Chapter Twenty Seven; Mirror Mirror on the Wall, Who's the Haggish One of All?

Who is that hag and why does she follow me everywhere I go?

Oh wait. That would be me.

Damn mirror.

And so went my typical inner dialogue back in 2005.

In high school I had been the pretty popular girl. Cheerleader. Homecoming queen. (For the record, the latter is an utterly over rated accolade for someone like me from Reduce Speed, Rural America. The rhinestone tiara honor culminated in my donning a prom dress, perching atop a folding chair in the back of my cousin’s pick up, and tossing tootsie rolls at screaming redneck children during the two block long parade. Thank God that moment did not serve as the pinnacle of my life’s success, let’s just acknowledge that now, shall we?)

My point is that the 32-year-old frumpy mom in my mirror had once upon a time been:

The Hot Girl

But eleven years of domestic wedded (cough!) bliss had chilled said hotness on a glacial level. I was now the “Not Hot Girl,” any and all of my former sizzle having been extinguished long ago. It was probably buried somewhere in my basement ice chest, beneath frosty forgotten freezer burned venison from my dad, circa deer hunting season 1999.

I was definitely not attending any high school reunions in this arctic condition that was for sure.

Oh yeah. It was bad.

The simple truth is I had gotten so consumed with perfecting the façade of a life that I had forgotten all about the authentic Audra. I ate like crap (brownie, anyone?) never exercised (What? I walked to this couch!) and had apparently gone comatose in regard to fashion sense when I decided to quit highlighting my hair and chop it all off (What's wrong with practical?).

The bottom line is that I was certainly no M.I.L.F. (“Mom I’d like to _________”)

Oh no. I was more like a M.I.L.K. (“Mom I’d like to Know”)

I was the mother that caused men to swoon for my sinfully good chocolate chip cookies not the kind that inspired swooning of a sinfully naughty nature.

And so, my “Get Hot” (a.ka. To Hell with the Hag) plan was born.

Enough was enough.

The super condensed version is that I was going to rediscover my old self again if it killed me. And it practically did.

I spent the next year running the equivalent of the earth’s circumference (twice) on a treadmill, investing enough money at the hair salon to feed a third world village for a year, and actually started buying my clothes at (gasp!) the mall.

All this just to hunt down that elusive steamy little bitch.

It was no small task but I eventually found her again twelve months and a few dress sizes later, back in my mirror where she belongs. Wearing size four designer jeans and sporting a killer mane of blonde hair.

Out with the hag, in with the hottie! Audra, the sequel, was back.

Unfortunately, more than just the visible areas of my life were also begging for a transformation. The invisible needed attending to as well. You see, once the outer was tackled I could no longer ignore what was going with me on the inside: this feeling I carried around with me for years that I was wearing a pair of shoes just a size too small, or that my shirt was on backward. Something didn’t fit quite right, something was wrong.

It didn’t take long to figure out what aspect of my life that that was.

Let me put it this way: When your marriage counselor recommends a reputable book that identifies 35 areas of marital discontent and your marriage hits 34 of them, it is time to wake up and smell the separation agreement.

Long story short, the last three years of my life involved conversions on major levels. But every single one of them was vital if I was going to grow and become the person I was always meant to be.

Now the calendar says 2008 and my outside, inside, (and signature!) are all in great shape and back to their original packaging.

But most importantly, the girl in my mirror is no longer a stranger. I recognize her and know exactly who she is.

And let me tell you, she is no hag.

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.

Chapter Twenty Five; The Cougar Thing

The first time I heard the term "cougar" was back in my Dating Land days over dinner with an older and wiser successfully single girlfriend. I had just confessed to her how I had stumbled into a pseudo dating pothole on the Divorce Land highway and that my DLTC (Dating Land Traveling Companion) was slightly younger than me. Okay, maybe more than slightly. Oh fine, he was in second grade the year I graduated from high school. Actually, it might have been first . . .

“Ooooh, that makes you a cougar,” she purred over the top of her chardonnay.

“A wha?”

