Chapter Forty Five; Things could be Worse: At Least I don't Look Like Hulk Hogan

“You know who you look like?”

The waitress at the local pizza joint smiles at me through her thick glasses. I smile back, politely inviting her observation even though I know exactly what she is going to say.

“Heather Locklear. You look just like her!”

Immediately she recognizes that her remark is probably not the first time I’ve heard it, “Oh, I bet you get that a lot don’t you?”

“Yeah,” I admit and quickly express my appreciation, “but thank you so much. She is beautiful, I am flattered.”

Honestly, I do get it a lot. Probably a couple times a week. Vegas was ridiculous, I think I heard it four times in one day. And every time I seriously think to myself, “Are these people on crack? Have they SEEN Heather Locklear?”

I have stood in the mirror and looked at myself from every angle, silently moved my mouth around as if I am in conversation, and even blurred my vision assuming that every person who makes this comment is in desperate need of updating their contacts prescription. Or drunk.

I don’t see it.

I really really don’t.

My hair is pretty much hers, that much I admit. But if you threw a blonde mane on Barak Obama and he would just turn into a bad version of Dennis Rodman, hardly Heather-licious. Therefore I am pretty sure it isn’t just the hair.

The only thing I’ve been able to determine is when I am just sitting there, not smiling, I look vaguely like someone who could be a distant cousin (thrice removed).

I think its the eyes. They’re slightly similar.

And let me underscore slightly. Mine are blue like hers. True. But not a shockingly deep mesmerizing ocean blue. Mine have this little ring of yellow around the iris. Yellow? Who has yellow eyes.

Zombies.

Meth Addicts.

Mine are more like a lagoon than a sparkling sea.

Trust me, if I have to be plagued by a resemblance to a celebrity, I am just thankful I am not routinely compared to Hulk Hogan or Drew Carey.

Yeah. Not so fun.

This week I noticed my twin sista was on the cover of People magazine. (And no, that is not my copy buried beneath Newsweek and Time in the basket next to my couch. I don’t know how that frivolous trash got in my house. Someone call the periodical police!)

Unfortunately, she was gracing the cover due to a personal crisis. As if the fact that Richie Sambora running off with her neighbor/best friend/turned mortal enemy, Denise Richards (Charlie Scheen’s ex-wife) last year was not enough, now she is in treatment for depression. (Isn’t it amazing the celebrity gossip you can absorb simply by osmosis in the grocery check out line? I would never actually READ People magazine. You can’t prove anything . . .).

I wondered briefly to myself, what on earth does someone with so many blessings have to be depressed about?

Hmmm, well, I am guessing even celebrities aren’t immune to emotional trauma. Last time I checked, even though they do live on different planets than the rest of us, they are still very much human.

I felt badly for her.

Life is hard. It just is. For all of us. And big blue eyes and a killer mane of blonde hair is not guaranteed immunity from adversity and sadness and disappointment.

Lord knows I still spent much of the last year bawling my blue lagoon eyes out.

So here’s to you Heather. Thought I’d jot a little note and let you know your look-a-like obscure blogging twin out here in the Midwest wishes you the best and hopes you find peace and healing.

But I’ll have to warn you.

In some distant future, when your Bon Jovi guitarist bad boy husband who screwed your best friend is a distant memory and you’re feeling better, I may have won the Pulitzer for Commentary and grabbed my own little slice of fame pie.

So I should warn you:

A couple times a week you’re going to have smile and nod politely when the clerk at your favorite store observes, “You know who you look like?”

Oh yeah, you know it, girlfriend.

Chapter Forty Four; Peanut Butter the Biking Princess Genius who is better than her Sister (PB titled this one....can you tell?!?!?)

“Okay, now slow down. Good job. Big bump here. All clear. Let’s go. Hey, don’t pass me. Watch where you are going. Tree! Hello! Geez, kid!”

Peanut Butter, my soon to be second grader, has learned to ride a two wheeler this summer.

She is officially a big girl.

And I don’t think my life is ever going to be the same again.

This child is a maniac. And an old soul. And in one of her past lives, she was some distant relative of Lance Armstrong because this kid is killing me.

One week into finally giving up the training wheels she is making up for lost time in the biking department by running her mother into the ground. Well, at least all over the ground. We have put on an average of seven miles a night and I am not even a little kidding.

Jam Jam, my teenager, is far more girly (a fancy way of saying lazy). And it was awesome coasting along that parenting highway, let me tell you. Two times around the bock when she was this age and she was ready to head back inside and get back to her Barbie business.

Oh, the good old days of parenting when air conditioned activities were the staple.

Now, this kid comes along and I find myself not only covered in sweat but having to invest in a gel-filled seat cover for my ass. On top of that, the future Tour de France winner and I are biking so far into unknown territory (I think we may have been in Canada this time last week) that I needed to buy a bike lock because half the time I don’t even know where the hell we are when we do finally stop (i.e. I collapse.)

I will stop whining briefly and admit this is a ton of fun. I am having a blast playing biking mother hen with my little chick following behind me ever so obediently. At every intersection, I check the traffic and wave her on, “Okay! We’re good!” and pedal, pedal, pedal she just clicks along behind me, big fat smile beaming from beneath her big helmeted head.

We fly past Moms strolling fat happy babies, Dads walking behind little boys on their hot wheels, and grandparents trying to keep up with little girls on Hannah Montana scooters.

Peanut Butter and I are on to the next level, we are a team, and we are flying by the competition.

This week’s weather has been excellent, and only once did we get caught in a brief rainstorm down by the river. We took shelter under the Main Avenue bridge where I pointed out the cardboard that was serving as a bed for a homeless person. As the traffic whizzed above us and the rain poured just beyond our reach, my daughter was struck only by the sadness of this vagrant’s life, “Oh, Mom, can we come back here later and bring them some money?” The compassion on her little face, if I could bottle it, would end every war this planet has ever seen, I am convinced. I promised her the next time we biked this way, I would definitely bring some money. And I tell you something, that kid won’t let me forget it either.

