Chapter Sixty Eight; ROTFLMAO

“I have the alcoholism under control but keep me away from that blackjack table!”

Is it just me or lately does everyone I know have their smart ass hat on? I think so and I have been giggling for days because of it. So here’s a little essay dedicated to the people around me who just, well, took my funny bone and tickled the hell out of it this week.

The quote I opened with belongs in a story about a friend of a friend, a honey of a cutie pie, just a sweetheart: Betsy. So little blonde Betsy, sweet little Betsy, decides to try out speed dating.

(I know. In Fargo? Who did she think was going to show up? George Clooney’s long lost twin? Oh, Betsy, Betsy, Betsy . . . )

Shockarama. When she arrived and got a glimpse of the line up, she tried to leave (well, run out the door screaming is probably more appropriate) but the event organizer wouldn’t let her go (escape.) So instead, what did Betsy do? Well, considering she only had five minutes with each “date” and she really did not want to have to deal with any potential interest from this crusty crop, she decided to make up her own rules in order to accelerate through this experience as fast as possible. (It is called “speed” dating after all. . . )

And yes. Her giving the impression she possessed both chemical and behavioral addictions was part of her strategy.

True story.

She really said that.

She did! I am not making this up. You don’t believe me? Hello. Hence the adjective “true” before the noun “story” in the prior sentence fragment.

In addition, she also found herself deadpanning, “Oh and I have a teenager. And there is that drug dabbling thing, but, well, kids will be kids.”

Let’s just say Betsy got out of the speed dating night in record time.

And yes, when I heard this story I almost peed my pants I laughed so hard.

The second story that had me rolling around in hysterics was when one of the Divorce Land girls nonchalantly shared her reasons for being anti “toy.” (If you know what I mean . . . )

“I just don’t think it’s a good idea. I mean really, Pavlov’s dog. Hello? There’s a lot going on down there with some of those things. Bells and whistles and buttons and shit I am not sure is even legal. Is it really a good idea to condition myself to need that?”

I am nodding in agreement, seems logical, when she adds, “I mean really, I never want to be in the situation where I have to look a guy in the eye and say can you possibly make your wang just spin around?”

She lifts her eyebrows expectantly and looks at me for affirmation in what is the briefest pause ever because in one nanosecond I am laughing so hard I do think a little pee came out that time.

(Oh stop gagging, everyone pees. If you don’t that’s called kidney failure and that is not a good thing.)

Oh, speaking of pee, the final thing that just made me chuckle this week was when I informed my friend, Kris, that I had to find my dog a new loving home because after three years of him using my formal living room as his own private sewage treatment plant it was time for him to go piddle in someone else's house.

“You mean you gave away honey muffin marshmallow pants? How could you?”

“Ha!” I snort, “Okay, first of all, he went to a great family and secondly, that is not even his name you doorknob. His name is Teddy,” I correct him, “middle name Marshmallow, but that’s only because a three year old had a part in the naming when he was a puppy.”

Men and their memories, I tell ya.

Honey muffin?

Had to share.

So that was my week.

I learned to never try speed dating unless I am prepared to leave a handful of men with the impression that my teenager and I plan to spend some serious time at the Betty Ford Center, that “toys” should only be used sparingly unless you want to spend the rest of your life feeling unsatisfied by the real deal, and that if I ever get a dog again I am so letting Kris name it.

I can see it now . . .

“Come here Honey Muffin Marshmallow Pants! Good boy! Good dog. Oh wait, that's a bone alright but not yours. Where did you get that? Put that back in Mommy’s nightstand! If my speed dating session tomorrow night doesn’t pan out I am going to need a little spinning excitement later. . .”

Chapter Sixty Seven; Scooperama Time

Boy you people are nosy.

What happened to Julia? Is Susie still smiling? Has Sonja had any more dates with guys sporting wild game on their shirts? And what about Annie? Did she ever move all those shoes?

I can no longer ignore the questions popping up in my inbox begging for the Divorce Land dish, demanding to know what happened to the four girls who inspired me to start documenting our little unhitched adventures. (If you’re a new reader and are thinking, “Huh? Wha? Who?” click on the label “Four Girls One Story” to the right if you want to be like Paul Harvey and know “the rest of the story.”)

So here it is. The scope. The saga.

The Divorce Land updates.

I’ll start with Susie first, because of course, that woman could have her house burn down, her car stolen, lose her leg in a freak accident (wait, make that both legs, and possible a pinky finger) and still find the blinding bright side. In other words, yes, she is still smiling.

Susie is a rock. In a good way. What she endured last spring when her husband left is something that would harden many people's soul to stone. Not Susie's. She resisted the temptation to go numb and instead forged into the unknown with her faith, her family, and a resolve that proves she must be a descendant of Joan of Arc. Her emotinoal and spirtual strength rivals granite while her soul remains open to life's lessons and potential.

All last fall and through the winter she would call me every night and read to me from one of the 10,000 Christian devotionals she was devouring, “Oh, you have to hear this one. It’s perfect, get this . . .” and if for some reason I wasn’t available to take her call, you can bet I had a 5 minute voicemail of her inspired voice reciting scripture and expounding on the hope that tomorrow will bring.

I know, trust me, her endless pit of positive made me want to gag sometimes, but I couldn’t help but stand in awe.

On top of that, she also professed a sincere resolve to stay single while the rest of us jumped headfirst into our newly independent freedom. While the rest of us cooked Valentine’s Day dinners for our dates (with recipes Susie offered), took guys to hockey games (with tickets Susie was happy to share), smiley sunny single Suze insisted she would not date again until her children graduated from college.

She wanted time alone. She needed time heal.

Ah hem.

Whatever.

