Welcome back, Flamcake!

Na Na Na Na Na! I know someone who got to see the Olympics firsthand and I am going going to FLAUNT it!

(Javlin for you. Shooting range for me. London. 2012. Let's go!)

Chapter Fifty Nine; Progress and Panties

Put your big girl panties on and deal with it.

Ha!

I should wallpaper that saying.

All over my house.

Not that I don't know a little something about panties. Oh, I do. I am a dedicated student of the sassies and have two drawers devoted to several pairs of fun little numbers. (I went a little hog wild at the supermarket of sexy this winter. You know the place. My friend Vicky? The one with the secret?) I subsequently own more unmentionables than I can mention: pink panties, panties with flowers, black panties, sheer panties, silk panties, and more than enough polka dot, hot pink, and sassy little thongs to keep my rear end seamless for months.

I am good in the "big girl" department, let me tell you.

But my favorite ones are, by far, my “Whoops! Didn’t mean to buy those!” pair. Those buggers ended up in my possession in an obviously blonde oblivious moment when I spotted a half-off bin of silky little bloomers with coy rhinestone exclamations etched across the ass. I actually only read one of the butts prior to purchase. It said something like “Cutey” and I thought, “Ooh, how fun are these?” as I grabbed a wad and marched up to the check out.

It wasn’t until I got home that I discovered one of the dicey derriere descriptions was probably not a smart purchase for this diva of Divorce Land.

Oh yeah. You know it.

Scrawled in cursive sparkles. Right across the bumper.

“BRIDE.”

Nice.

Someone call Alanis. Isn’t that ironic?

I still wear them though.

Gives me a great chuckle every time I pee.

Now then, underwear stories aside, back to the big girl panty proclamation intended to inspire.

It’s basically just a nice way of saying, “Quitcher whining, ya big baby.”

And I could use a bulletin along these lines.

Because truth be told I am a HUGE baby. It’s true. I really really am. When I was kid, I was “that girl” bawling on the playground that someone had hurt her feelings. Again.

Back in college I briefly entertained the concept of becoming a lawyer. But I figured my breaking down sobbing every time the opposing counsel yelled “Objection!” might be a detriment on that career path.

So if anyone can use some big girl panties I should be the one ripping off my lacy thong and yelling, “Yoo hoo, over here! Big girl panties, waaaaaaaaaaaaaaay over due!”

People who know me but not well will be a little surprised I am such a woos bag. I have the fake confidence thing down pretty well. (I watch a lot of Oprah.)

People who have actually stuck around long enough to know the real big bawling blonde that I am will just nod as they read this confession and mutter to themselves:

Yep.

Audra’s a crier.

Absolutely.

But this weekend I successfully put on my big girl panties. I am happy to report.

Here’s the deal:

I have a fireplace. And I am really ashamed to admit this next part because it is dumb ass and pathetic but I will. (Dignity? Who needs dignity?)

Well, I used that fireplace a lot this winter. And that was back when I was dating someone. Let’s just say it was a super fun pasttime. He and I. And that fireplace . . . the flickering light . . . the sultry steaming . . .

Um.

Where was I?

Oh yeah.

Sorry, drifted off there for a minute . . .

Alright, so. The deal is this: I have a pile of ashes in that hearth so high that I could probably add water to it and build an adobe hut. For a family of ten.

And. That pile has been sitting there taunting me since, oh, March-ish.

And it is almost.

Oh.

Um.

Let’s see here . . .

September?

Yep.

If EVER there was a more blatant metaphor for the death of a relationship. This would be it. And notice sappy nostalgic BIG BABY me. I have voluntarily KEPT that symbolism in plain sight like an absolute moron all summer long.

You see, I usually clean out the remnants of my winter fires every spring like clockwork. Well, this spring is when that relationship ended so I wasn’t in the mood to clean it. I remember looking at that pile of soot and wistfully reliving all those great fiery moments from this winter.

Sighing.

And promptly walking out of the room.

Over the summer every once in a while I would walk into my formal living room and get a big whiff of ashes and think, “Oh yeah, I should probably do that.” And then again. I would sigh. Relive a memory or two. Sigh again.

And leave the room.

It was ridiculous.

All the sudden last weekend that was it. I hadn’t thought about my hearth in while. But I wandered by the fireplace, saw that heap of ghostly cinders and literally said out loud, “What the F***?”

In other words, I finally put my big girl panties on.

I scooped those suckers up, deposited them in the trash.

