, dark, and blue collar. Sonja is short, blonde, and all of her collars are white, starched and peeking out of an Anne Taylor suit. He appears to be at the bar only on days that end with the letter "y" so I have since dubbed him Party Boy. I personally think she's way out of his league. He is hotter than hell though so I'll just let her have her little fun (as long as she reports back any and all steamy details.) I figure I am not really leading a nun-like existence if my friends' lives are interesting.

Besides, Sonja tried the proper professional route last week. She brought a blind date, an anesthesiologist mind you; to the Divorce Land martini outing downtown. He was nice enough but ten years older and in total “find a wife mode.” His topics of conversation actually revolved around baby making, and not the fun aspect of it but the "how many do you want some day" interrogation. On their first date? Sonja was smiling and nodding politely but anyone could see the woman could not have looked more uncomfortable had she been forced to sit on a bed of nails. Naked. During a massive hemorrhoid inflammation.

If his intense topic choice was not bad enough, if you have seen the movie Superbad he is McLovin at age 40. (The 2008 version of the 80's classic Revenge of the Nerds, think Louis.). After a half an hour of this torture I pulled that girl into the bathroom and announced, “You can not date McLovin! I won't let you do this to yourself And really, were those ducks on his shirt? Ducks, Sonja! Seriously? Ducks! You are not having duck boy’s children. Over my dead body!”

I do not take my wing woman role lightly. When wild game shows up on a shirt, I am required to radio the Coast Card, drop the basket, and yank that woman out of the dating hurricane to safety, i.e. help her feign a headache and duck out to a bar across town.

Which is precisely how the night with the ducky doctor ended. She so owes me.

Back to the conversation and situation at hand: the return of Sonja’s blue collared hottie.

“So what's the project plan for Party Boy?” I hesitantly ask, not entirely certain I can handle the truth.

Her tortuous response can not be documented here. I can reveal only this in regard to her far too detailed reply:

Sweet Mother of France.