Chapter Seventy Seven; Cracking the Player Code

Britney has a new song out.

And yes, I know, the woman is a nut but the people who tell her what to sing and how to sing it are geniuses because her new song, "Womanizer," freaking rocks.

Plus, the lyrics are dead on. Every girl on the planet who has ever been hypnotized by psuedo-charm is now zipping around in her sports car belting along with Brit, "Boy, don't try to front, uh ah, I know just . . . just what you are, uh huh."

Oh wait, maybe that's just me.

Womanizers.

You know the kind, the slimier sect of men on the dating front who used to just be called plain old "assholes" back in the day but are now referred to with the G-rated term: Players.

In other words, the kind of guy who is a total and complete dick to women.

Unfortunately, I appear to be a player magnet. Men see the blond hair and instantly think idiot. Thankfully, I'm a brunette at heart so many of these dudes don't get far. But over the past year of my singledom, I have fast cracked the player code and can recognize the tell tale signs of the kind of guy who enjoys lying and jerking women around to get what he wants. So let me take the good out of my agonizing experiences and broadcast my lessons learned for the greater good.

I have deciphered the devious dickhead ways of players/womanizers/assholes so listen up if you are sick of being baffled by boy bullshit.

Audra's Top 3 How to Spot a Player List

1. Smooth Operators. Players tell you want you want to hear. When it comes to compliments, they will intoxicate you on them. "You're beautiful, you're stunning." Every girl wants to hear it. Now, not every man who utters a compliment is a player. Men honestly do fall for women and they will gush about them when they do. The key to distinguishing if the guy is a fake snake or the real deal is by paying attention to his delivery. If the words roll off his tongue effortlessly, you're being played. If it sounds like he's said this a million times . . . he HAS. But don't confuse crap with sap because compliments can be great. But players know it. Just remember this: the good guy who tells you you are beautiful but LOOKS a little nervous with his confession is the one you want. He might even grin like a fallen fool. But guess what? Awkward equals awesome. It's the telltale sign of sincerity. Bumbling boys are to be believed.

But if he's far too smooth?

Yeah. Run like hell.

2. Too Soon Timing. Noting the timing of the compliments is also key if you want to sabotage a player's plan. If he has known you all of three days and is texting you "Good morning, beautiful!" get the flip out of dodge. Those types of texts are great . . . after you've started a relationship. Or gone on at least a of couple dates. A couple weeks is probably a more acceptable timeline for texts like that to ring true.


But digital declarations like that right off the bat? Yeah, he just wants in your pants.

By Saturday night.

3. Finding His Formula. And lastly, the final key to spotting a player is cracking his code. Every player has a formula that he believes is charming but if you really look close enough it is just a con job. In other words, players have lines that have worked for them before and they are going to keep using them because of their prior success rate. My favorite line as of late was by a player who enthusiastically exclaimed ten minutes after meeting me that "We are so getting married!" when it appeared he and I had much in common. I got a few more of those marital proposals over the course of the next week whenever he would uncover any other similar interests or experiences we shared. He said the words, "I am SO going to marry you!" so many times that I instantly knew that this was this guy's formula. My suspicion was confirmed a week later when a friend of mine stumbled across him at a bar he and I were both at and she promptly pulled me to the side and screeched in a hushed tone, "I know that guy! He followed me all around a bar at the lake this summer telling me he was going to marry me!!"

Oh, so busted, buddy.

So, girlfriends, listen up.

Players can only play if the ball is in their court.

So pay attention. Watch for the signs. And if you see any of the above, feel free to dance away from that dude.

And while you're at it, I suggest you sing a little Britney while you do.

Boy, don't try to front, uh ah I know just . . . just what you are . . .

Uh Huh.

Chapter Seventy Six; My Black Angel of Death Debut

Yep. Those are fishnets.

You are correct.

I acknowledge that my blog is slowly trending toward the occasional picture as opposed to essay, but seriously, if EVER there was a picture that spoke volumes, it would be this one.

Hello? Do you not see the slut attack I appear to be having?

In my defense ALL I can say is: This was so NOT my idea . . .

Because yes, yes, I realize, I look more like a porn star here than a devoted mother, church choir member, or just the plain old normal and boring person that I am. It utterly amazes me sometimes the adventures I get myself into . . . why does it seem like I am often uttering, "Only me . . . only me . . ."