“A cougar. You know, Ashton/Demi?”

“There is a term for this ridiculous situation?” I was mortified. "I thought I was just having some kind of momentary isolated crisis."

When behavioral decisions have been assigned animal terminology isn't that evidence enough to rethink? Cougar. It sounded so primal. As if I wasn't second guessing this May/December deal already now I am a pop culture punch line? Indulging in the kind of lifetstyle trend that inspires reality television?

She encouraged me to check the calendar. It is 2008 and we women have arrived. It is acceptable to date younger men. Not only that, my ability to attract a man who moved from a tricycle to a two wheeler the same year I learned to drive is a badge of honor. I should be proud.

I assured her I was not some panting feline in heat. I was dating DLTC because I found him to be very smart, extremely funny, insanely ambitious and goal oriented. The birthday was something I was just trying to ignore.

My non-shallow declaration was quickly met with sly smirking and entertained eyebrow cocking from across the table.

“What?” I innocently inquired.

Her smirk spread and her eyebrow ascended into her hairline.

“Oh, FINE.” I nonchalantly conceded, “I admit. He’s also very cute.”

Her smirk morphed into a shit ass grin and her eyebrow dissappeared from her face. I think it moved to the back of her head.

“Alright! Alright! He’s so hot when he comes to my house I have to turn on the air conditioning. Happy?!?” (Which is saying a lot considering this conversation took place in December and I believe the temperature outside was around minus five degrees.)

Her eyebrow returned to her forehead as she high fived me from across the table.

I'd say she was pretty happy.

That night I Googled "cougar" to make sure I had not indeed lost my 35-year-old mind.

It turns out Madonna’s husband is 11 years her junior and, who knew, but the current reigning queen of the cougars is . . . Katie Couric? The epitome of brains and class? Wow. Her boyfriend wasn’t even BORN when she graduated from high school. And according to the Guinness Book of World Records some 34 year old man from Indonesia married a 101 year old woman just last year.

Whoa. I want the number of that woman’s plastic surgeon. Rock on granny!

My cyber cougar sleuthing was helping. I mean really, the age difference between me and DLTC was not that bad, I was certainly uncovering worse. Not to mention I was in the company of some strong and smart women who had stolen the contents of a cradle or two themselves.

I decided not to worry another second about it. After all, the last two years of my marriage were sad, tragic and frustrating. I figured if the worst thing I have to worry about at this stage in the game is whether or not my date will follow my uncanny knack for quoting Ferris Buehler’s Day off ("Life moves pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.") then my life has definitely taken a turn for the better.

Bring on the cat nip. And turn the air conditioning on high.

This cougar is on the prowl.

Chapter Twenty Four; The Attack of the Modesty Nazi

I feel sorry for my children.

And not because their parents are divorced. I feel sorry for them because their mother is a nut. And not a loony nutty, unfortunately I am completely sane (I say unfortunately because I literally have no convenient excuse for the off the wall commentary that often falls out of my face.) And being a nut isn’t bad. The problem is I am an opinionated nut. And opinionated nuts, well, we have opinions. And we are nutty enough to tell you what they are. Like it or not.

Last week a letter arrived at my home. From my daughter’s Catholic school.

The content of this correspondence was intended to inform the parents that the upcoming graduation dance is upon us. Okay good. I can use a reminder letter from time to time. I am blonde. I’ll take it. I note date, time, etc. All the logistics. Got it.

And then I hit the paragraph on attire “requirements.”

“Please be informed that the dress for this dance is to be reserved in nature. The boys are to wear button down shirts, dress pants and ties.”

And had I been the mother of a son it all would have ended here. But oh no. No, no, no, no, no, no. Little did I know, the girls at my daughter’s Catholic school are in danger of becoming heathen harlots who must be closely monitored by the modesty Nazis.

The next two paragraphs proceeded to outline instructions that her principal obviously photocopied out of Good Housekeeping circa 1958:

“When choosing your daughter’s attire for the evening please note: hems are to be below the knee, hair is to be done modestly, no spaghetti straps or strapless dresses are allowed without an appropriate shawl or sweater, make up shall be applied lightly, and all jewelry is to be subtle and not flashy.”