And did not sigh one time.

Because get real, Audra. The summer is ending. And before I know it winter will be here again.

And I will fire up that hearth when it does. Either with someone new or all by myself. I don’t care. I will sprawl out by MY cozy fireplace and create new memories.

Now then, as for if panties will be present during any of any of those future steamy moments just in case I do have company?

Sigh.

Let’s hope not . . .

Chapter Fifty Eight; Screaming in my Living Room

“How was your run?” my daughter asked.

“Well, it was great other than the fact that I think I saw a caterpillar lap me. Twice.”

She snorts a laugh so I don’t argue back that I am not even remotely exaggerating.

My dead woman running took place a few weeks ago while on vacation at a lake, supposedly, in Minnesota. I say supposedly because after the run I had on the road around it I am starting to wonder if perhaps I’d taken a wrong turn on the way to our cabin and actually ended up somewhere in the Rockies. Or Cascades.

Holy hills, Batman.

As if the mountainous terrain wasn’t bad enough it also didn’t help that I had some kind of a “searing pain in my heel” thing going on and at one point I was literally limping up a hill.

And did I mention it was pouring rain at the time?

Yep.

“Boy. Is this a metaphor for the last year of my life, or what?” I clearly remember thinking at the time.

But regardless. I still love running. It has carried me through some very dark places, literally lifted my spirit off the ground with every stride. So when the Olympics invaded my flat screen a few weeks ago I could not wait to watch the track events. I popped the popcorn, dimmed the lights, and camped out in my *egantic recliner to cheer on the athletes. (*Siamese twin to the new adjective "gynormous" if I lost ya.)

I watched 38-year-old Constance Tomescu-Dita of Romania win the women’s marathon. And the American men’s relay team race to a new world’s record in the 4X400. I am sure someone in Bejing had to have heard me screaming from my living room.

And Usain Bolt from Jamaica? Hello? If I were pregnant right now I would absolutely name my child after that fastest man in the world.

Girl or Boy.

Usain Ann. Usain Joe.

They both sound great considering that dude is a sprinting god and what baby wouldn't be honored?

My favorite Olympic track stories, though, by far, are the ones about people from third world countries. The ones who were not pampered children of former Olympians. The ones who didn’t grow up with access to private gyms or world renowned coaches. The ones who tell stories about watching Carl Lewis years before on the only television in their remote village.

The ones for whom running has literally saved their lives.

Like Samuel Wanjiru from Kenya. A day laborer who used to earn 30 cents a day.

30 cents, people. What can you buy for 30 cents in this country?

Maybe a toothpick?

Exactly.

I watched this twenty-one year old young man, who has probably seen more adversity in his life than a hundred years of nightly news will ever show any of us in this country, striding through the sticky Bejing morning men's marathon.

Mile 15.

Mile 21.

Mile 23.

I watched him grit his teeth in the final stretch. I watched him surpass the rest of the lead pack. I watched him douse his head with bottled water in the morning heat as the Eagle’s Nest came into view.

And I watched him run.

And I watched him.

Win.

And when he crossed that finish line he sank to his knees while making the sign of the cross.

And on the other side of the world some blonde runner was hopping all over her living room hooting and hollering.

And celebrating with him. And for him.

Because there is no greater metaphor for life than the endurance of an athlete. Be it just some chick overcoming hills and rain and pain on a run around a lake. Or a young man a world away overcoming life circumstances, remote chances, and fueling it all on nothing but a dream in his head.

Life sometimes is just pain.

And all you can do is run through it. Run on.

And endure.

And yes, even sometimes.

You can win.

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I am no Olympian, now or ever, but I do pin on the occasional numbered bib and let people time me. Here's "Sonja" and I at a 5K last week getting ready to rock and roll! (And let me just acknowledge that this woman is a size ZERO. Hello! Most anorexics would look wide next to this chick! Love ya, Sonja! You hottie! Thanks for making me and my size four ass stay humble!)

Chapter Fifty Seven; Mr. Clean, Honest Abe, and my Near Death Experience

Not again.

When you live in a three story house a laundry chute is a plus. But unfortunately it gets the occasional clog. And I have to get creative. Normally it involves my throwing a compilation of things onto the jam from full shampoo bottles to paper weights until the weight of it all finally forces the clothing constipation lose and I hear the glorious release when the wad hits the basement floor two stories below.

This week though the blockage looked to be manageable by my just reaching down into the darkness. A little bit more . . If I stretch just a bit . . . Almost there . . .