Who knows? But this is the latest crazy trip that life delivered and I just went with it.

Tune in Thursday for a full documentation of my first "Adventure in Modeling" escapade. Never did I think I'd be in a tent at the Fargo Dome, naked, with seven other women, changing clothes in 60 Mississippi no less than eight times and strutting my slut stuff on a jumbotron.

Yes, there was a big screen. And I was on it.

A lot.

And you know what?

Only me . . .

Only.

Me.

Chapter Seventy Five; My Adventure with a Twenty Something Guy who made me Scream

I know. My teaser trailer of a blogarama entry on Monday indicated I would be impaling some player with a juicy story of discovery . . . yeah, yeah, I will, I will, don’t worry. But let’s take a break from his ego for a second, (it’s inflated enough, we wouldn’t want the man exploding now, would we?). Instead, I am compelled to relay the tragic twisting events of my manic Monday that started with a boy, evolved into a pain packed afternoon, and culminated in my yelling into my cell phone something about a steak and a round of golf.

And here is that story now for your reading torture.

****************************************************
Trust your gut.

It’s true. You should. When your gut says, “Uh oh.” Listen up. It’s more reliable than tornado sirens, your local weather man, or any magic eight ball (I don’t care how creepily correct it is.)

The gut.

Is rarely wrong.

And since I ignored mine on Monday. Yeah. Well then. Of course, a debacle was bound to ensue.

It all started one sunny morning at my dentist’s office . . .

I nestle into the dental chair for a routine procedure. But instead of my kindly, wise, and experienced grey dentist, who walks into the office but some kid who probably just started shaving last Tuesday.

The Doogie Howser of dentistry.

Um, is it bring your kid to work day? Did I miss the memo?

“Um, who are you?” I blurt at this obviously lost child.

“I am Dr. Olson,” he smiles, “And I will be doing your crown today.”

I don’t smile back. I frown (as much as I can with a Botoxed forehead.)

And just say, “Hmmmm,” because at that moment my gut is announcing, “RED ALERT! You are not going to let an infant with sharp objects near your face, are you?”

“Is that okay?” Doogie asks.

I sigh. And decide to confess my hesitancy as graciously as possible:

“How old are you, kid? Because I am all for dating twenty somethings but I wouldn’t want one as my dentist.”

Okay, maybe I wasn’t so gracious.

He’s immediately insulted but I am not really caring. After all, these are my nerve endings at stake here.

He clears his throat and says, “I’m 24.”

I nod, process and continue on with my dental credentials interrogation, “And you graduated . . . when?”

“In May,” he replies.

Oh GAWD.

Yeah. Like I really want some kid who was partying like a rock star in college a mere 5 months ago now in charge of filing off MY molar?

I think not.

My silence is loud and he interrupts it by defensively offering to have the other dentist, oh let’s see, that would be MY dentist, do the crown. But not before he informs me that I will have to wait another month should I opt for that route, because that dentist (MY dentist) is booked up.

But of course, the toddler’s schedule is wide open.

Shockaroo.

So basically, if I want the procedure done today, I either have to let junior do it or run the risk of letting my molar go another month before I can get in with MY dentist.

I briefly entertain the concept of going “Tom Hanks in Castaway” and just finding an ice skate and popping this baby out myself and calling it a day.

But he has a point and I am soon in an oral hostage situation.

So I surrender to circumstance, open up my pie hole, lay back in the chair and crank up the iPod I brought with me to distract myself from the fact that I am at the dentist, and let Doogie do his thing.

45 minutes he says.

Quick and easy.

Three hours later . . .

I am still in this chair. And I have listened to my “mellow” playlist about 72 times.

(I have that playlist for emergency make out situations. And since I make out pretty much rarely to never in my nunnish life of late what is the point of bulking that baby up? I digress.)

So, by the time I realize I have just listened to One Republic sing “It’s too late ta Apologize . . .” a couple bajillion times my jaw is killing me and Doogie still isn’t done.

And I really need to pee.

I finally motion for them to let me sit up, and when I do I just blurt, “Okay, seriously, 3 hours? What is the hold up? Are you trying to find China at the bottom of this molar or what, kid?”

He explains that my decay is severe. So severe in fact that he has actually filed so far down he has exposed a nerve.

I am not liking the sound of this.

Any time the words “nerve” and “exposed” are used together in the same sentence that is probably reason to start insisting on big gun narcotics, the kind that will make me see pink elephants and vote for McCain.