The rain stopped as quickly as it had begun and we were soon back on the trail, full speed ahead.

I call out directions, “Now use your break, its a bit of a hill here. Alright, good job, now we’ll take a left. Excellent!” as we rode home into the summer evening.

She passes me and I let her, because the rest of the trail is smooth sailing all the way back. And as I watched her little form scoot ahead of me I am struck by how small she is in this very large world. Yet she forges ahead unfazed and oblivious to her microscopic presence.

For now, I yell out instructions and she heads them. I applaud her for following them and she hears me.

For now.

But time is a thief that will eventually steal these abilities from me in the very mundane and expected outcome that is simply, growing up.

I sieze the moment before its gone, and call out again, “Great job, honey! Look at you go! Keep it up! I am so proud!”

And she glances back momentarily to flash a smile as she yells, “Thanks, Mom!!!”

And there she goes. On her little journey. With me right behind her guiding and cheering.

My big girl.

Getting bigger every day.

In an even bigger world.

********************
Jam Jam reads my blog and on occasion I'll read an entry to Peanut Butter, especially if she's in it. The three of us sat on my bed last night and I read this one aloud to both of them. When I finished I asked, "Okay, I am thinking just something like 'The Adventures of Peanut Butter' will work? What do you girls think?" Peanut Butter contemplates and then announces, "Hmmm, I think Peanut Butter the Biking Princess Genius who is better than her Sister, and Prettier too," would be good? "Nice!" Jam Jam objects! But soon we all agree it can definitely work, we just have to take off the "prettier" part . . . because that is just too long. Plus not true. "Mom is the most babe-olicious one in this family," I tease....they pummel me with pillows . . . but the title is decided: "Biking Princess Genius who is better than her Sister" it is.

Chapter Forty Three; Divorce Land goes to Vegas!

According to our cultural code of silence, everything that happens in Sin City allegedly stays there. And I believe that is true because really, how many people do you actually know named Vegas? Exactly. I can't think of a one. Therefore, the pants may come off but the lips stay zipped. So, far be it from me to blow the lid off this supposed iron clad/mum’s the word/no I have never met a stripper named Titanic Tom/sinful shushing.

Therefore, I thought the most appropriate approach to this essay would simply be to compile a list of the juiciest dialogue from my past week in the city of high rollers and more boob jobs than one person should ever see in a lifetime let alone a weekend.

So here it is:

My Top Five OMG/you did not just say that Vegas Dialogue Stories

Exchange #1: The Mysterious Injury
Audra to her co-worker the first morning of her conference:

• Um, when our group put you in that cab at 3AM you didn’t have a black eye. What. The hell. Happened?
• Gee, I was hoping you could tell me . . .

Exchange #2: TMI Texting
All I am going to say is the reply is from my phone but not my fingers:

• Did you get some rest last night?
• Nope! I was up all night banging the pool boy.

Exchange 3: Drunken Desire
My intoxicated co-worker slurring to me about Sonja:

• I am drunk enough to ponder the concept of lust.
• Ponder over there, would you?

Exchange 4: Sonja The Flasher
Sonja to two complete strangers:

• You said you want to see my tattoos? Oh shoot, I’m wearing a dress. Alright if I lift it up over my thong to show to you?
(As if they needed to vocalize their vote? Let's just say I’ve never seen more frenzied nodding.)

Exchange 5: Why I Couldn’t Sleep in Vegas
Sonja to our very calm unfazed cab driver:

• What are they checking for again?
• Bombs. What? You didn’t know? Your hotel is an Al Qaida target.

So there you have it.

It was a wild week full of unexplained bruising, horizontally hustling of the hotel help, yearning contemplation, panty flashing, and threats of a bombing nature.

Just your average Vegas getaway really.

As for any scandalous fun?

Hey, you guys know the rules…that shit stays in the vault. I am not going to type one word about the cutie pie with the killer eyes from DC who licked champagne off my . . . .

. . . hehehehe . . .

. . . never mind!

Viva!

Las Vegas!

Chapter Forty Two; Rejection Sucks and my Almost Stalker Moment

Done. Done. On to the next one.

These are lyrics from the Foo Fighters. I like that band, but they’re pretty raw and not exactly Celine Dion in their approach to love and loss.

They’re also dead freaking on when it comes to two of the most emotionally raw aspects relationships:

Rejection. And his evil twin: Replacement.

It is extremely painful to learn when someone new is standing in the place you once stood. That someone was chosen over you.

Logically, we all know our worth is not determined by the opinion of another mere mortal, yet we’re all guilty of placing exactly that much value on the simple opinions of equally imperfect human beings.

All the time.

We watch our friends go through break ups yet we say, “Get over it, move on, so what if he/she didn’t choose you? Who cares?”

Yeah. Easy to say when you’re not the one who was erased and replaced, huh? (Foo Fighter reference there again for those of you not as cool as moi.)

Here is the deal:

Sonja is reeling. Her divorce has been final for six months. But she just learned that her husband had been cheating on her during their marriage.

He is now living with that woman.

That really sucks.

Because even though Sonja is done done on to the next one herself for the most part, it’s still hard to learn that really, the end of her marriage did not play out how she had believed. Everything was a lie. It was not as simple as just growing apart, or making a mistake.

It was about her being rejected in the end.

And there is nothing more painful.

I had a very ironic experience the other day that reminded me of that fact. My story is not even a part of the same solar system as Sonja’s, but it was definitely a dimension of the rejection universe.

I was innocently driving down the street to run an errand over lunch the other week, mindlessly singing along to my iPod. I stop at a red light, and slowly my mind processes that the car in front of me looks vaguely familiar.

Shit.

DLTC.

But he wasn’t driving.

Well, if he was, he’d since gone blonde and had a sex change.

Holy mother.

I literally said out loud, “Thanks God. Nice sense of humor. I appreciate this. Lovely. Just lovely.”