Leave it to Susie to find unexpected love at an unexpected place.

My fridge.

Yes, you read that correctly. An appliance. MY appliance.

I shitchya not.

Okay, here’s the story:

I threw a party last January.

Invited everyone I knew, including my friend, Brian, a guy I’d known since college. He went through a divorce last year as well (Side note: I know, is the big “D” contagious? It seems to be going around. Oh, and side note to the side note, no I never considered dating Brian. That guy is like my brother.)

Well idiot me never even thought about setting him up with Susie until they were both standing in my house snacking on pot luck. I walked in the room, took one look and instantly had a Facts of Life/Blair/Lightbulb moment and blurted, “Oh, have you two met? Brian meet Susie. Susie meet Brian. Brian, Susie goes to church. You two need to talk.”

And I promptly walked away.

Being cupid is certainly not difficult because its nine months later and those two are hotter than a couple of hormone infused teenagers.

I know. Thanks a lot universe. So not fair. I am at my refrigerator every day and the most exciting thing I'ver ever found is a forgotten cup of my favorite yogurt that had yet to expire, never once have I stumbled upon a hot single guy mulling nearby. (Maybe I should start reading more devotionals . . . )

I admit, at first I was a little weirded out when they started dating because I knew them both so well. Oh alright, a LOT weirded out. Brian is like my brother. Susie is like my sister. And, duh, yuck. The whole thing felt slightly incestuous. But I soon got used to it. I just made them both agree to never make me suffer through any details of the horizontal hustling nature unless they want to see me lose my lunch. For the most part, they have complied. If they haven’t, I just start gagging and run out of the room.

They usually get the hint.

So that’s Susie. She’s still woman-ing her proverbial lemonade stand offering everyone sips of the sweetness she squeezed out of the lemons life handed her.

And what about Sonja? Any more doctors with ducks on their shirts hanging around?

I am happy to report that Dr. Duck is history. And in his place is a guy that could not be more wonderful. Sonja and Nick were set up this summer by mutual friends but you would think they’ve been together since they were twelve. I’ve never seen two more compatible people. (And he’s only 26, while Sonja is 28, so of course I have to tease her about this cougar thing.)

Nick is in sales so he’s a charmer. I try to make sure I see that kid at least once a week just so I can hear him greet me with, “Audra, babe! You look amazing/fantastic/hot/gorgeous!” (Insert whatever adjective Nick is in the mood to use.) Forget, Sonja. I like having Nick around simply because he makes ME feel good, let’s be honest.

On top of that, it’s just great seeing Sonja so happy. This summer she learned more details about why her husband left her, and let’s just say that Sonja did not deserve that. It was heartbreaking. Therefore, I honestly can feel my heart smiling when I see those two together.

Of course they haven’t been dating all that long, but I have a good feeling about it. I sense a happily ever after there that I will feel lucky to simply watch unfold.

As for Annie, yes, she moved her shoes. She moved her life. And she continues to bloom where she has transplanted herself. She left behind a world that few of us will ever know, one of private jets, second homes and designer clothes. And when pressed about if she really misses any of those things her reply is so genuine you don’t doubt her sincerity for a second. “Are you kidding me?” she will challenge, “You know what all those things represent to me? They represent lonely. When I had those things I was lonely. And yes, I had a lot of things, but I had no love. That was a life full of things and empty of everything that truly matters.”

Annie moved out of her historic mansion and into a humble little character home. If she flies these days it is commercial. And she has had to learn a new word called, “budget.”

So yes, her house is smaller. But her grin is bigger.

And finally, Julia. What happened to Julia?

Julia is living an authentic existence. She left behind a lie of a life and is trying on truth. And you know what? She looks absolutely fabulous in it.

The woman whose smile used to be a projected façade constructed to promote the perception of perfection now laughs a laugh that, well, honestly? The cops were called once this summer because she was sitting in her backyard with friends one night laughing so damn loud that the neighbors turned her in.

For laughing.

Loudly.

I’d say Julia is doing pretty well if that’s the case, wouldn’t you?

So that’s the scooparama. That’s the update. La da da life goes on.

Divorced or not, what we can all relate to is that every day offers a new challenge or a new blessing. And oftentimes it’s simply your perception that determines which category it is assigned.

And oh yeah, I forgot to update you on one of the girls.

Me.

How am I doing?

Well, considering I have been blessed this year with the greatest gift life has to offer, real and true friends, I’d say I am probably one of the luckiest women I know.

Thank you, universe.

I guess you came through after all.

(Oooh, is that a raspberry yogurt hidden behind the salsa in the back of my fridge? Num . . .)

Chapter Sixty Six; Dearly beloved. We're gathered here today to get through this thing called Life . . .

I met a friend for lunch the other day and the conversation veered toward our personal lives. Are you dating anyone? Nah, not right now. So, how’s your girlfriend? Oh she’s doing well, has a new job. Awesome! Tell me more about that.

The small talk soon opened a door to something a little deeper and before long I was listening intently to his honesty and sharing my insight and perspective when invited. Mid-conversation he stopped abruptly, shook his head and said, “I can’t believe I am subjecting you to my personal life, so sorry.”

Subjecting?

I tossed aside his analogy and simply stated, “Are you kidding me? Your personal life is your life. What other life is there?”

He paused to contemplate my assessment, smiled back across the table and said, “Yeah, Audra. Yeah. You’re exactly right,” and then offered affirmation by repeating my words, “what other life is there?”