Pretty soon I realize, as I am shoving the assortment of scrunched towels further and further down the chute, that my head and shoulders are pretty damn far down this thing as well.

Shit.

Insert minor panic attack.

In a split second images of myself wedged upside down in a cavity of my house for days on end while futilely screaming for someone to rescue me rushes through my blonde brain. I am the queen of claustrophobia. Don't even try to convince me to get into an elevator with more than four people in it, so the very thought of it all coming to an end in my laundry chute was so unsettling that I yanked the top half of my body out of that thing so fast I took some skin off my left shoulder and didn’t even care.

I was just thankful not to be upside down with my face crammed up against my dirty underwear.

What a way to go.

I took some deep breaths and vowed from then on to stick to hair care products and decorative bricks from my home office when it comes to towel entanglements.

Phew.

This almost death by stupidity episode happened while I was doing something I absolutely love to do: clean my house. Yes, I realize, this is not most people's idea of fun but I look at this way: I am lucky to have a house. What on earth do I have to complain about?

This mindset of mine can be attributed to one of my favorite quotes of all time, "People are about as happy as they make their minds up to be." And although the president who uttered this damn straight statement is far more famous for declaring, "Four score and seven years ago," I am a bigger fan of this little tried and true life tidbit myself.

Old Abe would be proud. I am an eternal optimist. Show me some lemons and I'll grab the sugar. Suck up the lemonade I just made ya and I’ll tell ya that thar glass is half full, missy. And if this entire scenario happens to play out at a neighborhood lemonade stand and rain starts threatening our fun, I will be the first to point out the sparkling lining that comes with a good summer rainstorm: No need to run the sprinkler today. Whoo hoo! Let’s go to the movies with the money we’re going to save on the water bill.

Life is too short and too sweet to sit and bitch about everything and anything. Housecleaning included. Now hand me that bottle of environmentally-unfriendly chemical cleaning solution with that smiling bald man in the tight white t-shirt on the logo. That sucker is heavy. And is just the ticket for my latest garment obstruction.

Because let me tell ya. I may be a neat freak optimist.

But I am no fan of death by laundry chute.

Chapter Fifty Six: Saying "I do!" To the Future.

The origin of the whole idea is fuzzy in our collective minds. Whose idea was this anyway? None of are really sure. We can’t pinpoint the exact date that the concept took root, but nevertheless, it did.

And over the months. It evolved. And took hold.

We would do it. We absolutely would do it. When all the divorces are final.

That is when we will make it happen.

Five girlfriends, bonded by the serendipity of similar stories, will gather on a bridge to ceremoniously release the past into the water below. The tears, mistakes, and failures of yesterday will go to a watery grave, while the gift of today and promise of tomorrow will be baptized with champagne.

And now. That day is today.

“Alright girls, check out my big ass veil,” Julia announces as she pulls the monstrosity from a bag. It is a hot August night and our group is perched on a picturesque bridge over the river that runs through our town.

We can only gasp our horror at the site of this blast from Julia’s bridal past.

“Holy shit!” Annie exclaims. Which pretty much sums it up.

“I can’t believe someone married you with that thing on your head,” I deadpan. Julia’s veil rivals something one may find on a mutant cockatoo. She puts it on and we all gasp again for good measure.

That thing is huge. And high.

And awful.

“I know! I know!” she affirms, “What the f**k was I thinking?”

We all collapse into hysterics. And then, of course, all insist on trying it on.

Last winter, when we began to plot Divorce Palooza 2008, we went back and forth on what to throw when our collective freedoms were finally official. We all wanted to choose something from our weddings or marriages that would symbolize the past.

Susie confessed solemnly, “I have every single rose petal my husband ever gave me.”

“No way.” I couldn’t believe it.

“Yes way,” Susie confirms, arching her eyebrows for emphasis, “And I think that would be the perfect little memento to toss into the water.”

We all nod in agreement. Absolutely.

“Well, my ex-husband and I were together since we were freshmen in high school,” Sonja reminds us. “There is nothing from my past that he is not a part of. My entire adolescence and adulthood, he was there. Let’s just say I have a lot to choose from.”

“I don’t know, I just don’t know,” Annie interjects, “I’ll think of something.”

“Well I am throwing in the damn dress,” I announce. Because of course, I want to be the most obnoxious.

Susie snorts into her martini and shrieks, “What the hell! The dress?”