Shudder….

Doogie explains to me that he is almost finished, he is just going to cover the nerve with a filling, put on a temporary crown, and then send me home with a prescription for pain medication that I am to use every four hours for the next three weeks until I can get in for a root canal.

Every four hours? For three weeks?

I just stare at him as I hear my own voice say, “You have got. To be shitting me.”

He assures me it is a light pain med. I can still drive and function, it will just take the edge off until I can get in for a root canal.

Edge?

I am tempted to put this kid in a time out right about now.

Doogie eventually finishes, I finally get to go to the restroom, and as I leave the office I think to myself, well, how bad can it be? I am sure it might be a little sore, I’ll just fill my prescription on the way home from work and that will be that.

Two hours later I am sitting at work huddled in a fetal position in the corner of my office because the Novocain has worn off and the entire left side of my face is on fire.

I call the dentist's office.

“Have you filled the pain prescription yet?”

“Um, no, I am too distracted by thoughts of suicide.”

The receptionist relays that Doogie suggests I fill the prescription and if that does not help then I may need an emergency root canal today.

Great. JUST great.

As I drive to the pharmacy, I call my boss and explain that if he was expecting me to do any work today he can just kill that dream now. I then call friends and arrange for my children to get rides home from school. (I am a Mom. When my day goes to shit, there is major project management choreography that must be executed if life as we know it on this planet is to continue on uninterrupted.)

At the pharmacy I whine to all the legal drug dealers about the kid masquerading as a dentist who drilled into my nerve canal and demand to know at exactly what moment I can expect the pain meds to deliver nirvana.

Thirty minutes.

Twenty nine minute later the pain has INTENSIFIED and I am on the phone with my dentist's office actually begging for an emergency root canal.

When the receptionist delivers the news that the doctor who performs their root canals can’t get me in until the next day, I let out a pain fueled evil cackle and tell her to have MY dentist call me back. Because this pain is not my fault. I was in no pain until I let that adolescent playing doctor use me as a dental guinea pig.

I am not taking no for an answer.

I am getting that root canal.

And I am getting it today.

Because at this point, I am hurting so badly that with every breathe I am fighting the urge to climb on top of the roof of my house and jump to my death. If I have to wait until tomorrow, I am going to need narcotics so strong that I will be comatose.

And I don’t have the time or luxury to be comatose.

So while I wait for my phone to ring, appointment schmapointment, I start driving to the palace of pleasure: the root canal doctor’s office.

Yes.

Yes I do. And yes, I have huge ass ovaries.

Halfway there my cell phone rings.

It is the kid.

“Hello, Audra, this is Dr. Olson.”

And now, I would like to introduce you to my alter ego: Super Bitch.

I just bark into the phone, “You? Again? Haven’t you done enough? Put my dentist on the phone. NOW.”

“I am sorry but he is busy,” Doogie offers meekly, “would you like me to call the office about your root canal?”

“NO!” the pain demon in me shrieks, “What are you doing to do? You have no business relationship with that doctor. You graduated in MAY! I need MY dentist to call THAT dentist and offer him a good steak and a round of golf and explain to him that HIS patient was just tortured by his apprentice in pain and that a root canal is in order. You have no pull, you are incapable of having that conversation. Now GO AWAY before I come through this phone and scream at you in person!”

And then, Super Bitch just hangs up.

Looking back I like to equate this situation to a woman in labor, delirious with agony. Because at that point, I honestly just wanted the pain to end, and I did not care who I pissed off along the way.

When I reached the root canal doctor’s office, I composed myself as much as I could, calmly walked into the office, tears streaming down my face, and as respectfully as possible explained the situation and asked them to call MY dentist.

In two minutes, I was approved for an emergency root canal, blowing my nose into Puff’s Kleenex with lotion, and counting down the seconds until relief is mine.

Twenty minutes and $800 later I am post-root canal and pain free.( I would have sold my car and paid $8,000 at this point if that is what it would have taken).

And thus ended an adventure I never hope to repeat again.

And yes, I have noted, that the next time my gut tells me to run out of a room screaming.

That is exactly what I will do.

Because if I don’t, I run the risk of Super Bitch showing up and yelling her head off anyway.

And as for twenty-something guys, hey, I am a fan.

It's just that if I let one poke and prod me for three hours in a manner that leads to my screaming my blonde head off I would much rather it be because he and I are playing doctor.