Obviously, this blog is about relationships. Mainly mine. Friendships, my children, my parents, my ex-husband, or any guys (poor souls) who end up on my dating radar (with a high dose of discretion on my part, always). It doesn’t mean I don’t watch the nightly news, I don’t have a job, or that I haven’t noticed that the country’s economy appears to be on the brink of collapsing (Damn, should have kept that cardboard box my refrigerator came in should I lose my house some day). My point is that, yes, I do live in the same world you do. Those things are just as much a part of my reality as anyone else’s, but I’ll let the talking heads spend their time expounding on those elements of life.

I am going to blog about the more important parts of humanity.

The estrogen infused sap that I am would rather seek out the universality of the human experience (fancy way of saying that is what authors, poets, and song writers do) and write about the things that tie this fragmented cloth of humanity together: happiness, heartbreak, love, and loss.

And, well, if I can do that and eek a chuckle out of someone in the process, then high fives all around. I love doing that. I love just writing about life.

All that being said, an anonymous comment appeared on my blog the other day requesting updates on the Divorce Land girls, the women who inspired me to start this blogarama in the first place, the four girls behind the email address attached to Divorce Land: fourgirlsonestory@gmail.com.

Those four girls are: Susie, Julia, Annie, and Sonja. (Five girls if you count me.) We’re all friends, and we all went through a divorce this past year. We honestly were only loosely connected prior to our divorces, but through the process of pain bonding and the circumstance that is serendipity, we found each other, and what a gift it was.

The anonymous poster is right, I haven’t done an update on the DL girls in a while. Mainly out of respect for my friends (although every time they’ve been blog fodder they have loved it, we’re all suckers for our 15 minutes of fame) but also because Divorce Land is coming to a natural end. It’s been quite a year, and our journeys through divorce significant, but not defining. Our futures will not be monuments to our past, but instead hold promising discoveries waiting to be unearthed as we all navigate our second chances, our Act Two.

I promised myself I would continue this blog until December 14th. The one year anniversary of the day my own divorce was final. At that time, I will close this chapter in my life for good, and ending Divorce Land will be a symbolic gesture toward that endeavor.

But until that date, I promise to continue to bring my DL readers along for the ride, give regular updates of the DL girls (look for that update in my next essay!), and continue to allow the world a glimpse into my own journey post-divorce.

In other words, I have a few more months left to devote to blogging about my personal life.

Because after all.

What other life is there?

***********************
If you were born in the 80's you might not get the Prince Reference in the title . . . I highly suggest you listen to the best Prince song ever immediately, "Let's Go Crazy," or risk dying truly unenlightened.

We interrupt our regularly scheduled program . . .

. . . to bring you my favorite band of the moment, Coldplay, performing Violet Hill, or more acurately what I like to call my "Theme Song to Depression." Seriously, it's a good tune. (I had the flu this weekend, so that's my "no essay" excuse. I am working on one for tomorrow so check back!)


Coldplay Violet Hill

Check it out on You Tube

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IakDItZ7f7Q

Some Lyrics . . .


Was a long and dark December
From the rooftops I remember
There was snow
White snow

Clearly I remember
From the windows they were watching
While we froze down below

When the future's architectured
By a carnival of idiots on show
You'd better lie low . . .


(Anyone have a nagging memory from last winter? Yeah . . . me too. Several, actually. This song fits.)

Chapter Sixty Five; R.I.P. Match.com

Well, that was fun.

After blogging last week about my resolve to jump back into dating land and even give this online thing a concerted effort I am forced to report . . .

Icksnay on the atchdotcommay.

If you live in my area and heard a scream pierce the night from the historic district, yeah, that was me.

Why? Oh . . . you really want to know the details?

(Pause for dramatic effect).

Okay fine. As usual, let my misery entertain you.

Let me put it this way: I think calling this site “Match.com” is majorly misleading. Possibly the epitome of false advertising. I think they would do better to come up with something more accurate like:

BoulevardofBrokenDreams.com

IStillLiveWithMyParents.com

HaveEnoughBaggagefor2People.com

Or, my personal favorite:

MyBadIThoughtThiswasaSexSiteCanUSendmeNakedPhotos.com

Yeah.

Oooh. So fun. I just love being 36 and single.

Welcome to my hell.

If you are living the kind of life where online dating is not something you have done or are pretty certain you never will do (i.e. you are either happily married or a third world sheepherder with no internet access) let me take you on a crash course of the world that is digital dating:

Step One: Fill out a profile.

This basically involves completing a form with the basics: gender, status (divorced, never married), if you do or do not have children, where you live . . . etc. You are also asked to pick from a host of “traits” that you find desirable in a mate. Call me crazy but I put down things like tall, dark and handsome. (I have NOT been single long enough to put down short, fat, and hideous, cut me some idealistic slack.) I tried to find the section where I could select things like “heir to a retail fortune” or “5,000 square foot lake home” but those weren’t any of the options provided.

Damn.

Step Two: Post Pictures

I am proud of myself in regard to this aspect. I was honest. I put ten recent pictures of my mug out there and yeah, none of them were taken of me on day five of the flu, but I still think they were absolutely representative of Audra the real deal.

I did all that, hit “activate” and hence began two weeks of utter weirdness.

I started off cruising for dudes by clicking through a database of men in my preferred age range (I chose 29 to 39. Kind of narrow but I can hardly handle that I am in shouting distance of 40 myself, so to imagine myself saying, “This is my boyfriend and he is 40-something” was just too much for me. Shudder.)

So there I was. Clicking through pictures and squinting at my screen.

Two minutes in I am pondering how I have never before noticed that all the men in this part of the country are 40 pounds overweight, never take a picture without a baseball hat on their (balding?) melon, and that the online scene obviously appeals most strongly to the goatee-sporting sect. So much for the testosterone buffet I had been anticipating. Instead it looked like a sampling of guys from the beer garden at a stock car race.