“Yes, the dress. It was awful! I’d just had a baby; I was a fat ass snow beast of a bride. Besides. It will look HILARIOUS floating down the river! Can’t you see it?!?!” I eloquently exclaim as I sell the concept to the group.

“Oh my god, don’t you want to keep it? Have baptismal gowns made out of it for your grandchildren?” Susie offers in defense of the dress.

I just stare at her.

Who thinks of crap like that?

Apparently Sappy Susie that’s who.

I explain to her, and the rest of the Divorce Land girls, that that dress was some beaded shoulder-padded throw back to 1890 that I wouldn’t wish upon my worst enemy. Let alone my defenseless descendants.

They cackle in agreement. If it is as bad as I say it is. They’re on board with the dress toss.

And so. It is settled.

We will do it.

And last Thursday night.

We did.

Amid champagne. And laughter. And friendship.

We let the past go.

Dried rose petals. So many “I love you’s.”

Engagement pictures. Two kids smiling into happily ever after.

Love notes from a husband who cheated. Talk is cheap.

Two names entwined on a wedding reception napkin. A promise that was never kept.

A bad fad wedding veil. Chosen by a girl who has since become a woman.

And one big white wedding dress. Marriage is not at all about the wedding day.

All of it descended into the water. All of it floated away.

As five girls said goodbye to yesterday.

And “I do.”

To the future.

Chapter Fifty Five; Hitting the Pause Button

“Alright, if we sit here at still as statues maybe the seagulls will come closer to us,” I propose to my seven-year-old daughter. We are on vacation and perched at the end of a dock tossing bread to the birds as we attempt to entertain ourselves on day two of fog and rain.

So much for my little fun in the sun plan.

My daughter sits quietly as instructed, blue eyes staring intently at the floating bread just a few feet from us, but her silence is brief.

“Mom?” she whispers.

“Yes?” I whisper back.

“Birds poop on statues.”

I giggle to myself as I turn to little miss reality check, poke her in the ribs and affirm with a smile, “Yes. Yes they do.”

The sun eventually decided to appear again just a few hours later and the rest of vacation went off without a hitch. My kids and I spent hours swimming in the lake, horsing around on the inflatable trampoline and just flat out enjoying our reprieve.

For them, the vacation was what a vacation should be when you are a kid. Hours of fun, sand in their hair, and a diet consisting largely of chocolate, marshmallows and graham crackers.

For me, it was all that and then some. Ironically, we adults oftentimes need a break from the very lives we are solely responsible for creating. The frantic pace of responsibilities: jobs, activities, even our friendships. And every once in a while it is imperative we take a time out and just sit still.

Like statues.

And on this vacation.

I did precisely that.

Our cabin included a lakeside deck crammed with squishy patio furniture. And whenever the kids had had enough of Mom and escaped to do their own thing (playing with new friends at the cabin next door won out over spending quality with mama bear on more than one occasion) I parked myself on those suckers, put my feet up, and just absorbed the stillness.

It is amazing how much easier it is to think when you aren’t in “your” life.

I don’t know if it was the view of the water stretched out before me like some big blue flawless piece of silk or the soundless silence.

Probably the combination of both.

Regardless, I felt like the stillness allowed me to literally empty out my head of all thoughts, spread them out before me and then consciously chose which ones to put back in and which ones were worthless wastes of mental real estate.

“Now this is a good one. I should spend more time with this one actually. Let’s put tha sucker at the front. On to the next. What the hell? Why is this even still in here? What is the point? I’m tossing this one in the lake. Alright, now look at this one. I should not forget about this one. This one rocks. Well holy crap look at this next one. Good gawd, this is nothing but junk that makes me feel bad when I give it attention and it just brings me down. Out you go.”

And on and on.

I mentally sorted.

Keeping the jewels. Relinquishing the shit.

It was freeing.

At the end of the week, we packed up the car, locked up the cabin, and headed back down the highway. Back to our lives.

Because although vacations are necessary, fun is essential, and the opportunity to sit still every once in a while is vital for sanity, life can’t be lived on pause forever.

After the stillness and the processing, eventually you have to just jump back into life headfirst. Get off that deck and go make some waves in that water. Live life and appreciate the treasure in it all: the joy of the good and the lessons that only the bad can teach.

Tempting as it is, you can’t sit still forever.

Because, like a wise little girl once told me:

Birds poop on statues.

I love technology . . .

. . . but I love it most, when it works! #*$#**#&@#@&$!!!!!

Today's reguarly scheduled program will be delayed until "sometime tomorrow." Try to make it through somehow.