Not.

Dentist.

Chapter Seventy Four; E! True Divorce Land Story

Since a picture is worth a thousand words . . . today's post will be just that!

Divorce Land's Superest Super Duper Fan paid a visit to Fargo this weekend. This is Elle (striped shirt, classiest one of the bunch) pictured here with Annie, Susie, Me (standing on an ottoman, and yes, that is an empty wine glass), Julia and Sonja.

I actually know Elle's husband through my work travels. He started reading my blog and Elle said, "Hey, what is this Divorce Land smack?" so she started reading my blog . . . and long story short she and I got to be friends! (We like to tell people we "met on the internet.")

We had a great time getting to know Elle, and she was hilarious, especially when she said, "Boy, I guess not all the details of your lives end up in the blog, huh? I feel like I'm getting to watch the E! True Hollywood Story version of Divorce Land!"

Wink, wink, winky, wink, wink is all I'm saying to that observation.

But tune in next Thursday for a great story about some quasi-dating drama about me that involves a fruit loop masquerading as a player who clearly has no concept of just how small this part of the country is. Here's a teaser: You can't use the same formula ten thousand times and not have people stumble across your player waste just lying on the Dating Land highway. Dude. You are clueless.

And so, so busted.

Elle and her hubby actually witnessed the entire saga so next Thursday will be their Divorce Land debut, in supporting roles. And let's celebrate that, shall we? After all, this is Divorce Land. Let's not rock their marital bliss bloat by ever having them aspire to star in this story.

Thanks for a great weekend! Here's to good friends, old and NEW!

~Audra

Chapter Seventy Three; Hocky Games and Heart Transplants

“I just called to tell you that I have become you,” Susie announces into my ear before I’d even had a chance to say hello into my cell.

“Congratulations,” I proclaim in reply.

“Smart ass.”

“Always.”

“No, listen, seriously,” she continued, “I spent two hours writing this weekend in my journal and I have a callous on my finger to prove it.”

“Wait a second, you wrote something by hand? Um, newsflash, 2008, babe. People have gone digital. We blackberry and text and Mp3. Hello? One word: Laptop.”

“No way, man, I have a computer at work. I am unplugged at home and that’s how I like it,” her defense of archaic processes sidetracking her only momentarily, “And stop bashing my tape player, it works just fine,” she tacks on before getting back to her point, “Now listen, so I decided to write the story of Brian and me.”

I am thankful that this conversation is taking place over the phone. Because I promptly start gagging.

Susie and Brian are so in love with each other I feel a tooth ache coming on every time I hang around them with all that sweetness oozing all over the floor. (Oh yeah, it is that bad.) But considering the fact that I was the cupid who introduced them, I am semi-responsible for this sugar overload so I can only vomit and ridicule behind their backs.

“Lovely!” I say as I fake my enthusiasm, “let’s hear your long hand version of love, little Miss Technology rebel.”

“No, seriously, it’s good stuff, here, listen,” she begins, and delves into a reading of her journal, outlining in great detail the sequence of events that propelled her and her love muffin together.

It’s honestly pretty damn good.

Suze is a talented writer. (We must run in packs. Ah hem. There’s my ego. Sorry!)

And as I sit there listening to how her magical unexpected romance started at a party at my house last winter, how it all began with flirty little texts (Don’t be too impressed she texts. That was a two hour lesson I forced her into last fall. It was painful. I think my cat could have texted those two sentence faster.), and how the pivotal moment when things finally got steamy was a weekend in February at a hockey game. . .

I start to get, well . . . pissed.

Let me explain why.

Susie is pretty detailed, almost to fault. And unfortunately, her elephant memory is doing me zero good. She is forgetting that I was at said hockey game and having the god damn opposite experience at that precise moment. Right as she was falling in to a relationship, I was plummeting out of one.

That was the weekend last winter that DLTC (my first post-divorce boyfriend) and I called it quits.

“Um, what the hell is this, “Back to the Future?” Do you want me to start calling you Doc? Where’s the Delorean, because thanks for the trip down memory lane there, little miss never forget a detail. Do I need to remind you that THE hockey game you are describing, moment by moment, goal by goal, may have been the beginning of your beginning but was the beginning of my end?”

“Oh, shooot, that’s right,” she gushes, instantly apologetic and then inquires, “Is this seriously that hard for you to hear?”

