Chapter Eighty Five; You Dated Who? When? What? (Or What I Like to call Bad Flashback to High School)

I am speechless.

Believe it.

And.

Becoming a lesbian.

Okay. Don’t believe that.

But what you really won't believe is this zero degrees of seperation story.

Once upon a time, roughly five weeks ago, back in the GOOD old DAYS, when my life was mundane. And nun like. The highlight was the occasional flirty text from my good old buddy, the ER Greek god (ERGG). (Refer to Chapter 37 for the whole story there).

Fine. He’s flirty. Fine. Harmless.

Well, I have no idea how, but I nonchalantly mention ERGG to a new girlfriend of mine. Probably clearly as an illustration that my life is so dull on the dating front that the only blip on the radar is the occasional “Hey, pretty lady” text from him.

And she does this when I mention his name:

GASP!

Then her mouth hangs open.

Then she says, “What? He texts you that stuff?” I hesitantly confirm yepperooni, he does. Her eyes narrow as she processes and then bursts, “But he’s dating MY FRIEND!”

And then I do this:

GASP!

And then my mouth hangs open.

Because boys with girlfriends should not send flirty texts to other girls. This is called “How not to be a Dick” 101 if any guy out there missed registering for that life lesson.

That night I fight the urge to execute plans that include words like frame or blackmail (this ain't the movies) and decide to just confront ERGG with the ah HA! truth.

I text him:

"Hey."

He promptly shoots back:

"Hey, what's up, babe?"

“Not much. How's the girlfriend?"

Silence. For, oh, five minutes. And then . . .

"Uh, girlfriend?"

"Yeah. Girlfriend."

“Whoops.”

Uh…yeah.

Whoops is right.

I rip him a new one and he apologizes. I say fine. He wants to stay friends. I say fine again. Flirt away if you’re single but good gawd, if you start dating someone?

Icksnay on the irtflay.

And he promises to obey these ground rules.

Sigh.

Men.

(And hell yeah I’m keeping him around as a harmless texting palarama. Did you miss the part about him being a Greek god? Hello? Oh, and okay, I do enjoy his friendship. I confess. Plus, the guy has muscles and a pick up. He’s at the top of my “move a heavy piece of furniture for Audra” list. This is necessary in the life of a single woman.)

Strangely enough, he and the girlfriend actually break up shortly after so that was that.

So.

Onto my “This town ain’t big enough fer the both of us” tale . . .

La la la la la. So here I am, innocently and foolishly drifting through life. Fall into a hole with "So NOT the List Man" (SNLM) and whatever. Not revisiting that part. (Refer to Chapter 79 for that scooparama.)

But.

BUT.

Get this.

Back track just momentarily to the girl who SNLM claims he was “just dancing with” in chapter 80? Remember?

Yeah.

I find out dancing girl is . . . the same girl who was dating ERGG when he was sending flirty texts to me!

I shit.

You not.

So. Are you following this?

Here’s the recap if I lost ya:

Five weeks ago dancing girl was dating ERGG and he was flirting with me. Two weeks later I am seeing SNLM and he is flirting with dancing girl.

Get it? Got it?

Good. Grief.

All the sudden I feel like I am in some kinky love trapezoid.

Ew.

Now let’s all link arms and start singing: “It’s a small world after all . . .”

I am half tempted to suggest we all turn gay. SNLM and ERGG can get together and this girl and I can hook up and the circle will be complete.

Either that or I propose a foursome.

Okay, not going there either.

(She's not my type.)

So that's the "Am I in high school again?" story that has left me dumbfounded and for once in my life?

Practically speechless.

(I say practically because notice I am typing it all out here.)

I guess in this complex and confusing single world, as we all just try to navigate a perplexing labyrinth of false starts and promising new discoveries, we are bound to trip over one another from time to time.

And in the end?

Well, there's really nothing left to say but . . .

Whoops.

***************************************
I wrote this up a couple weeks ago but it was too fresh at the time to publish. Because of course, yes, I can spit out a silly essay on the too close for comfort twist but the reality behind the irony is that this was not a party for everyone involved. Kinda sucked. The follow up to this is that in the end? ERGG has been a good friend to me and a good listener throughout the drama. Now then, that's lucky for me because I do have a piano that may need moving someday. . .

Chapter Eighty Four; Never Under Estimate the Power of Self Help Crapola

“Every day is a new life to the wise man.”

I read this quote the other day embedded in one of Dale Carnegie’s classic self help/change your life/read this for emotional health books. And in true Dale style, the quote was the cornerstone of a story about a woman who used these words as a ladder to climb out of a pit of grief.

This woman had experienced some adversity. Oh just the usual. Husband croaked. Lost her job. Got a little cancer.