And remember, absence makes the heart grow fonder. At least that's what I'm told . . .

Later gaters!
Audra

Divorce Land Readers: It is all about YOU

Happy Monday! I know, I know, what is happy about a Monday? Well, for me personally, I am on VAY KAY and enjoying the great outdoors on this particular one. Although . . . ah hem . . . obviously, to me, "the great outdoors" means somewhere with Internet connection. And a shower. And air conditioning. Look at my picture. Do I look low maintenance?!?!

Exactly.

But hey, I DO have a fabulous view of a stunning lake from the cabin I rented for the week so in my book "the outdoors" is very much a part of this little reprieve.

Thus, no essay today because my weekend has been full of non-laptop activities like watching the runt of the family (the kid, not the dog) learn to water ski, floating around on a sandbar in the summer sun, and covering up my Scandinavian ancestry with a tan so dark that by the time I am 60 people may very will wonder if I am part alligator.

Sweet.

My point?

None of the above involved staring at a computer screen.

Which sometimes, in this world, is a good good thing.

But since some of you are obviously doing exactly that right now, I thought I'd post a few of the comments I have received and make today's entry all about the people who read my writing.

YOU!

Thanks for writing. Here are some of my favorite notes . . .

Just spent the last two hours reading your blog. I do not know where to start. It is very refreshing reading for me. I typically read political writings, sports statistics & magazines, and spiritual/Christianity books. I will admit that without ever meeting you I probably would not have read the blog. I would figure I am not your target reading market. I would have thought that the writings of a recently divorced lady is not my idea of desired reading. I do not want to read drivel and run-on sentences. BUT oh am I soooo wrong. Your writings are witty, charming, intelligent, interesting, sad, fun, and entertaining. What a read. So far my favorite quote "I was the only one with ovaries to say..." or something like that. Smart writing. Very fun. Your topics are varied and always interesting. I will have my wife read it so she can understand why I am chuckling as I read the blog from my Trio in bed as she does Sudoku.


One powerful line I read was something like there is lonely, alone, and solitude. And how you have known all three. You have educated me in more ways then you can imagine. I guess I am your target market.

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I stumbled onto your blog through Jennifer's Facebook page and have been a reader ever since. Your writing is exceptionally well done. I can picture the farm, the strawberry patch, your mother's practical attitude and actually feel the wind at your back as you describe in your run in your latest entry.

Though I have been fortunate not to experience your chosen topic (divorce), I have been through many life changing events recently and have struggled with finding an outlet to find a release for internal issues surrounding the changes.

Humor, especially the type you are able to display, has really helped me regroup and get on with life. I enjoy the way you are able to very directly address the uncertainty of the future with a "hey, shit happens -- can't wait to see what's next" attitude. I have had to do that professionally and.....so far so good.

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I LOVE your blog.... I just keep coming back for more, it's just hilarious and definitely proving me wrong on who I "thought" you were! I had the impression that you were some hoity toity "bible beater"! When in reality, you believe in the Almighty but yet live life and enjoy it.... You drink and swear occasionally. It's so refreshing!

***********************

I finally got to read your blog...Amazing!! I am hooked! Can't wait to read on tomorrow!!!

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I LOVE your Blog! I like the honesty and the rawness. You really have a way of connecting. Thank you!

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Oh no, dear readers . . .

Thank YOU.

I'll be back on your screens on Thursday!

Have a super week. Life is an occasion, rise to it!
~Audra

Chapter Fifty Four; Don't go my Love!

What?

When I heard my love was leaving I was in absolute and utter disbelief.

Not another loss. Not another lover entering my life only to depart like a thief in the night, leaving my heart broken and aching. Extracting all of the delicious sweetness from my life.

I don’t know if I can take much more of this. As if this year hasn’t been difficult enough. Now this?

I can not believe this is happening. It’s the kind of tragedy that is absolutely going to leave such an emotional scar that I may never recover. A development of such shocking proportions I don’t know if I can even type it out loud.

Here goes.

Are you ready?

The Starbucks two blocks from my house . . .

IS CLOSING!!!

Someone say it isn’t so. Where is Ashton Kutcher? Am I being punked? How is this possible? Someone bring me two shots of espresso straight up. I feel faint.

Starbucks? My Starbucks?

This is a nightmare.

Oh sure, prior to 2003 I’d never even heard of Starbucks or seen the mermaid logo that would soon come to symbolize sweet caffeinated intoxication. But sometime around 2004, my Midwestern town was infiltrated and I haven’t been the same since.