“Well Geez, Louise, I could pick several moments in my life to time travel back to and that sure as hell ain’t one of ‘em. In fact, its probably on my top ten life experiences I would much rather forget, right up there with root canals and the time I peed my pants in first grade in the middle of my show and tell," I huff, "So as you sit there describing everything from your perspective, I have to sit here hostage in my break up nostalgia.”

“Oh yeah,” she acknowledges, “I remember.”

“Yep. As you were flirting with Brian, I was trying to ignore the fact that DLTC was treating me like I had the flipping plague all the sudden.”

I sigh and confess, “I would have professed close to 100% healing on this actually until I had to start listening to your flawless narrative of that entire night. Damn you, you even remembered the caramel corn. What are you, Rain Man?” (Seriously, the woman left no memory unturned. It was ridiculous. And kinda creepy. Who remembers crap like the fact we ate caramel corn? Apparently, Suze.)

She pauses, and then asks hopefully, “Well, does this mean I am a good writer?”

I recover from my yuck attack long enough to chuckle, “Yes, it does mean you are a good writer. In fact, I almost reached for a sweatshirt I felt so transported back to that icy night.”

I suck it up and encourage her to continue reading. And so she does. And honestly, she’s a beautiful writer. She did an incredible job, and by the end, yeah, I was sniffing, but it had nothing to do with the end of one of my life’s journeys and everything to do with the beginning of what may turn out to be a pretty pivotal one for Susie.

She apologized again for making me relive something I would rather forget, and I assured her, honestly, it’s fine. This was not something that called my emotional health into question, it was more an affirmation of her writing talent.

Later that night I gave Naomi a jingle and mentioned Susie’s journal and that ironic twist.

“Ah,” Naomi wisely assessed, “I suppose if that is hard to relive still, don’t worry about it. Just means you’re still on the heart transplant list.”

“What?” I laugh. I love how Naomi puts things.

“The heart transplant list. You gave your heart away. Takes a while before you can get a new one. You know, people can spend years on that list. Don’t worry about it.”

I am snorting with laughter and assure her, if I spend years in this condition, my living will instructions are crystal clear, “Pull the plug.”

Naomi assures me that my prognosis is good and that I am probably at the top of the list already, I just have yet to be notified.

“Oh, really? And who exactly will be doing the notifying?”

“You got me, but 100 bucks says it will be a Dr. Good Sized Wang who ends up delivering you the good news .”

I just laugh.

Between Susie’s sap and Naomi’s candid (occasionally sick and perverted) wit, I decide to just call it a day.

That unexpected jolt back in time was draining and I was ready to just hit the hay. But if I was irritated it wasn't so much with Susie as it was with myself. Shouldn't I be able to hear all about something that happened so many months before and remain unaffected? This emotional aspect of the single life was not something I had really anticipated pre-divorce. I’d had so much heartbreak in my marriage that I didn’t even think through the fact that post-divorce I would probably have to deal with it again.

But it is what it is. And before I drifted off to sleep I decided I was at peace with the fact taht the price of admission for a second shot at love is high, but worth it.

From now on, I’ll just instruct Susie not to subject me to any more time traveling, celebrate her happily ever after with Brian, and call up Naomi for a depraved shot of perversion if I ever need to give my spirits a booster.

And in the meantime, hey, if that well endowed doctor does happen to show up with the good news, well what do you know.

Hockey season is just around the corner.

And I just happen to be free.

Chapter Seventy Two; Why I Never Want to be 25 Again

The best part of cleaning closets, I think, is the part where I stumble across a box of old photos, cards and letters. And then promptly lose myself in the past for a good twenty minutes.

Last weekend I did just that. While sorting through the contents of the top shelf of my bedroom closet, I couldn’t resist cracking open a photo album from my college days. Of course, my initial response was to cringe at my hideous hair (I swear, I never smoked pot in college. But with hair that high and huge, it is almost embarrassing to admit that I did that to my myself sober. And on purpose.)

One of the pictures was of an old boyfriend I am still in touch with. I couldn’t resist snapping a camera phone copy and shooting it off to him immediately.

“Check this out,” my accompanying text message read, “I found this in an old album, had to send it to you.”

I wondered what he would say.

After all, almost twenty years had passed (okay, only eighteen, but still) since he and his friends had leaned against my dorm room wall and smiled into my camera lens.

He texted back in about five seconds, his response exactly on target.