I called my envy hotline immediately: Susie.

“I hate this freaking small town!!” I gush into the phone as soon as she answers.

“Okay. Spill.”

“I am behind DLTC’s car in traffic,” I flatly confess.

“Okay,” she hesitantly responds, I can hear her processing, “On purpose or accidentally?”

“Accidentally! Good gawd. What are the odds?”

“In this town? Pretty low,” she observes. No shit sherlock I think to myself. She then advises, “Alright, its simple, just turn off the road.”

“Duh, but holy crap, not the worst part: there is a girl driving it.”

“Okay . . .and?”

“I am calling you for support.”

“My support is to advise you to turn. Are you still behind her?”

“I just missed my turn.”

“And . . . why?”

“Because I am a loser,” I readily admit, “Oh, I’m sure it is probably his cousin’s or friend’s wife. He’s a nice guy, probably loaning his car out.”

“Exactly, so why are you following it?”

“Because I have to confirm that theory. I should be able to see a wedding ring, right?”

“Audra?”

“Yes?”

“Turn around.”

“ARGH! I know. Okay, I am turning. I am turning.”

Silence. For five seconds.

Susie inquires, “Have you turned?”

“Nope. I think I am on stalker auto pilot now. Shit”

“No, you are not,” she argues and in true friend fashion gives me an infusion of honest reminders about myself, “You talk too much and email relentlessly and always need to have the last word but in the end if there’s anything I know about you it is that you’re good at ultimately letting go and letting God. You. Are NOT a stalker. Turn around.”

I know she’s right. This is not me. This is ridiculous.

So I turn around.

And I let it go.

But I am shaking. Even though, logically I am absolutely fine. Unfortunately, emotions don’t consult logic when they descend. They just swell up like a June thunderstorm. And precipitation and storm fronts and pressure systems are not controllable. You can take shelter from them, but that’s pretty much it.

And my emotional storm came out of nowhere and grew faster than a thunderhead in July, taunting me with uncontrollable thoughts like:

Erase/Replace?

Already?

I couldn’t really run from these emotions, but I could take cover.

And Susie made an excellent umbrella.

So I turned around, and drove to where I was going. Quit shaking and just took a deep breath. It is what it is. I will never know who this girl is and it doesn’t matter. We’re over anyway so if I have been erased and replaced immediately, what difference does it make?

None.

But even just the possibility of it really hurt.

The fact is as human beings we care immensely about what others think of us. We want nothing more than to be chosen. When we are, it makes us feel special, worthwhile, and loved.

When we are not, we feel exactly the opposite of all those good things.

And as for Sonja, of course she will move on. She will get over it. And someday she will give thanks for all of the events that brought her to the beautiful place she will eventually reside in emotionally. (Right after she burns her wedding album, tattoos her maiden name on her ass and consults a voodoo expert to secure a good curse.)

But for today, she is hurting.

And I must still be too as I was a stalker for all five blocks.

How pathetic.

Sigh.

I guess healing does not come over night.

But it does eventually arrive. The story of humanity promises us that much. And when it does, if we can count on anything being erased, it is the sadness.

And replaced.

With love.

***************************
It was odd to write this essay, because when I did, I was in Vegas. By a pool. Drinking something delicously alcoholic and enjoying the palm trees and a ridiculously pampered week. (I love my day job.)

Because of that, I want to point out the ebb and flow of life. My stalker moment was a moment. And it a passed. I recovered, life went on, and now I am soaking up the desert sun and having a pretty good damn time.

I know everyone is looking forward to potential essays next week about my and Sonja's wild and crazy adventures in Sin City, but I should warn you: So far, probably not possible! Oh, I'm having a blast, don't get me wrong. But something terribly ironic has happened: I love my life so much, that I didn't need a vacation from it.

My life back home is pretty fullfilling. And super fun.

So what does that say about my life? I think I have things in the right order. My "every day" life is fun and exciting.

When the craziest place on earth is a "break"...personally? I think?

I must be doing a lot right!

Here's to life. It's an occasion.

Rise to it!

Later gaters,
~Audra

Chapter Forty One; The Night Susie showed up with her Top Down

What.

The.

Hell.

I had been crying. Now. I am just confused.

It is 10:00 at night. I had been sitting on my front step sobbing for the whole world to see for the past half hour or so. Smiley Susie, my personal savior, is sitting in my driveway in a 1962 push button convertible, top town (the car’s top. Geez, people. Pervs!), fuzzy dice swaying in the night breeze.

“Hop in!” her curly head calls to me from behind the wheel, “The cheer up cavalry is here! And . . . she is driving a 1962 push button convertible,” she pauses for emphasis, “complete. With fuzzy dice.”

I sniff, and momentarily forget the fact that a few minutes later I had summoned Susie from my cell. Because I was upset. About a boy. Of course.

Good gawd.

Miraculously, sixty seconds later I am now so distracted by the fact that I am driving around in a vintage convertible that I forget to concentrate on the guy trouble simply because I don’t know what the hell else to think. I finally collect myself enough to stutter, “Um, where did you get this car?”

“It’s my Dad’s, isn’t it great?” Susie smiles again and then starts commenting on what a beautiful night it is and how time heals all wounds and that I will be fine and isn’t it cool she even has the fuzzy dice hanging from the rear view mirror?

I just stare at her like she is on crack.

Sometimes? I wonder.

“No, seriously, Suze. Forget my saga for just one second. I just want to know. Why. The hell. Are you in this car?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Dad lets me take it for a spin every once in a while and I thought tonight would be perfect! So when you called with your boo hoo hoo/woe is me/boys suck so bad/I might become a lesbian/night I had to come pick you up! Didn’t it work out great?”

I just nod, sit back in the seat and look up to watch the night sky scrolling above us. Susie is full of surprises. I have just come to expect it. Which runs counter to the entire concept that makes a surprise surpising, but that is the beauty of all that is Susie.