You know. A typical Monday.

Yeah, not so much.

Obviously after that generous helping from the tragedy buffet she was on the verge of losing her mind.

Who wouldn’t be?

I’d imagine I would just be in a fetal position in the corner, myself.

But these words resonated with her. They picked her up and shook her into the realization that the losses of yesterday can not be undone; no amount of mourning will resurrect them. Every day is not only just a new day. It is a new chance.

A new life.

Apparently this little phrase had the power to rescue her from paralyzing depression. To stop looking backward, and to start looking forward. To stop sinking under the weight of the cross she was carrying, and to put it down.

To move on.

One new day at a time.

The story ends with her not only persevering through that tumultuous chapter in her life but giving much of the credit for it to those simple words.

Hmmmm.

Well, now. I read this story and I think. Good god. I don’t have nearly anything that shitty going on in my life. Lately, my biggest drama has been guy related.

Everything else is clicking along for me. Kids are great. Job is great. I am in the best shape of my life, and that’s a good thing too. Even my ex-husband is not nearly the pill he used to be.

Check, check, check, and check.

I started feeling pretty lucky.

And so I decided in order to keep this perspective, I put these inspiring words on the chalkboard in my kitchen. And I now read them daily as I sip my coffee in the morning sun.

And as I do I vow to myself that as the next twenty-four hours unfold, I will grasp the good that they offer. Because life only comes, last time I checked, one moment at a time.

And I’ll be damned if I am going to let myself get so distracted by the stuff that didn’t go so well yesterday that I allow myself to miss the good stuff happening to me today.

So bring on the junk.

Because this wise woman knows that tomorrow it's history anyway.

So I will just enjoy my java. Read my scrawled in chalk wisdom.

And smile to myself as I look forward not to just another new day.

But to a pretty damn blessed and happy.

New life.

Chapter Eighty Three; Out of Context Conversation Snippets

I seriously would never be able to pull a Tom Hanks in Castaway. I would never survive.

The desert island thing? I could do. Hello? Bikini? Beach? I am so there.

But the all by my lonesome with no one to blab with thing?

Nada.

Let’s just say Wilson the soccer ball would never cut it for me.

I need my girlfriends.

Without them, my proverbial life rafts, I know for a fact I would soon be submerged by life’s responsibilities, dragged beneath the waves of unexpected adversity, and swept away on a current of confusion.

They keep me from drowning. They keep me afloat.

And.

They keep me laughing.

Here’s a few snippets from some of my conversations with these women this week. And I am not going to reveal who said what when or in what context. I am just sharing sound bite glimpses into the chicks who infuse my life with absolute insanity, which ironically?

Keeps me sane.

1. The “Genital Warts What If” Conversation

“Holy crap, yeah. I would never want to mess with that. Let me tell ya. At this age, if I stumbled upon that shit, I don’t care how naked and hot it was, you could bet it would go a little something like this:

Whoa.

Hold it.

Time out. Time OUT.

Get off me!

What the hell is that?

Flood light.

Magnifying Glass.

Tourniquet.

Scalpel.

Acid.

Okay, buddy, now count backward from one hundred.”

2. The “Where is my Period? Has Anyone seen my Period?” Conversation

“You can not be pregnant. Do your boobs hurt?”

“I don’t think so . . .”

“Well find out! Hit them.”

“Hit them?”

“You heard me. Give ‘em a good punch.”

“Ow!”

“Well?”

“Well, what?”

“Do they hurt?”

“They do now!!!”

3. The “Deciphering Orientation” Conversation

“So his friend, who is English or Scottish, or some kind of “ish”, says to me, “My friend fancies you. He is wondering if you would be free to accompany him to the cinema.”

“Alright, that’s . . . kind of hot actually. That whole accent deal.”

“Yeah, but gay.”

“It’s not gay. The guy is British.”

“Like I said. Gay.”

“So what did you say?”

“I said I would consider it. He seemed normal. Professional. Possibly intelligent.”

“Well, that was two days ago. What has happened since?”

“Oh, yeah, well, I went to the strip bar a couple days later and saw him there in the front row.”

“Nice. So much for professional and intelligent.”

“What are you talking about? I am so thrilled he isn’t gay!”


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

And so, dear readers, if you chuckled, guffawed, or snickered at all . . . welcome to a day in the life of Audra.

And a little glimpse into the women and words . . .

. . . that keep me floating, and laughing, on this turbulent sea of life.

*************
P.S. No one in my circle has an STD . . . I am not pregnant (whoops,I mean "no one in my circle of friends" is pregnant) . . . and don't ask me why Naomi went to the strip club! (Oh, did I just type her name out loud?!?!?!)