A simple observation summing up what almost two decades of living had done.

“I miss my bangs.”

Was his reply.

I just rolled around on my closet floor for a while laughing. I did. I absolutely did. So much for any profound nostalgia.

When it comes down to it, the guy just misses his hair.

And so began a texting repertoire documenting our lost youth. On my part, I missed my pre-baby no stretch mark 20-something body. He was on a hair kick I guess because he texted back how he missed not having grey in the hair he does have. Oh fine, I jumped on that bandwagon and gave thanks that although mine isn’t greying (yet, knock on wood) I certainly do miss having all that hair (even if it was big enough for its own zip code.)

On we went, lamenting what time has stolen.

Eventually I had to get back to cleaning that closet. I thanked him for the chuckles and wished him a good bang-less kinda/sorta greying fabulous day.

And as I continued sorting through my boxes of junk, I wondered:

Do I really mourn the loss of my youth? Hmmm. Well, maybe some things. But I am in my 30’s in the age of botox, gym memberships, and teeth whitening. I don’t look half bad for my age. The little bit time has done, I can live with. Yeah, I have stretch marks, but I take care of myself so underneath them are abs of steel. And lest not forget, I have two fantastic kids. I think they were worth it.

And truly, when I look back at those pictures, yeah, I had a lot of hair, but what was underneath that 80’s mane was the spirit of a young woman who had so much yet to learn.

Would I really like to go back there?

Are ya kiddn’ me? No way Jose’.

After I really thought about it, time doesn’t steal so much as it bestows.

When I was in my 20’s I thought I knew everything yet I wasn’t quite sure enough of myself to live like I did. I second-guessed all my decisions, and if I didn’t, then I stood behind them with extra helpings of conviction, just to make sure.

Life seemed to have a black and white road map back then and I stuck rigidly to the course. I lived my life how it was supposed to be. I was militant about following the guide books. And always did what I perceived to be the “right” thing.

But then I turned thirty, and life got grey. Things didn’t go as I had planned, and suddenly everything I thought I knew just . . . disappeared.

And now, I’m past the mid-way point of my 30’s, and these grey areas, honestly? Are far more comfortable. I understand that people, myself included, don’t fit neatly into all the boxes I had drawn in my 20’s. There’s overlap, muddy places and sometimes everyone around me is just coloring outside the lines.

Oh well.

You see, I feel a peace about life now that I never could find a decade ago when I tried to shove everything into neatly labeled boxes of my own making.

But now? The boxes are gone. I let things flow. And peace has miraculously descended.

So let time march on. Let the grey dance slowly into our hair.

But more importantly, let the murky areas of life seep into our realities. For with time, and age, comes wisdom, acceptance, and peace.

In many shiny and stunningly beautiful shades.

Of grey.

Chapter Seventy One; My Black Angel Debut

Ever have a moment when you suddenly stop what you are doing, look around and think. How. The. Flip.

Did I get here?

You know those moments. The kind where you look at what you are doing, where you are doing it, who you are doing it with and wonder when you bought that ticket for this crazy train you don’t even remember boarding.

Yeah. That was me yesterday.

I was standing in a dressing room wearing thigh high patent black leather stiletto boots, fishnet stockings, and an ebony vinyl tank top that laces up the back. Oh, and lest not forget the flouncy charcoal-colored lacey skirt that was so short it just missed being classified as a belt.

Hmmm. I apparently got on the slut express a little while back and am just now noticing.

Welcome to my modeling debut.

This was definitely one of those things that seemed like a good idea at the time, operative word seemed. When a girlfriend of mine asked me if I would like to model in a regional fashion show I only mulled briefly before accepting her invitation. I mean after all, I am single. I am on the market. If in some amazing moment in the near future a captivating dude inquires what I do for a living, it is not exactly exciting to rattle off, “I work in the tech industry. And I freelance write.” Whoop tee doo. Why don’t you just stamp “Nerd” on my forehead now?

But nonchalantly uttering an addendum like, “And I model on the side . . . ”.

Now that’s hot.

I had to try this.

So here I am. At my first fitting. In a store I’d only ever walked by on my way to fashion franchises like Express and The Gap. In fact, until the modeling agency told me to go to this store, I’d never even noticed this store.

And I am a mall-aholic. That tells ya just how far below my radar this place was.