As she drives she chatters her typical perpetually irritating positive banter that I can always count on during times like this, something about, “Let go, let God” and “This is an answer to prayer, just give it some time.”

I interrupt her optimistic soap box soliloquy to insist, “Screw that approach little miss fuzzy dice. Let accelerate through the grief phase already. I just want to skip to the anger. That’s the fun part.”

Susie smiles, “Alrighty then, I think it might be too soon but we’ll give it a whirl! Here goes the anger: He’s an idiot. He can never do better, you’re a goddess and he has a brain injury to end all brain injuries. He is the king of the brain injured. In fact, he does not have a brain at all. We should alert the medical community. Quick! Someone study this man! How does he do it? He obviously has no brain, as is clearly illustrated by his breaking up with the most fabulously wonderful woman on the planet, Audra the Awesome, Audra the Amazing, Audra the Acoustic wonder!” she flashes a shit ass grin at me from behind the wheel.

“Acoustic wonder?”

“Hey, I can’t think of that many adjectives that start with “a” under pressure. Cut me some slack," she jokes, then turns her navigational focus away from my drama and back to the drive, “Hey, lets head down this street, its always a pretty one. Love these old houses.”

I am giggling. Acoustic wonder. What a doorknob.

But I attempt to go with it and try to let the insults seep in. And wait for the anger anesthesia to take effect. I watch the mansions of days past planted in their perfectly landscaped yards filter by us and sink back in the vinyl seat to ponder this brainless man’s said stupidity and inability to treasure the gem that is so obviously, moi.

That lasts all of ten seconds.

Crap.

I am soon gushing, “Oh, that’s not true, He’s NOT an idiot And he’s really smart, that’s why I like him. That’s why this sucks! Because he DOES have a brain!”

Susie just goes with the flow, and doesn’t miss a beat in this break up band. “Told you it was too soon for the anger. Give yourself a week. Or four. Or six. You’ll get there. I’ll come over when you get to that fun pissed off part. We’ll photoshop his picture,” she plots, then adds, “And drink an entire box of wine.”

Susie actually grew up leading a pretty pampered life (Hello? I mean really, what the hell? Her Dad has a vintage vehicle just lying around? Yeah. That outta clue you in.)

Yet.

She buys her wine by the box.

I love this woman.

I sniff, “You’re a good friend, Suze.”

“A good friend with a convertible in her dad’s garage,” she reminds me.

How could I forget? I just shake my head as we ride in silence for a while.

“Susie?”

“Yeah?”

“You don’t even know what Photoshop is. You’re technically disabled.”

“Oh, I know!” she confesses with a big fat grin, “But I always thought it sounded like so much fun!”

I actually do let a snicker escape thinking about the digital damage I could inflict. (And the fact that this is the worst post break up revenge therapy Susie’s goody goody head can think of.)

We cruise around for another good hour, hashing out life, what has happened to us, where we are, and where we are going. And by the end of the night, I was definitely counting more blessings than curses on this crazy ride.

And that is exactly why, if you saw two chicks cruising around town about a month ago in a vintage convertible, they weren’t lesbians making out. It was just me and Susie.

Because any friend who can show up and instantly evolve tears to confusion to laughter is getting a big fat embrace from me. Even if we are in a 1962 push button convertible.

Complete with fuzzy dice.

For the whole world to see.

**********************************
Dear Blogaramma fans,
Two months later Susie took me out for my birthday in that borrowed vintage convertible of her dad's. . . here's a little visual for ya of THAT adventure! Her dad actually put in XM radio (cleverly hidden in the glove compartment so as not to destroy the classic cruising experience) So here we are jamming out to the oldies station, fuzzy dice and all!...but you'll have to turn your monitor on its side, because of course, Susie still hasn't figured out how to hold her cell phone correctly when taking videos!
Late gaters,
Audra

Chapter Forty; Here's to you, Mrs. Powerball (Susie's Eye Candy Adventure)

“I am going to change my name.”

“Oh yeah, to what?”

“I am thinking Susie Lotto. Susie Powerball.”

In other words Susie’s divorce is taking longer than Chinese water torture.

I was lucky. When my ex and I divorced, we sat down at the kitchen table with a legal pad, drew a line down the middle and hashed everything out in an hour. I took that piece of paper to an attorney and six weeks later, marital demise delivered.

Sweet freedom. And all for the bargain price of $1,500.

Susie is not having that experience. And obviously she is in the midst of settlement discussions so I have been ordered to stay gagged.

Someone get me a cookie. This is quite a feat for endlessly yakking/typing me.

But it doesn’t mean I can’t write about an adventure or two she and I have had, which is exactly what I plan to do right now. Because honestly? I don’t know how I would have survived this past year if it wasn’t for my curly haired savior. I laugh so much around this woman I should consider buying stock in Depends as I have just come to expect, with Susie in the room, I am going to pee my pants.

It’s just true.

My favorite Susie story ever involves a practically pedophile moment at a bowling alley.

Here’s how it went down:

One snowy night last December . . .

Susie had just gotten on the Divorce Land highway and it was apparent this was going to be one long ass road trip. And as her bestest Divorce Land bud, I agreed to ride shot gun but only if she would allow me to be in charge of the activities to help the time pass more enjoyably. At the top of my list was hopping from bar to bar, many martinis, and some harmless ogling.

Our night on the town, with me as her sober tour guide/designated driver, was a blast. I fed that woman so many mind numbing hypno-tinis, she almost forgot the divorce hell that was her life.

I am a good, good friend.

At the end of our successful divorce anesthesia outing I announce, “Oh, I almost forgot! I want to take you to the bowling alley!”

“The bowling alley?!?” she slurs.

“Yes, abso-damn-lutely,” I confirm, and then explain my plotting, “There is this college kid from my gym who is a sweetie, and on top of that he’s adorable. I knew you would appreciate some distraction tonight so when I saw him at the gym today I asked him if he would be out tonight. I told him I have a friend getting divorced who could use some eye candy. I am sure he thinks I am a wacko old woman but he just laughed and told me he’s working at the bowling alley so I vote we stalk him so you can just drool.”