In the rare instance I happened upon someone who met my bare minimum/totally shallow criteria (What? I’m the only woman out there who wants to date an Abercrombie model?) I would check out his profile only to discover that rarely did any of those men write more than four sentences. (I, of course, had written a bio that could be entered into a short story contest it was so damn long.)

Hence began an interesting two weeks.

The bulk of the correspondence I received amounted to digital grunting along the lines of, “Me Tarzan. You Jane.”

Hmm. The only thing truly getting hit on a lot was my delete button.

And, sad but true, most of the guys who did send thoughtful notes I just could not see myself ever cultivating anything deeper than a friendship with. And guess what? This made me feel bad. Yes it did. I felt so shallow, and feeling shallow is not fun. It was like I had stripped off the outer layer of a dimension of life I really did not want to see.

People were vulnerable. People were lonely. And I knew I wasn’t the one who could help them.

It was depressing. And overwhelming

You try getting twenty emails a day from forlorn desperate single men and see how it makes you feel?

Exactly.

The entire experience was one of the most unfun things I have ever done.

At the end of just a few weeks, after sifting through a mountain of meaningless web winks and slimy (or sad) emails I uncovered about four guys who seemed relatively intriguing. Even though I’d never even met them the impression they’d left was one of intelligence as well as emotional and physical health. Oh and okay, they didn’t appear to be short, bald and hideous either (guilty as charged.)

I tucked their personal email addresses under one arm and sprinted out of this virtual labyrinth of baggage and broken dreams.

In other words I deactivated my profile.

So at this point who knows where I am going or what I am doing. In short order I may determine that the online version of these guys was not a realistic sampling of reality and quickly toss the entire online blind dating deal aside.

And then? Well, I am back at single square one.

Oh well.

At least my neighbors won't have to worry about any more late night screaming resonating from next door.

Divorce Land Fans: Code Red!

Alright, first of all the dog ate my homework if you are wondering where the smack my essay is today. It's coming, it's coming.

Truth be told I am almost done with it, I'll post it tonight, which is still technically "still Thursday" so I don't want to hear any whining. (And the reason it is late is because the captain of my dating ship called last night and that guy talks more than I do! Can you believe it? I know! His emails are even longer than mine (YES, shocking!). His life is endlessly fascinating though, I couldn't hang up. The man has met many celebrities through his job in advertising. Like I was going to stop to blog when I could hear a story involving Regis Philbin, Mary Lou Retton, Eric Estrada, a pizza and a Cuban cigar? Exactly.

The captain lives on another planet entirely called "Chi-ca-go." Have you heard of this magical place? Yes, apparently there so many fish in that dating pool you don't even need a hook. Just scoop your hand in and several dates for Saturday night fall into your palm. (One house for sale in Fargo, geez.)

So I was almost done with my essay and then I got side tracked by his yakking. I figured my dating yoda deserves my full attention if I am going to get serious about this.

All THAT being said . . . as long as I am not really writing in the blog today (this does not count, this is just me rambling)I honestly have an urgent need I could use your help with.

I have a friend. We'll call him . . . Elmer. Well, Elmer is considering proposing to his girlfriend that he's been dating for oh, just a century. But he is very, very, VERY unsure. He rationalizes that, "Does anyone ever really know for sure? Who knows if this is the right thing to do or not but she's a great person and I am lucky."

Hello?

McFly?

You may be lucky if she is so great but doesn't sound like she is winning the marriage lottery MR. WAFFLE.

Someday if I ever get married again I hope my boyfriend isn't Mr. Wishy Washy ambiguity. I think this is awful! When you propose shouldn't it be because you can't imagine the rest of your life without this person? Because the alternative is unimaginable? Because you are best friends? The person who you want to share all of life's journeys with? With whom you want to belt out the Dolly Parton and Kenny Roger's duet "Islands in the Stream" every karaoke chance you get?

Should you really have ANY doubt?

I polled my most happily married friends and they all said, "Never a doubt in my mind that he/she was the one."

Soooooooooooooooo . . . for Elmer's sake. For Elmer's girlfriend's sake, Divorce Land readers, can you please weigh in? If you are happily married, did you have any doubts ever? If you are unhappily married, could you have predicted this? If you are divorced, like me, do you see this as a red flag? And if you are idealistic and single, what do you project your feelings will be pre-engagement?

You can post an anonymous comment right below here...see that? See where it says, "Comment"? Just click that little deal and jot a few thoughts down. I moderate my comments so it won't show up immediately but I'll post them as soon as I can. Or, if you would like, go ahead and email me your thoughts to:

fourgirlsonestory@gmail.com

Your identity will be kept confidential and as always, I am the queen of discretion. Weigh in with your thoughts, I'll compile them and ambush Elmer. The guy needs help!

Divorce Land to the rescue! After all, this is one club, that does NOT want more members.

Chapter Sixty Four; Convents and Fussy Fests

I am so going to end up a nun.

Get this. Apparently, when it comes to the dating scene. I suck. I like really really suck. Here is the deal: I am picky. As in “if my dates were food I would rather starve thank you very much” picky.

Who knew but I am apparently the bloodhound for flaws on an almost legendary level?

Oh, so you like that kind of music, huh?

Next.

No, I am not a registered Democrat.

Next.

And if the guy doesn’t have anything truly earth shattering wrong with him, I will just make something up.

Oh, you were born on a Tuesday? I hate Tuesdays.

Next.

I am the Jerry Seinfeld of unattainable standards. The epitome of particular. The queen of my own little fussy fest.

We all know I literally did no dating this summer. I holed up in my house wrapped in an afghan and went through self help books like Kleenex at the height of cold season.

And if I did happen to venture out, my “Hit on me and I kill you,” vibe was impossible to miss.