The sign outside said, “Hot Topic” but I think the marketing gurus missed the mark on that one. Talk about false advertising. This place was clearly more like, “Slut Central,” “Hookers R Us” or better yet, “Leave your Dignity/Maturity/Panties at the Door.”

I survey myself in the mirror. I can not believe I am wearing this.

My inner dialogue is along the lines of, “I teach my daughter’s Sunday school class. This is just wrong.”

Believe it or not, this was the best of three outfits I had to choose from. (Although either of the other two numbers may have had an upside. I am sure had I chosen one of those I could have pocketed (g-stringed?) at least twenty or thirty bucks in one dollar bills after sauntering down the catwalk in those get-ups.)

The modeling agency rep, a kindly woman who reminded me more of my jolly Aunt Charlene than anyone I would picture in the modeling industry, tapped on the door and asked how it was going.

“Oh, it’s going.” I opened the dressing room door and struck a pose. (What else can you do when wearing a get up that would make Britney Spears blush?)

“Oh, I love it!" she exclaimed.

I look behind me to see if there is someone else in the dressing room. Nope. She's talkin' to me.

"Let’s definitely go with this one," she continues as she circles me and then adds, "But it does need something. Maybe some black wings?”

Oh yes. She said wings.

You see, his particular outfit is a costume. Lucky. Lucky me. My fashion show debut is six days before Halloween.

(You thought the story couldn’t get worse? Welcome to my life.)

“Great idea!” the pierced store clerk with funky hair chimes in, “Let’s make her the angel of death!”

I just smirk and think to myself that that much enthusiasm should never be demonstrated in a sentence containing the word "death."

So the punked out/yay to all things evil/chick and the auntish women you would never expect to see in a store like this unless pigs were soaring through the sky soon have me in a pair of black feathered wings.

And a halo.

I am one hot angel of death. Let me tell ya.

They snap some pictures of me for the store manager's final approval and so ends my first fashion show fitting.

Yeah, okay, so I left Hot Topic with my dignity intact.

But guess what?

Not before I bought that whole damn outfit. (Hey, I needed a Halloween costume anyway.)

I figure life is not only too short but oftentimes far too mundane as well. I mean really, I hope I have a few silly things people can remember about me when my eulogy is being read. Break up the blubbering with some laughter.

And I am thinking my slutty black angel of death debut may very well make the "funny enough for a funeral" cut.

Because what else should you do when life just is one big crazy train ride?

If you ask me the answer is hold tight to your fuzzy black halo, hope your wings don’t fly off, and just enjoy the ride.

Chapter Seventy: Reflective Moment or PMS? Your Call

The rain is pouring down outside my bedroom window. It’s October. I suppose it shouldn’t be snowing yet, but it seems odd that it is raining.

Sheets and sheets of water are billowing in the skirts of light draped off the streetlights, over and over again, putting on quite the dance before winter transforms raindrops to snowflakes.

I figure I have another month. Possibly two before I have to worry about things like snow.

In the meantime, the rain will do what it always does. It will fall. Then. It will stop.

And when it does, autumn will take hold of the time she has left to wrap her colorful sweater around our world, one last hug before winter turns time to ice and nature slips into its frozen slumber.

Early this morning, before the rain began in earnest, I hit the trails for my standard three mile run.

I love nothing more than running in the fall.

I ran along the river in a ticker tape parade of leaves, the remnants of summer falling like confetti, carpeting my route. Everywhere I looked was a breathtaking view of orange and yellow and red. And every stride I took was buoyed by the sheer fact I was actually in this world magical world, not just watching it through a window.

It might have been endorphins, or it might have just been the sheer beauty of fall’s color explosion, who knows, but halfway through my run I felt utterly and completely . . .

. . . happy.

I felt blessed in unimaginable ways. As I ran I began to think of my life as an endless series of blessings. They effortlessly filtered through my mind with each step I took. My children. My health. My friends. My family. My job. My home. My health. My faith.

I am not sure if it was really an epiphany moment or just the chorus of Coldplay's “Viva La Vida” dancing through my iPod, but regardless, I ran smack into a realization on this particular run.

My life.

My life is what I am most grateful for.

And that includes even the less than pleasant things that, at the time, did not appear to be so great.

My divorce. My losses. My sadness. And my heartbreaks.

I realized that the complex and unpredictable labyrinth of it all is exactly what makes my story, my story.