“A kid? You want me to go drool over a kid?”

“Well he’s over twenty one so its totally legal saliva production.” I rationalize.

She mumbles something about a cougar and the fact that I am absolutely a nut but nevertheless agrees to my little adventure.

I drag her high heeled buzzed ass through the snowy parking lot and lead her into the bowling alley.

I see him right away, “There he is!” I run up to gym boy and announce, “Hey Kris! I want you to meet my friend, Susie, I told you about.”

Susie and Kris just stare at each other.

Kris hesitantly asks, “Mrs. Swenson?”

Susie stutters, “Kris Bergstrom?”

I am a little slow on the processing and simply ask, “What? You two know each other?”

Susie is instantly sober, her eyes huge and mortified as she states, “Um. I taught Kris. In fifth grade.”

(Pause here to fall on the floor in hysterics if you will because that’s precisely what I did at that very moment.)

Susie is an elementary school teacher. And she is almost forty. The thought NEVER even crossed my mind in a million years that she is old enough to have former students who are now legal.

I have but one response:

HAHAHAHAHAHA!!

Kris is instantly giddy and clearly thrilled to see his old teacher, “How have you been, Mrs. Swenson? It’s great to see you!”

“Uh, I’m fine, Kris. You?”

“I’m great. Sorry to hear you’re getting divorced. That sucks.”

I love this town and its half degree of separation.

I need to get a diet coke, so I abandon Susie in the land of mortification and slip away chuckling to myself. (Does this place serve popcorn? I could so just sit back and watch the show at this point. This. Is awesome.)

Two minutes later Susie sidles up to me at the bar and begins to shriek in a whisper, “I am going to die! I am absolutely going to die! I TAUGHT HIM! You told him I am the divorcing friend who needs some freaking eye candy? I am going to be sick. Sick! Sick! Sick!”

I think she is hysterical.

I collect myself only long enough only state, “Listen here, Mary Key Laterneau, its fine.”

“Don’t call me that! I am going to barf!”

“Oh, come on! It’s harmless!”

“It is gross! I am grossed out!”

“You are being ridiculous. He’s an adult and he’s cute. So what? I never propositioned him. Although I should have,” I look over my shoulder, “Damn. Do you not see how cute he is?”

“Don’t say that! He is not cute! He can’t be cute! He is Kris Bergstrom! I gave him detention thirteen years ago! Detention!”

Susie is now hoarse from trying to stifle her screaming.

I am so freaking entertained by her horror I can barely reply.

“Quit laughing!” she orders.

“I can’t! I can’t!” I confess between giggles.

Kris is actually heading up some gambling table so I announce I am going to go hang out with the child. Try to get his side of the detention story. She can join me if she wants.

“Don’t . . .wait . . we have to go . . .argh! Don’t go over there!” she begs as I saunter away sipping my diet coke and smirking like a bitch.

Like I am not going to prolong this situation? Absolutely! This is hilarious! I am so dragging this out as long as possible.

Kris is funny and teaches me how to play this gambling game that looks a lot like something on the Price is Right. Susie stays at the bar, talking on her cell phone to God knows who at this hour trying to avoid any further contact with her former student. I think she is only pretending to talk on the phone actually. She is that humiliated.

I text her to get her ass over here.

She finally comes over and I tell Susie all the things about Kris that proves he is smarter than a fifth grader: what his major is, how he’s going overseas soon, what his plans are for the summer. Susie suffers through the conversation, nodding attentively but clearly trying to hide her shame which only perpetuates my personal enjoyment of the scene.

Susie reluctantly agrees to gamble too and actually ends up winning $40 from Kris. I decide this is a great note to end her torturous night on and Susie’s relief is apparent as we head out.

“It was great to see you again, Mrs. Swenson!” Kris yells to us as we depart.

“You too, Kris!” Susie calls back with the biggest fake smile I’ve ever seen.

Two minutes later two cackling women are running back through an icy parking lot giggling like a couple of teenagers.

That night has since become Divorce Land legend, but I had to pinky swear promise to never again inflict my “alleged” cougar ways upon Susie again.

Oh fine. I promise.

Because Susie may very well be all for changing her name these days, but I guess Mrs. Robinson is certainly not going to be one of the options she will consider.

So here to you, Mrs. Powerball.

Chapter Thirty Nine; Guys are like Shoes and other Dating Land Adventures

Annie is finally divorced.

And when she moved out of the two homes she shared with her ex-husband (yes two), it took her all of one day . . . just to move her shoes.

Her shoes.

It is hard to imagine not being happy with $20,000 worth of designer shoes in your closet, isn't it?

Obviously, the sweetest parts of life can not be bought.

The last few weeks I have been dabbling in dating. And I wasn't really trying to. A couple guys landed in my life in very normal nice ways so I thought I'd make another trip to Dating Land. I'd made a pact with myself to stop running away screaming the moment someone showed any interest in me and just be open to what life has to offer.

It has been.

Interesting.

Velly. Velly. Intallesting.

Because all that happened is I have ended up thinking a lot about Annie's shoes.

The deal is the guys as of late have just simply not been a good match for me. They honestly are great souls, but I’ve uncovered lifestyles and circumstances that . . . just don't work with Audra. Some of these experiences have literally been like trying to pair a stiletto with a work boot. Nothing wrong with the stiletto or the boot. They just obviously can not be worn together.

Well, you could. But people might stare.

Here are my stories:

On Wednesday night I went to dinner. With a guy who had actually called me on the phone a few days earlier, and after a fun conversation sweetly confessed, "Ok, the real reason I am calling is to see if you would like to go out this week?"

It had been a long time since someone had actually asked me out so I said sign me up can we have steak? And he said hell yes and I said whoo hoo and next thing I know, its two days later and I am participating in something that sure looks a hell of a lot like a date.