But after a summer of solitude I figured okay, I am ready. I can date.

After all, it has been over a year since my husband moved out, nine months since the divorce was delivered, and a reasonable amount of time has passed since my one detour into Dating Land ended with my bawling for like, oh, two months straight.

“I can do this.” I told myself, “I can so do this.”

So I dove in. I did the obvious: signed up for Match.com (at my age this is just standard operation) plus I let everyone and their cousin know that yes, I will finally meet their single and sexy neighbor/brother/co-worker. And on top of those bulletins, I vowed to myself that if and when a member of the opposite sex actually says, gasp, hi to me I will not glare but instead smile and actually say hi back. Maybe even . . . hold on, it’s a big one: share my first name.

I know. I am really serious about this.

Bring it on. Dating Land, here I come.

And I know, it hasn’t been all that long since my single ship has headed out to sea. Maybe, a month or so? But it’s been long enough for me to start thinking that yes there may be a lot of fish out here but none of them are really looking all too tasty so far.

So I brought the ship back into port and rethought my strategy. What I needed, was a crew. A couple of tour guides at the very least. I figured why head off into uncharted territory with no map? So I drafted a couple male friends to weigh in on my adventures and provide some guidance the next time I decided set sail. (I won’t drive to Minneapolis without a GPS system, why would I sail into potential enemy territory without deep see radar and a competent crew? Exactly.)

The guy I chose to captain my vessel I dug up on Facebook. He’s an old boyfriend of mine from college. (I use the term boyfriend loosely. We dated for all of ten minutes my freshman year (oh, two weeks or something) but remained friends throughout college.) The captain is now living the swinging single scene in the windy city that is Chi town. I figured I could use a dating pro in my back pocket and he would be great. For a first mate I drafted my friend, Kris. He really is more like a stow away/hostage in that he’s a guy and he’s my friend so obviously I just kind of force him to weigh in on my voyages.

I figure between Kris’s innocence (he’s only 23) and the captain’s lack of (cough! That’s all I will say . . .) I should be able to get pretty good advice between those two.

Anchors away!

The first two men who accidentally showed up in my fishing net I met in real life, not online life. Unfortunately, forget first base. When they expressed an interest I couldn’t even bring myself to let them buy tickets to the game. The first one is text book perfect. Smart, good looking, ambitious, but when he talks, he reminds me of my brother. And not that there is anything wrong with my brother, but I really don’t want to date my brother. Therefore, this guy just gives me the heebie jeebs and I feel like gagging if I even imagine him trying to kiss me.

So obviously he’s out. I really don’t think my saying, “Excuse me while I barf now,” would go over very well post lip lock.

The second one who showed up as a probable destination for my ship is very successful and interesting to talk to, but he’s just too clean. His shirt is always pressed, every hair on his head perfectly gelled. I imagine he tastes like Listerine. All the time. And I don’t want confirmation of that hypothesis.

Ever. Never.

Next.

The next time I cast my hook I decide to throw it into Match.com waters. My captain and first mate consult the compass and agree this looks like a better direction.

Match guy and I met at a public place and five minutes in I knew this guy had no chance. And he was actually really hot. He just wasn’t funny. He was very very smart but extremely opinionated and far too intense. Oh sure, he laughed at my jokes but he didn’t make any of his own.

When I docked the dating ship later, Kris just simply said, “Really? You’re writing him off because he wasn’t funny? What if he was just nervous? It was the first date you know. That’s lame.”

Oh, to be in my optimistic 20’s again . . .

The captain was a little more gentle and willing to accept my assessment of the situation and just prompted me to keep trying and no matter what, don’t settle. Spoken like a true single at 37 and happy about it guy.

“I obviously have the “not settling” part totally down,” I point out, “Have you checked the deck below? I have this shipped stocked for quite the journey.”

And that is probably excellent preparation on my part. Considering I can’t stand talking to any of these guys for longer than a few minutes. At this point, actually going to a full blown dinner with a member of the opposite sex is a commitment I am not sure I can handle. Wasting two hours of my life I can never get back with someone unfunny, too clean, or who unintentionally activates my gag reflex just doesn’t sound like something I am ready to jump into any time soon.

Is it really so hard to find a funny slightly messy guy who I can look at and think, yep, I can so see those lips on mine?

Apparently so.

So, there ya go. When this ship finally docks I have a feeling it is going to be at one place and one place only.

A convent.

On the up side, Jerry Seinfeld’s legendary pickiness made him a millionaire. So maybe this could work out well for me after all?

Because if this keeps up I can look forward to being a well traveled and very rich, rich . . .

. . . nun.

Chapter Sixty Three; Humanity vs Vanity; How Coop and I almost Saved the World

I don’t know if there was a pivotal moment in my life when I realized I am vain. But the fact that I will drop six hundred dollars on a cosmetic procedure that promises to fool the world into thinking I must have delivered my first child at the age of twelve pretty much proves that I am.

And that I am willing to pay for it.

Perhaps I should do what everyone these days does when a character flaw is acknowledged: blame my parents. After all, they did install a fun house style mirror in my crib intending to entertain my developing infant mind. I am sure this is the root of my problem as it’s obviously impossible to develop a normal self image when you start out life believing your forehead is the size of a basketball and all of your facial features are squashed onto your chin.

Convenient finger pointing parental screw-up aside, the fact is that I am now a vain adult who cuts coupons to save two dollars on cat food but doesn’t blink one eyelash extension at spending three hundred dollars on teeth whitening. (It can take ten years off. Seriously.)