Jewelry? Too flashy? Isn’t that the purpose of jewelry? To add a little flash? What do they think I’m going to have her wear around her neck? A knock off of the hope diamond? Or perhaps I should make sure she’s all pimped out in no less than ten gold chains? Or maybe they’re worried about her donning full sleeve tattoos and a dog collar?

After reading this I was half tempted to dress my daughter up like a call girl and march her into the dance while belting Reba’s classic, “Here’s your once chance, Fancy, don’t let me down.”

Give me a break, give me a break, break me off a piece of that Kit Kat bar.

I take this parenting gig seriously. I could be driving a Lincoln Navigator with the money I voluntarily choose to invest in her educational and spirtual upbringing. Or maybe I just send her to Catholic school for show because obviously I can’t decide what is and is not respectiable attire for my own child without micromanagerial monitoring or blatant instruction from the prude police. According to the implications of this letter, she runs around town in sexy stilettos and daring Daisy Dukes when she is not in a school uniform.

I sat on the archaic letter for a few days in order to let myself calm down/hatch a plan/plot revenge.

Two days later I left a voicemail for Mr. Piously Proper Principal. And no, I did not leave a message diplomatically letting him know I am capable of discerning for myself what is and is not appropriate dress for my own child.

Oh no, not nutty opinionated me.

I offered to chaperone.

After all, I can't think of a more perfect place to don my new leather mini skirt, sequin tank top, fishnet stockings, and four inch black boots.

Can you?

Chapter Twenty Three; The Anniversary

Another year has passed.

Time is marked and plotted and organized. Twelve months, 365 days, one endless circle of numbers that keeps repeating. We revisit and acknowledge yearly this passage of time again and again. Another birthday. Another anniversary.

They are guideposts that protect us from simply getting lost in the circular motion of time. When a date that carries significance on our calendar arrives, we have to look up and look around. And do the obligatory assessment:

Where have I been? Where am I now? Where am I going?

Today is one of those days for me. It is my 14th wedding anniversary. Or is it? After all, my marriage did not survive.

Fourteen years ago today I was in college. And pregnant. And shell shocked. And scared. And on auto pilot.

I was marrying a stranger, stuck on a runaway train with momentum so powerful superman on steroids could not have stopped it. The few times I had suggested maybe . . . not? Marriage? My doubts were gently, yet effectively, silenced. My parents, my friends, my soon to be husband, everyone advised that this was the smart and best idea. And I am smart. And I always try my best. So this seemed to be the rational answer. And I am not one to fight logic.

April 9th was a beautiful day in 1994.

Today it is a beautiful day in 2008.

Back then I was 21, hesitantly walking a brick pathway, then bravely standing beneath a bell tower only to obediently recite the words the Justice of the Peace prompted me to say.

I was terrified.

Now I am 35, confidently striding up that same brick pathway, peacefully standing beneath the same bell tower and owning every thought inside my head, every action of my present life, and every decision that impacts my future. No one prompts me.

And this time I am not scared.

Just a few hours before I had pulled from storage a dusty box.

And now I stand under this bell tower holding its contents.

14 years in a shoe box takes its toll on daisies.

I remember holding this bouquet so many years ago, watching the delicate flowers shake as I said words that truly had no meaning to me. Now, although the petals are almost dust, they are solid in my firm grip, moving only because of the spring breeze.

I gently place the crumpling and brittle remnants of that day on the ground, close my eyes, and think back to the younger scared version of myself and whisper to her in my mind, “I am sorry it took me so long to get here. You were brave. And you should be proud. Come with me now. I can take it from here.”

And I quietly retreat. Leaving the past to turn to dust with the daisies.

At the end of the walk way, something beckons me to turn and I look back, one more stolen moment of contemplation.