Cunning corporate executives backed by an ambitious business plan and a herd of advertising executives slowly invaded every neighborhood on the planet overnight. And mine was no exception. Within days, a pleasure palace of fresh roasted breakfast blend and Venti Caramel Macchiatos was erected just a scone's throw from my home.

It wasn't long before I was one of the millions brainwashed to believe that it is just not a good day without my happiness in a cup. My warm portable liquid hug. My Starbucks Grande Cinnamon Dolce Latte (with whip!).

But apparently, these same execs must have sat down at a conference table lately and with one fell swoop of a dry erase marker, revised their plan. And crossed my Starbucks off their map. Erased it forever.

Bastards.

Thanks. Thanks a lot.

Thanks for your crap planning. Thanks for getting me hooked on your drug like substance and then yanking it away, forcing me into whip withdrawal and leaving me to suffer the ice cold frappuccino-induced shakes all alone on the street corner where my shrine to sanity once stood.

Please know I will never forget you, my local Starbucks. I will look back on the memories of our relationship with fond recollection. I will remember the good times. Our early morning meetings, our precious first sips, our stolen moments of joy (available for a mere $4.13 at your drive through).

My heart may recover from this life-altering loss with time, I know, I know . . .

And even though this is goodbye, my love. Just know . . .

My nieghborhood will never again be as sweet as it was, when you were here.

Chapter Fifty Three; My Tainted Catholic Past

“Would you like to get together this weekend?”

“No. I just want your big boat and you just want my big boobs.”

“You’re funny! We can just watch a movie? Maybe some spooning?”

“Whatever. Spooning lead to forking, buddy.”

Welcome to my friend, Naomi!

The above was a texting exchange between she and some guy far too desperate. And far too cheeseball. And far too lame to handle the queen of sarcasm.

I love this woman.

Would you believe Naomi and I first met a million years ago when we were teachers at a Catholic high school?

True story.

Well, I was the teacher. She was the sub. I must have been sick a lot or something because she was always filling in for me. This was long before email so I had to communicate my lesson plans to her the old fashion way: handwritten notes. (I know, hard to believe we are not 85-years-old isn’t it? This was only back in 1998!)

It was soon apparent from our archaic correspondence that we had far more in common than a love for education. Our footnotes and side commentary soon clearly illustrated we were cut from the same smart ass cloth.

When we finally met in person I half expected her to produce a birth certificate and announce that she was really my identical twin and that we’d been tragically separated from each other at birth as a result of some freak accident involving a sleep deprived night shift nurse and acid-dropping unobservant birth parents.

And even though that wasn’t the case, I’d found something better.

A kindred nut job.

And a great friend.

And let me tell you, there is nothing better than that when you are working at a place where the janitor’s paycheck is higher than yours, the student parking lot is full of Land Rovers and Audis, and the only man your age on staff is celibate.

Talk about saving grace. Naomi was all that and more.

My favorite blast from the private school past involves a spontaneous coffee run to the teacher’s lounge. I had a prep period and Naomi had a gig subbing for the gym teacher and was between games of floor hockey. As we sauntered down the hallway chattering away, I was explaining to her how I’d caught one of my goody goody sophomores making up journal entries about doing hoes and smoking crack. Just as we opened the door to the lounge Naomi was exclaiming, loudly (the only way she knows how to communicate), “That kid wrote that? Oh, he wishes he had some hoes or even knew where to buy crack.”

The beauty of this commentary is that she announced it right as she opened the door to the lounge. And ended up screaming it into the face of a staff member who was just leaving the room at that precise moment.

Which staff member you may ask?

Oh no one important.

Just.

The priest.

“Oh, hi Father,” she nonchalantly tacked onto the statement and then turned to me without skipping a beat and inquired, “Coffee?”

Did I mention that I love this woman?

Well, it’s ten years later. And thankfully Naomi is still around Her hair is longer and her boobs are bigger. (Who says Americans aren’t spending their tax returns wisely?)

And she is still cracking me up.

And yes, she too has entered Divorce Land (46% are the stats people. By the time you get to my age, yes, half your friends are divorced. It’s just true.)

But I am happy for her company.

And even though the two of us no longer teach at a Catholic school, some shred of morality and values from that gig must have obviously stuck.

After all, you gotta admire a woman who won’t go around forking some guy.

Simply because he has a big . . .

. . . boat.