Don’t get me wrong, under “this color cost as much as a car payment” hairstyle, I do care about ecological and humanitarian issues: melting polar ice caps, droughts in Africa, and how to make my $30 spray tan last a full two weeks. Whoops! Did I just type that out loud? I mean the topic that Anderson Cooper is shedding light on from 360 degrees tonight on CNN. Yeah, what he said. I care about that too.

Although the reality is that I am not out right now mobilizing my neighborhood to save Darfur with Anderson, but am instead home “recovering” (i.e. hiding my swollen face from the outside world) from my latest vanity endeavor: “filler” shots of Restalyn injected into my laugh lines to disguise the fact that I was born in 1972, not 1982.

The result? Well, so far I’ve come to the conclusion that my top lip may never move again considering how much nerve blocking material it has absorbed. Before this experience I never even realize it was humanly possible to speak with one’s top lip impersonating granite; it’s actually not that hard. Apparently the top lip’s contribution to speech is slight. Only the phrase “top lip” is actually hard to say in this condition.

With the possibility of indefinite disfigurement looming and the reality I could end up being forever mistaken for the love child of Joan Rivers and Kenny Rogers, I find myself second guessing whether all these vanity seeking expenditures were worth it. The fact is: beauty ain’t cheap. It’s downright expensive. So much so, that perhaps I could find a better use for this money, pursue the preservation of humanity not vanity.

Considering the annual amount of cash I invest to keep time’s cruel evidence off my face, dyed into obscurity in my hair, and out of my size four jeans (treadmill, gym membership, iPod to rock out to while I sweat off miscellaneous Starbucks carbs, it all adds up), the grand total of all these expenditures could most certainly equal enough cash to serve up a monthly all you can eat Midwestern style pancake and sausage breakfast buffet to a third world village every Sunday for a year. Or two. (Face it, pancake mix is dirt cheap and we all know it. The sausage, now that might get pricey. Okay, cut out the sausage. Monthly for five years. Just pancakes, but we’d have to make sure no one was going overboard with the syrup. And no Aunt Jamima. Pouring syrup out of her plastic little head is pointless branding that would just end up creating unnecessary overhead and cheating my village out of at least six months of breakfasts. I digress.)

It’s time someone made a real contribution to the world’s problems, and what better way to start than by siphoning cash from this selfish wasteland into causes that truly matter. And who better to blaze the trail than me and my immobilized top lip? After all, I do have depth, and I do care about more than just a good pedicure. (Even though everyone knows if you aren’t going to invest in a good one, open toe heels are not meant for hooves like that. Sorry Grandma.)

Therefore, in the name of humanity, not vanity, I vow to the following:
Should my upper lip never move again, should I forever resemble a plastic mask, I promise to: (deep breath, this is big for me):

Sue the pants off the manufacturing company that created this garbage I just put in my face!

And . . . with the resulting millions, I promise to give Anderson Cooper every last cent.

Voila! I will have just saved the entire world in fell suing swoop!

Wait a second, hold on . . . “top lip, top lip, top lip.” Well, what do you know? In the time it took to write this essay, I can move my lip again.

Sigh.

Oh well, Anderson. I tried.

But really, Coop, buddy, you must do something about that grey head of yours. It is really aging you. Call me. My stylist is a magician.

And all it will cost you (and my African village) is couple hundred pancake breakfasts.
*************************
P.S. Holy crap is he the hottest man alive or what? I am sorry but he's amazing. And I'm a conservative! I'd go 360 degrees with YOU any time, Coop! (Does anyone else know he is Gloria Vanderbilt's son? Try to ignore my meaningless "People Magazine" type sidebar.) My next read is going to be his new book, "Dispatches from the Edge" which chronicles his experiences in the Katrina Aftermath. I've read his writing previously and he is a captivating writer. Coop rant done. Kutz out.)

Chapter Sixty Two: Hi Ho the Dairy Oh a Matchdotcoming I Shall Go

When I attended my hometown’s Fourth of July celebration this past summer, I ran into an old classmate of my brother’s and . . . her incredibly hot and smart new boyfriend. I was ecstatic for her. You see, this chick is awesome. She is a chemical engineer and an incredibly talented musician, one of the rare kinds of people who uses her entire brain and not just one side. But for some elusive reason, while the rest of her girlfriends met and married the men of their dreams in their 20’s, this brainy and bewitching beauty sailed right on through that decade single and solo. So of course when I saw her sporting some yummy eye candy on her arm I had to tackle her and get the scooparama.

“Alright, who is the hottie and where the hell did you find him?”

She smirked coyly, glanced around, and then leaned in to seductively whisper, “Match.com.”

I gasp and gush, “No way.”

“Way.”

I confessed how I’d cautiously sampled matchdotcom last fall for about a week but soon ran screaming away from my monitor. You see, about thirteen years ago my (then) husband and I had the wonderful white trash experience of living in an apartment next a guy who used to beat the smack out of his wife every, oh, three seconds. Yeah, that was fun. I was usually the one dialing 911. So when that scum sent me an email on Match (oh, imagine that, he is single now?) I pretty much decided on the spot that anyone in this online deal was more than likely an abusive alcoholic maniac and I needed to flee this virtual single scene pronto.

Ew.

I shared that story with my newly in love girlfriend and she chuckled, “Yeah, well, there are certainly creeps but I still think it is worth it. Think about it, there are jerks in real life too, what’s the difference? It took me a year to find Matt online.” She then went on to explain her matchdotcoming strategy which basically amounted to: ignoring the guys whose mugs looked like they could be on the FBI's top ten most wanted list and only responding to about 2% of the emails from men who expressed any interest at all. "After all," she rationalized, "you don't talk to every guy who glances your way at a bar do you? Same concept. You have to ignore much of the correspondence. You just do."