And as I do, I am struck by the silhouette of the four story bell tower against the sun beams streaming through the clouds in the distance. The sight is magnificent. But my silent observation is utterly brief, for instantly the air is pierced with sound and song.

The bells. Begin. To chime.

Loud and true. Big and bold.

As the air echoes and swells with deafening melodic chords, the perfection of the timing is a choreography that shouts and proclaims an affirmation of my life’s journey: past, present, and future.

In my awe, the tears come, as I realize that now, forever and always, April 9th was just assigned a new meaning. It will no longer stand for fear and failure, sadness and surrender.

Instead this date will now signify the miraculous moment when I saw, heard and felt a wondrous truth:

The unwavering and real.

Love and presence.

Of God.

Chapter Twenty Two; Searching and Swearing (Where the bleep is my phone?)

There is a fourth dimension. I know because that is the only possible explanation for the absence of my cell phone.

This morning when I left my house my cell phone was in my hand. I know it. I know it like I know my name, the sound of my children’s voices, how to find the best deals at Macy’s (Junior section, northeast corner, last rack on the right.)

It is a fact. The sky is blue. The grass is green. Johnny Depp is the hottest man alive. That cell phone was on my person. These are the facts. None of which are up for debate.

Little did I know as I reached for my phone to make a call on my way into work this morning that my life was about to come to a digital halt. What the? Now where did I . . . put . . .

One empty purse later the great “mystery/nightmare/I am going nuts it can’t be true where the hell is my cell phone” adventure begins.

Because of course, I may be blonde, but I am not insane (Fine line, I realize).

Not in the console. Not in my purse. Not on the floor of the car. Not between the seats. Not on the floor in the back seat. I start to question my sanity. Did I or didn’t I have it in my hand 27 seconds ago? Am I imagining things? Is this a memory from yesterday I transposed onto today? After all, routine is my middle name.

I go back in the house.

Not on the counter. Not upstairs. Not downstairs. Not on the floor. Not in a coat pocket. Not in the coat closet. Not in the kitchen. Not in the dining room. Not in my bedroom, not in the bathroom.

I am running out of rooms. And patience.

I grab my home phone. I dial my cell number hoping to hear my melodic ring tone beckoning me, “Here I am! I am here! Come to me my beloved!” Instead I only hear my cheerful voice on my voicemail. And there is nothing worse than listening to your happy self when you are in full crabby self mode. I wanted to strangle myself. I am lost, what do I have to be so giddy about? I practically left myself a message telling myself off.

After revisiting all of the aforementioned areas 62 more times, dialing my cell phone 152 times, and saying a certain word that rhymes with duck, truck, and pluck almost every other breath, I suspend the search party and head into work.

Upon arrival I send out a mass email to my friends informing them that I am as unplugged as a Christmas tree in July and that my cell phone decided that this life with Audra is not what it was cracked up to be. It fled town this morning and left no forwarding address.

Everyone finds this funny. Yeah, laugh away. You’d all be freaking out too you Verizon/Sprint/Altell addicts! Try living without your circle for a whole work day.

And of course, my cell is primarily my work number so I pray to the business gods that no one leaves a voicemail of the “I have a $100,000 contract for your company if you call me in the next two hours” variety.

Somehow I get through the silent day only to arrive home later once again playing the frantic fool stomping all over my house, retracing my predictable mundane morning routine in this endless perplexing pursuit for resolution. I even sift through the litter box. I leave no terd unturned.

And of course, since it is apparent I have lost my mind after all, I am now talking to myself. “Where is this thing? What did I do with it? I have looked everywhere? What could I have done? Thrown it away?”

And then, waves of light, pure understanding, the synchronization of the universe and sheer euphoric comprehension crash upon me as I literally watch the mystery unravel in my mind.

I see my cell phone in my hand in the morning sun. And then, I see it. The missing link. I see myself grabbing the garbage on my way out the door.

Sweet Amen Alleluia! I sprint to the garage, throw open the trash can cover as a choir of angels swirls and sings around me.

The fourth dimension is not a sweet smelling place.

Where’s my Lysol? I need to make a call.