And how could I not be grateful for that? It is a cumulative result after all. And that is what at that moment, on that run, that I stumbled into. And honored.

So bring on the rain.

It always stops eventually. And therein lies the cyclical and profound purpose of it all.

One blessed journey through the ever changing seasons of this blessed, unpredictable, and surprisingly beautiful . . .

. . . life.

It's Chapter Sixty Nine Time! Men and Women: Complicated and Upside Down, and not in a Good Way

“I am becoming a lesbian. Men suck.”

I love texting. So concise. So honest. So . . in the moment.

My only saving grace is that I actually sent this whining to a male friend. He responded immediately with, “Women are not much better.”

Sigh.

Oh, he’s right. We all suck. Every one of us, regardless of gender. We screw up, we disappoint, and when things get complicated or confusing we just run away. But I must confess the junk I am bitching about most loudly possesses irony that is not lost on me.

Case in point last month I sent a text to someone I thought I was over. (Oh, I know, so dumb, I already realize this. Please, no emails chastising me for the dumbness of it all. Well aware, well aware.)

The minute I send it I get a text from someone I wish would leave me alone. I am not shitting you, like within 30 seconds I am transported to the flip side of relationship land. I sigh. Loudly.

Only me. Only me . . .

So I don’t get a response to the heartfelt message I sent.

But the guy who texted me, I don’t even consider responding to.

I am both perpetrator and victim. Nice.

When I told another guy friend about my experience later, he had some candid thoughts. (I know. My life is like “When Harry met Sally.” Except that I have so many guy friends my version would be called, “When Every Tom, Dick, and Harry met Sally.” And you know what else? It gets worse. My Harrys are all cute. At least in that cult classic the character was played by Billy Crystal. Are ya kiddin’ me? I’d just be his friend too. Billy’s short and balding. Funny and witty, but still, short and balding. My guys are all hot. I think this is worse. So forget the prior analogy, my life is like, “When Brad Pitt, Orlando Bloom, and George Clooney met Sally.” Only in my version, Sally remains eternally platonic with these gorgeous gods forever. Forget comedy. With a cast like this, my movie is utterly tragic. Someone hand me some Puffs with lotion, I am starting to depress myself . . . )

Sorry for the dude digression.

As I was saying:

So . . . the verdict from one of my purely platonic pals with a penis on the silent treatment I was the recipient of was bluntly delivered in the old reliable “I am a man and I do not believe in too many adjectives” style.

Basically, he looked at me and stated oh-so matter-oh-factly,

“He’s a dick, Audra. Forget him.”

I sigh again, (damn, is it just me or am I sighing a lot lately?), and debate the stark black and white and make the case for grey, “No, he’s not a dick, he just has nothing to say.”

My guy friend just looks at me for just a few seconds.

And then grunts, again,

“Dick.”

I refuse to surrender to his assessment. Because what about the silent treatment I dished out to the guy I had no interest in? Does that make me a dick too?

“Not the same.”

“Oh really,” I respond, buoyed momentarily that I am going to come out of this looking good, “and why is that?”

“Because he was a freak. I’d have ignored him too.”

I do not feel better. Basically I am being told that I am pining for a guy who is a dick and in the meantime I am attracting freaks. Or worse yet, I am acting like a freak when it comes to my contacting the guy who, according to my friend not me, is a dick.

This is not uplifting.

Not uplifting at all.

“And how is this supposed to make me feel better?” I demand.

“What? Why not?”

My male muse is lost. He does not see my logic. At this moment I am clearly wearing my Team Venus gear and he is clearly in all Martian attire. I begin to wonder if there is any hope at all that the great gender communication cavern will ever one day be bridged.

“What?” he says again.

I just smile, pat his hand, lie through my teeth and say, “Thank you for the insight. You’re right, I do feel better.”

But the truth is I just don’t think there’s hope.

Because what the hell is hopeful about a world where women pine for men who act like dicks and the freaks keep running after the women who make freaks of themselves in pursuit of the dicks?

Huh?

If this is our reality then we are all just screwed. Completely. Utterly. Unabashedly.

Screwed.

And you know what? Forget my lesbian plan. Women are a part of this messed up sucky equation too. Because obviously, as my first guy friend stated, we are not much better.

I am going asexual amoeba.

Because if I know anything it is this, I do not suck. Well, not to myself.

(But I bet if you asked the guy who is still waiting for me to respond to his texts? Yeah, he might disagree.)