I was intrigued but admitted that when I tried it before, another part of it was that I just felt guilty for not having any interest in so many of the men who took the time to write. And good grief, so many of them were just far too old.

“Oh, those are the most fun,” she confided. Then you get to email back, “In your dreams, Grandpa!”

I collapse in hysterics and high five her for having some pretty damn big ovaries.

Hmmm, I was starting to rethink this virtual matchmaking. Considering the fact that the whole time she and I were having this conversation her six foot dark haired god of a matchdotcom boyfriend was respectfully lingering nearby waiting for her. Damn. I just might have to give this cyber scene another shot.

So last week, I did it. I reactivated my Match account and dove back in to digital dating.

And so far? Not too bad. I only had one 62 year old email me that he is fairly convinced that not only are he and I kindred spirits but that he is really an alien from the planet Zertog.

Not even a little kidding, people.

But instead of jumping ship I just hit the delete button and resigned myself to stay the course.

Who knows, might be worth a shot? Honestly? I don’t have the highest hopes. The concept still seems to scream desperation but I am buoyed by my girlfriend’s subsequent success.

So here I go. For now a couple of these guys actually seem normal. Their pictures don’t look like mug shots nor are they old enough to begin collecting social security any time soon so hey, let’s celebrate that, shall we?

We’ll see.

Tune in next year. You never know.

If this works out it is entirely possible that by July 4, 2009, it just might be me showing up back at home with a six foot piece of yummy dangling from my arm.

Let’s just hope I don’t have to sift through too many ancient wife beating aliens to find him.

Chapter Sixty One; Following the Big O's Lead and Falling in Love with a Dude Named Eckhart

I am reading a very good book right now. It is so good, in fact, that I feel it is my duty as a human being not only tell everyone I know that they absolutely have to read it, but if they don’t I am going to find a Voodoo priestess and curse their descendants for 100 years if they don’t.

Yes, it is that good.

What book is this, you may ask? Well, the truth is I feel like a lemming to end all lemmings because it’s an Oprah Book Club book. Oh get your eyeballs off the ceiling. I know, I know.

I pride myself on being original. I try not to be such a sheep. But this time? Bah humbug to the mob mentality. Because good grief the diva of daytime got it right this time.

“A New Earth,” by Eckhart Toole.

(I know, is that his real name? I wondered too. Where is this dude from? Who looks at a baby boy and says, “Let’s name this cherub Eckhart!” I mean really . . . )

Oddball John Hancock aside, the dude is onto something.

Apparently he wrote a book prior to this one called “The Power of Now.” This fact has me slightly confused because that basically sums up how I would describe the theme of “A New Earth” if I were to summarize. This book expounds on the power of the present moment, the now. It essentially flows along with some of my favorite concepts by the guru of self help himself, Dale Carnegie. (If you haven’t read Dale…GASP! I am appalled. Get your fat ass off the couch, shut off the boob tube, run to Barnes and Noble and read his shiz. That man was a genius who published his first book in 1913 and all of his concepts are still highly relevant today. (I only say he “was” because he’s dead as a doornail. Died in 1955. RIP Dale.)

But his wisdom lives on. My favorite book of his is “How to Stop Worrying and Start Living.” I know, the title needs work but cut him some slack, it was published in 1948. People weren’t so hot at marketing back then . . .

In this book, good old Dale touted the concept of living in “day tight” compartments. Realizing that the only moment you ever have is the present.

The past.? Yeah, that would be over.

The future? Anyone a gambler? Because that’s pretty much a crap shoot.

Dale promoted living your life one moment at a time. Nothing is overwhelming if you just do what you need to do right NOW. The only thing you ever need to do well is the business at hand. Living that simple concept alone provides the momentum for amazing opportunities. Because that is all anyone ever has: the business at hand. Life comes one moment at a time, so live those moments, and an amazing life will unfold.

In addition, Dale the Man Carnegie also points out in that book how valuable it is to stop having an endless inner dialogue about the past. Oh come, on, we all do it. Does this sound familiar? “This person did this to me, this was so unfair! I can’t believe it! If only this hadn’t happened to me, I could be happy. I still can’t believe I was treated like that!”

What is the point of that crap? Exactly. Knock it off, already. Unless you’re friends with Doc Brown and can get your hands on a Delorean complete with a flux capacitor you’re shit outta luck.

Like I don’t have a long list of grievances against people? Oh, trust me, I could brood and dwell for a month straight if I wanted to. Make that six months. Possibly a year. I have been betrayed, let down and unfairly judged. I have been lied to, cheated on, and taken for granted. I have been gossiped about, ridiculed, and just plain forgotten. (“Was it your birthday yesterday?” Yes, Mom, it was. Thanks. Thanks a lot.)

And let’s face it. I spent all my adulthood pouring energy into a future that, well, looks nothing like I thought it would. The big D? Yeah, who plans for that? I sure didn’t.

I got plenty of junk. Trust me.

But all of these circumstances originated with decisions that other people made. I had no control. I can feel sad about them at the time, but beyond that, not my problem. I can’t control anyone else, and so I just let it go. And control my own attitude (which is the only damn thing left in this world I can hang on to with certainty and call my own!)

And as for the future? Well, other than spending a few minutes mapping out your retirement plan with your financial advisor, the future isn’t really worth truly spending a lot of time on either. See that big bus coming down the street? Yeah, well, it could smack you right into the asphalt. Make you a pavement pancake. So much for all that energy you just invested worrying about a tomorrow that never transpired, huh?

Because newsflash, the future never really arrives. It is always and only “now” that we have.

Deep, huh? Oh yeah. You know it. (Are my brunette roots showing?)