And it was fun.

(And delicious. Here’s to sirloin. Yum-Oh!)

When I got home that night, I decided to go for a walk with a guy I had met the previous week. (Hey, if I am going to date, I am going to date. I figure as long as I can't get a disease from any of the dating activities multiple partners is fine.)

Besides, both these guys are fall on the floor hot. And hell yes I am going to brag about that part because after the year I’ve had I am way so oh entitled to the occasional arrogance attack. But with two interesting and gorgeous options all of the sudden, I felt obligated to myself to take full advantage.

(Not that kind of advantage.)

But honestly? If I am a stiletto then one of these guys is a funky flip flop and the other a beautiful high end tennis shoe.

First, my evening stroll with the flip flop (Hold on, I'll get to dinner with the tennis shoe in a bit. Trust me, this story needs to be told first.)

Let me cut to the chase: Flip flop is a raving maniac.

Literally.

He does the Rave thing.

Anyone seen Dateline? 20/20? Spent some time in Europe? Yes. When I say Rave, I mean Rave. Techno music and lots of Ecstasy.

I have but one thought: This is the Midwest. There are raves here? How many people actually do this out here in rural America? Like 12? And I find one of them? I can’t win the lottery but I can find this guy? And here I thought the worst thing I would stumble across is an alcoholic cowboy. Apparently not....

The conversation where this was revealed was the last conversation he and I ever had.

Yeah.

We were on our walk at the time and I pretty much continued with the walk.

Alone.

Buh.

Bye.

I called Susie from my cell immediately upon arriving at my front step.

"Isn't that where they suck on pacifiers and wave glow sticks around and listen to techno music and do a butt load of drugs for days on end?"

“You’ve seen Dateline, too, I take it?”

“Shitchya.” she confirms her source (geez we are goody goodies), and then kids, "Oh, come on, doesn't that sound like fun??!!?"

"Yeah. If you’re retarded." I quip. I was pissed. Probably at myself for demonstrating such severe misjudgment. This was upsetting.

I had really liked talking to Raving Maniac.

Seriously.

He is my age, I met him at a normal place in a normal way, he is in the same profession as my former DLTC which is a very normal thing to do with your life. He seemed perfectly normal! Seemed being the operative word. And normal obviously being a subjective state. (I am sure he thinks he's normal and I'm the weird one. Yeah well, none of my hobbies can get me arrested. That’s all I am going to say about that one.)

On to my steak date with the high end tennis shoe:

Alright. This guy is beautiful. There is not another word for him. Not hot. Not cute. Not attractive. Just plain beautiful. Abercrombie beautiful. As in, "I almost want to just do nothing but stare at him all night long across the table and forget about the sirloin" beautiful. Which is saying a lot. I really REALLY like steak.

But he is too young. And I am extremely hesitant about that whole cougar deal.

The last time I exhibited feline-like behavior it really did not go well. I am a confident and professional woman. When I tried dating someone so much younger it was not at all like dating. It was more like a hostage situation. And I don’t mean fun things like blind folds and hand cuffs. I mean I was the one calling all the shots. I was forever saying, "Let's go here!" or, "Let's do this!" And even though I am super ego maniac of the universe, I am still a fan of the guy doing the chasing. That whole thing was just wrong.

I like to think of that experience as the step-sister scene from Cinderella. That shoe did not fit at all and trying to make it work just hurt too damn much.

Tennis Shoe guy was aware of my prior cougar prey debacle and that I am now subsequently jaded beyond jaded on May/December situations.

So, what did this beautiful boy do? He came to dinner prepared. He brought a fortune cookie fortune he’d gotten earlier that day that said, “Take a chance.”

He slid it across the table at me and winked.

I smiled.

Oooh.

He’s good.

I have to confess: our evening was super fun. He was hilarious and I had a great time. But it was dinner and he’s still too young. He’s kind of a tenacious guy though, so we’ll just have to see. Because I have a feeling he might be pretty good at chasing. But for now, I’m putting him under the incompatible heading simply because of the age difference.

Oh get off my back! I am just trying to be realistic. Odds are he isn’t a match for me either.

Hmmm, but maybe just one more date . . .

(What? Don't you like my stiletto/tennis shoe look? Bite me. I'm a trend setter, ya never know . . .)

Stay tuned on that one.

So, it's only been a couple weeks that I've let myself be open to dating again. And truthfully? The guys I have found so far are honestly good souls. Even Raver Dude. He was fascinating and smart and funny and sweet. Sigh. But I have my bare minimum criteria which includes "no regular illegal drug use" so there isn't anything I can do about that one. And Ashton the second is awesome. But he can’t change when he was born so that’s just a fact.

And so.

So far . . . so weird.

Well, I'm going to try to remain positive. It's not like I'm running into jerks. I'm just running into people who are just not the shoe I am looking for.

Looks like I am just going to have to limp around here a while longer.

An in the meantime all I can do is just hope that at the rate I'm going I don’t end up giving Annie's shoe collection a run for its money.

A Sappy Letter to my Adoring Fans (Okay, maybe not adoring but the fact that I have HAVE fans is way cool!)

I received a note from a friend about my blog. She loves it, she is addicted. She is always laughing at my antics and can’t get enough of Divorce Land.

I smiled when I read her words.

And according to the counter on my profile, roughly 500 people have checked this site out so far. Several people have emailed me and many of their sentiments echo hers.

It’s almost a little overwhelming at times.

One guy wrote to me, identifying himself as my number one fan when he did, and said, “I love your attitude. Shit happens. Life goes on.”

He has apparently had some trials and tribulations of his own, not divorce specifically but just life in general. He shared that my perspective has helped him view his own life more positively. I’ve helped him look for the humor in his own life. Every day.

Honestly? That’s a pretty profound thing to hear from a complete stranger.

And because of this feedback on my blog, and several other emails just like these, I feel compelled to digress briefly from my essays to simply acknowledge all of the wonderful people who have taken time out to simply let me know that I have made them laugh.

From my daughter’s high school friends, to a group of college boys, to my mom’s co-workers, to people who just stumbled across Divorce Land from a Google search. The demographics run the gamut in regard to who I’ve heard from. Who my words have touched.

I know I say I’m an ego maniac but I’m really just a woman with a lap top who never runs out of things to say. (And that is not just my writing. You should listen to me, I could yak forever when you get me going. I never shut up.)

The glimpse into my life I have provided in this blog may appear to be endlessly funny, or insightful, but I can assure you, there are certainly many many days where I just go to bed, turn off the light and think, “Boy, this day sucked.” For whatever reason. Sometimes its for something significant. Sometimes it might just be because I have a bad case of diarrhea. (Hey, like my number one fan said. Shit happens.)

But I’m just like everyone else. I laugh. I cry. I bounce back. I yell. I get a grip. I pity myself. I acknowledge my faults. I blame others. But that’s just part of being a person. We all get to try on every emotional response to life from time to time. Oh joy. Fun times, huh?

The only thing I think I do differently from most people, is just that I write about it. And when I do write, I try to pick something funny. Or if the topic isn’t funny, I try to find a positive slant. Something that I learned through the experience. Or some shred of hope I uncovered in the process.

I don’t always succeed in living that out. But I think that’s all we can do as human beings.

Is just try.

Because after thirty five years the only thing I know for sure is that some days go well. Others just don’t.

But it’s important for us to have those bad ones. Just so when the good ones come, we can realize just how very good they are.

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

Thank you everyone for reading! I’m working on Monday’s essay and it should be a good one. I decided to try this dating thing again. And Sweet Mother of France! (As Sonja would say/text) . . . has it been an adventure . . .

See you Monday!

~Audra

Chapter Thirty Eight; The Great Grass Mystery and other Manly Secrets Revealed

Anyone out there looking for a husband?

If so, I have a great candidate:

Me.

Alright. Not really. Like I want to get married again? No way.

Okay, okay. Seriously. I do have a point. And an announcement:

I have decoded the mysteries of the male universe. And guess what:

NOT THAT DIFFICULT!

Closely guarded secrets of the husbandly nature are no longer locked in a vault of marital silence. Not that I really wanted to ever know where the grass clippings went, how to fix the garbage disposal, or get the central air fired up on the first hot day of the year, but hey, I am living in a testosterone free land here so I kinda had no choice.

I like to call my first adventure of my spouseless existence:

“The Discovery of the Great Grass Graveyard” (not that kind of grass . . .)

Here’s the deal:

My ex always mowed the lawn. And when he did, the leftovers mysteriously disappeared. Like magic. And I never asked where they went. It was like an unwritten rule. An unspoken understanding. Because all I knew is the husband had something to do with their disappearance. (And honestly? Like I gave a crap? I was just happy they were gone.)

Fast forward to now. Spring is here. I am divorced. I need to mow.

Check.

Crap.

Um. Help?

One quick clueless woman on the street survey of my neighbors later I learn there is this amazing place just a few blocks away devoted entirely to yard waste disposal. Really? What? You mean he didn’t zap them with his super secret man gun?

Wow. I am so shocked.

So, on my way to work on Monday I deposit the remnants of my weekend’s hard work in my trunk. And drive my little sports car over to the hush-hush dumping ground. I find it right away. And it is quickly apparent that I am obviously in a man’s world.

Because everything is clearly labeled in large black block letters.

I also know I’ve penetrated a sacred manly ritual because I am the only woman at this place.

I march my designer jeans up the ramp and promptly deposit the clippings under a large sign that basically grunts at me, “CLIPPINGS HERE” while all the men in the vicinity simply stop. And stare. And I don’t think they were checking out my ass. I think they were shocked to see that the gig was up. Estrogen was in the building. And she had discovered their covert operation.

I felt like maybe I should make some kind of proclamation? One that would accompany my sticking a flag in the receptacle claiming this new world for the Queen of Divorce Land and her loyal mowing female subjects?

Nah. I’ll just let the natives sweat it out. Let them lay awake at night wondering if this means they can expect more female colonists to invade their territory in the years to come and leave it that.

The rest of my adventures in man land include: finding an alternate use for a broom handle to unstick a stuck garbage disposal (worked like a charm). I also discovered that this box full of switches in my basement has a use. Its full of little deally bobs called “breaker switches.” And they are important little buggers. One in particular needed to be flipped in order to start my central air unit now that summer is here.

Phew!

I’m exhausted.

Someone wipe the sweat off my brow. This being a man is really intense.

Ah. Hem. Yes. Insert sarcasm.

Because like I am not noticing the blatant fact that these tasks are NOTHING compared to bearing children, cooking four course meals, coordinating the schedules of the entire family, paying the bills (creatively, during the lean years) and sewing every damn curtain in this four story well decorated joint?

What a crock!

And so, my female friends. If you do happen to be married, I have news. There is no man gun and their super secret world is well labeled and not that hard to locate. (It’s by the water treatment plant if any woman out there really wants to know.) And as for any garbage disposal or heating/cooling unit issues you may have, give me a call. I’ll come over, teach you to do amazing things with a broom handle and try not to break my pinky finger while flipping a little switch in your basement.

(Reread that last sentence . . . HAHAHAHAHA! Man, does that read like a metaphor that could be taken totally out of context or what? I am best at sexual innuendos when they just accidentally fall out of my face. This weekend I had guy over and I told him, "You have GOT to put your face in my bush."................I meant my lilac bush. Its in full bloom. He momentarily looked really exicted until I pointed at the flowers. ;-) And don't ask why I had a guy over. I'll blog about that one later....)

Maybe . . .

Back to my manly abilities:

Please note, if you do need my assistance in the honey do list department, I will need to lie down afterward on your couch for a few hours. And if its not any trouble, I’d like to watch South Park and drink a beer during my recovery from all that . . . cough . . . “work.”