Eckart Toole touts a similar concept in “A New Earth.” He also promotes the “power of being present” with a very detailed explanation of ego and identify. (I know, when I hear “ego” I think arrogant as well. That is because I majored in English, not Psychology.) Apparently the “ego” is just a term for all the labels we assign ourselves and attribute to our identity: who we are. Like me: writer, business woman, mother, divorce’, friend, blogging blonde…yep, all that…is ego. And apparently the ego is kind of a bastard. We are all very attached to who we are, where we have been, and where we are going.

It’s all quite entwined.

And can be a terrible distraction to your life’s purpose: being so caught up in defining ourselves through our labels, our past, and our future.

It actually sounds exhausting. Yet according to good old Eckhart, it is exactly the main pursuit of every single person day in and day out. And “A New Earth” encourages people to step outside of that and really get down to living. Forget the past. Forget the future. Forget endlessly trying to forge external connections that define your value, your ego. Love yourself. Love the moment you are in. And viola . . . wow, life can be this amazing experience if you simply recognize the gift that is the present moment. The now.

So here’s to you, Eckart and Dale. And yes, Even Oprah.

And here’s to me. Just a lemming of a bookworm. Who wants to raise my glass in salute to your promotions of self help.

But I can’t dwell on these accolades for long. You see, I have to run. I have a life to live, which happens to be happening . . .

. . . right now.

Chapter Sixty; Finding My Inner Hottie

“And this is my friend, Audra,” Naomi motions nonchalantly as she introduces me to her “he’s just a friend” guy friend.

I smile widely and enthusiastically extend my hand, “I’ve heard a lot about you!”

“Nice to meet you, Audra,” he replies and then looks me straight in the eye and deadpans, “You’re hot as hell.”

Welcome to my life lately. That adventures of Audra the hottie.

I don’t know what in tarnation transpired over the past month or so but I have been attracting attention from the opposite sex at a rate that is making my head spin. Literally the MINUTE I decided I could care less if I died alone I couldn't walk five feet without some guy tripping over himself because he couldn’t take his eyes off me.

Am I complaining? Did I say I was complaining? Nope. Not complaining.

Are ya kiddin' me?!?! This rocks!

You know, I hate to admit it but the fact is this is just a consequence of the tried and true advice we all have heard or given ourselves. The saying goes, “The minute you stop looking that’s when the attention shows up.”

"Blah. Blah. Blah," we think if we're the ones subjected to the lecture.

Damn.

I have to admit. It is absolutely true.

Here, let me explain:

I said all summer I didn’t REALLY care if I ended up a wrinkled old hag living alone with 85 cats. I don't care. I do NOT care.

Of course I cared! Who doesn’t care? I was lying through my straight white teeth.

But once I really got over my whining and started really enjoying being footloose and fancy free, and really stopped caring and just decided to be happy regardless, good grief, take a number boys because this line is a long one and I am going need a system to keep you all straight!

Here’s a whole case of points for ya just from the night I got the unsolicited "hot as hell" observation from my friend's "just a friend":

So Naomi and I decide to hit the town last weekend. She brought the big boobs, I brought the nice legs. And we both brought the long hair.

But most importantly? We brought good/let's just have fun/who gives a crap about boys anyway/life is an adventure/let's hit the town/attitudes!

We didn’t go out to find guys. We went out to have fun! Together.

What we should have brought was a big stick to keep the guys away because the drooling over us was so ridiculous.

(Down boy! Down boy!)

Our highlights of the night include: Fending off an entire softball team from South Dakota, (That took talent, those South Dakotans are relentless. Who knew?), being semi-accosted by some guy who claimed to be a former high school students of ours, (“Did you teach him?” “No, I didn’t team him,” “I thought he said you taught him?”) All the while this 26-year-old stood there like a puppy and finally chimed in, “If I’d been in high school when you two were teaching I would have been in heaven!” (Ah, nice try bud!) and ending the night dancing our asses off with a guy I know and adore who has been in this blog previously (ER visit. That’s all I will say!) and a group of his super fun friends. (Okay, that “C walk” thing was freaking hilarious!)

We had a blast!

What a great night.

And the best part is that the only thing Naomi and I brought home with us at the end of the night was a couple of huge . . .

. . . ego boosts!

And an interesting life lesson.

Getting noticed is not at all about looks. Because really, I look the same now as I have all summer and not one soul has expressed any kind of interest in me prior to my finally getting my head out of my ass. That smile that I am so good at projecting on the outside? Yeah, it is worthless if it isn’t radiating from the inside.

So what changed? Simply this: I am happy.

And I AM okay if I die alone.

But I am not dead yet so while I am here I am going to enjoy life. I am going to go out with my girlfriends, dance up a storm, enjoy the fun people whose life path’s cross mine, and genuinely live each and every moment of the life I am so blessed to have.

Forget the long hair and short skirt.

Beauty comes from the inside.

And I don’t care what anyone looks like. If you have confidence and authentic happiness within yourself, then start passing out the numbers. Because that is what draws people to you. That is what makes you fun to be around. And that is the key that makes anyone.

Hot as hell.

***********************
People are liking it when I post pictures. Okay . . . here's one from this weekend. I am golfing. And I am sucking! Check out the reeds in the background? The confused look on my face? (I went with Julia. The blonde leading the blonde, let me tell ya . . .)

I look like a bad version of Britney Spears in this pic actually. Slap a Starbucks in my hand and throw me on the cover of People. (Of all celebs to look like I get compared to her most often, NICE. But notice, she's so NUTS she's not even hot anymore! Ah hem? See my point? Yep. Beauty is from within.)

So here's a picture of me in "Search Mode." And no, I didn't ever find the golf ball, but I did find something a WHOLE lot better than that this weekend. My innter hottie. And all this time she was only one authentic smile away.