But unfortunately, even though I really do have this man thing down, don’t even think about proposing.

Because right now the only woman I am planning to take care of . . .

Is me.

Chapter Thirty Seven; The Adventure of the Innocent Bystanders

I am just going to skip to the good part. Which involves a lot of blood and the hottest man alive.

This weekend’s episode of the Adventures of Sonja and Audra lands us in the emergency room with a six foot four 235 pound Greek god.

And how exactly do I know his stats? I told you. We were in the emergency room. He had to slur them to the admissions nurse. And when he did, Sonja and I just stood behind him and tried not to drool even more. (Who am I kidding? It would have been impossible to produce more saliva than we already had. At this point, a bib would have been a completely practical and useful item for both of us.)

And now, flashing back to the vital beginning that sets this whole crazy story up:

The god in the ER is a stranger who Sonja and I just happened to be in the presence of when, after he apparently ingested far too much alcohol, (for shame, I am appalled. Who does that?!?!? Cough. Cough. And . . . Cough!), promptly staggered so profoundly he collapsed onto the concrete and cracked his head open right before our lusting eyes.

The god was mortal after all. Because he was bleeding. A lot. From beneath one beautiful head of jet black hair.

This. Was not good.

Not good at all.

(The blood part. The hair, was amazing.)

Thankfully, the entire scene happened right next to Sonja’s Lexus. None of Greek god’s friends were in any capacity to drive, so we “nobly” volunteered. (Is there anything REALLY noble about saying, “Put that cutest boy in the whole entire universe into our car so we can molest…I mean abduct….I mean rescue him!”? Well, we like to think so.)

Five minutes later, Sonja’s $300 mini dress (that I had borrowed for the night) is full of blood and we are wheeling bleeding boy’s hot ass into the emergency room.

Kidding aside, we were truly concerned. (I mean, who would want anything to happen to this epitome of sheer perfection? What we should have done is wheeled him in screaming, “Code Red! Code Red!” when I think about it.)

The nurse is slightly concerned about a concussion but she doesn’t think the cut will even require stitches. She thanks us for bringing this stranger into the ER. Sonja and I humbly accept her Good Samaritan label as she asks us if we will sit with him in the waiting room.

Let’s see. Hmmm. Should we stay?

Uh, duh. The nurse is obviously a lesbian. Who wouldn’t give both breasts to sit next to this guy?

Two chicks named Audra and Sonja. That’s who.

So here we are. In the ER waiting room. Me. Sonja. And the bleeding hottie. Who is repeatedly slurring, “You’re so pretty, you're so pretty, you're so pretty” in my direction.

I decide to hold his hand.

It was the least I could do.

Sonja leans over and gently touches his bicep.

“What the hell are you doing?” I ask.

“He’s just so perfect! I just had to touch him,” Sonja nonchalantly confesses.

“Oh good god.”

“Oh good god nothing, you’re holding his freaking hand!”

I tell Sonja to bite me and then shift the conversation back to a responsible adult dimension, “Should we see if there is someone in his phone we can call? His friends? To let them know he is okay?”

“Alright,” Sonja agrees. “But where is his phone?”

“I think it’s in his front pocket.”

Sonja looks like she’d just won an all expense paid trip to babe land as she retrieves his phone from his pants, trying not to pant.

“Would you stop date raping the patient,” I chastise, “and just read off the names. Let’s just pick one.”

“Okay. Good idea.” She agrees, and then begins to recite the alphabetical listings from Greek god’s phone, “Aimee, Allison, Amber, Amanda, Ashlee.” She stops, looks up, and just shakes her head.

I smirk, “Nice. Skip to the B’s.”

Sonja looks back at the phone and her mouth drops open as she collapses into silent hysterics.

“What?”

She can barely speak, she is curled up in the waiting room chair hanging onto her stomach and clutching hot boy’s digital babe list. She finally collects herself and announces between giggles, “Big Pimpin’ Sam. The next name. Is Big Pimpin’ Sam.”

I die. Right there. I just die.

Only us.

Only us.

I finally quit (quietly) laughing (this is an ER waiting room, people are somewhere between a 5 and an 8 on the pain scale around us) and ask Sonja to hand me the phone. As she does it rings.

“Who is it?” Sonja asks.

I take a look at the screen and dead pan, “You have to ask?”

Sonja is once again soundlessly writhing in her seat.

I answer and explain to Sam, aka Big Pimp, that his friend is at the ER but that he is going to be okay. We are just waiting for him to be admitted. I instruct Sam (and his bitches, just in case he really is a pimp) that they will just have to figure out how to retrieve hot bleeding boy later. Sonja and I, as much as we love this delicious example of the male anatomy, can not stay here all night long.

Sam actually doesn’t sound remotely pimpish. He sounds frantic, grateful and relieved.

Hottest/Cutest/Best Looking damn man we’ve ever seen in our lives soon passes out in his wheelchair. My fingers have long lost their feeling but I really don’t mind.

This is the most action I’ve had since February.

Sonja goes to the nurses’ station to announce his comatose status, as we have been instructed to do if he loses consciousness.

An orderly returns and asks, “You two were the innocent bystanders who brought him in?”

“Yep, that would be us. Totally innocent.” Sonja confirms.

“And absolutely only bystanding.” I add.

“Well thank you so much for doing that. I will take him back now. You’re free to go.”

Me and my blue fingers blow kisses to the dark haired blued eyed loveliest thing I’ve ever seen as Sonja pulls me and my bloody dress out of the ER.

“Wow.” she comments as she starts her car, “I feel bad he was hurt. But he was SO HOT! Do you think we’ll ever see him again?”

I just smirk, “Who knows. But the next time he calls Ariel or Aurora, he might just wonder who this “Audra the Nurse” is in his contact list.”

“You didn’t.”

“Oh, I did. I so. Absolutely did.”