Chapter Eight Two; The Music of Moments and How Falling Head Over Heels Knocked me on my Ass

Life unfurls so simplistically.

One.

Moment.

At.

A time.

Yet ironically, the complexities of life are a compilation of these seemingly innocent and effortless instants. Like haphazard quarter notes, our moments string together to form the chords, songs, and ultimately the soundtracks, of our lives.

And if we don’t like the melodies? Well, there’s no one else to blame.

For we are all both composer and conductor of our own songs.

And right now I am looking back at the events of the past few weeks of my dating life, listening to the tune, and thinking to myself, “Who the hell wrote this crap?”

Oh.

Yeah. That would be me.

You see, I had some drama. Nothing horrendous. No one died. But take it from me. The age old adages used to describe infatuation, "falling for someone," "getting a crush," or being "head over heels" are more literal than figurative. Notice all of these analogies suggest behavior that ends in injury. And I do not believe this is accidental.

Because I fell for someone head over heels, got crushed, and landed squarely on my Rock N Republic ass.

Ouch.

And then?

Well, I did what everyone does when something hurts. I cried. And you know what? Bawling is not my favorite pasttime.

Call me crazy.

In the end, the truth is I am not proud of some of my decisions in this story. I trusted too soon. Gave too much too fast. And didn’t protect myself from . . . myself.

Too often people want to blame others for our own fate. Like little children, we want to say, “But he made me do it!”

You know what that is? That’s bullshit.

No one makes you do anything.

I made choices. And the consequences are connected simply to my decisions. No one else’s.

When is life supposed to get easy again? Apparently 36 years isn’t enough time to figure much out if my life is any kind of sampling.

So that’s that.

Here I am. Looking back in time, turning back the clock a few weeks. And trying to unravel the moments that led to my writing such depressingly pathetic music.

Because I plan on deleting this track from my life’s playlist. Instead, I am going sit back down at that keyboard of life. Take some responsibility and learn from my mistakes.

And write a new song.

And you know how I am going to write this one?

One note. One chord.

And one moment.

At a time.

We interrupt our regularly scheduled program . . .

. . . to bring you a reprieve from my ranting.

I am out of town on business. The blogarama will have to wait.

I apologize for the delay. I will be back on Monday, dear fans! In the meantime, check out my latest self portrait. I liked the lighting in my Las Vegas bathroom plus how my hair turned out.

I feel 13 years old sharing this picture, but hey, the only person's dignity I ever sacrifice on the blog is MINE. So here's my latest "How dumb is this?" Audra moment.

Enjoy!

~Audra

P.S. Okay, I think I like this pic. I am making this my Facebook profile. If I look like an idiot, oh well, what else is new. I write about my life on the internet. I think I flushed my public image down the proverbial toilet months ago so what the flip have I got to lose?
P.P.S. Don't even think about robbing my house. I have an Alarm System people! Men with guns show up in two minutes flat. (Plus my neighbors never go anywhere and are incredibly attentive. Which makes living an interesting life kind of challenging sometimes but nevermind that . . . )

Chapter Eighty; Banana Republic Therapy and my Dignity Debacle (The Truth Behind the Psycho)

Here’s me today. Having a religious experience at Banana Republic.

Channeling Posh Spice.

(You know: Victoria Beckham? That chick who really needs a hamburger or twelve? Only I don't actually aspire to her emaciation. Because I believe that a day’s calories should consist of more than just three breath mints and a slice of turkey. Hence the size four I am wearing in this pic would be ginormous on her size ZERO frame. And really. What is with that? Zero? Does that make her invisible? I think it may. Screw that. I’m proud of the fact that when I walk into a room people aren’t tempted to use me as a coat rack. Plus damn, check out my runner’s calves. I digress.)

Back to my shopping therapy.

See those sunglasses?

Yeah. $120.

And hell yes I freakin’ bought them.

And the dress.

And the shoes.

Ah.

I feel better.

Oh, why the Banana attack?

Oh, I don’t know. No reason.

Nevermind the fact that I get on Facebook today and see pictures of Mr. List Man on my news feed kanoodling with some chick mere days after ending the deal with me.

Wtf?

Isn’t there some mandatory mourning period? Some respectable timeline? Hell, I’d take a week. Good gawd, can I have a week? What is with this smiling a mere six days later? I squint at the fun-filled frolicking photographic evidence taunting me on the screen. And think to myself, "Holy crap, that is the same sweater he was wearing dancing with me just a few weeks ago! What. The . . ."

And besides that.

Who the hell is Catherine?!?!?!

I instantaneously regress to my inner 16-year-old and text So Not the List Man exactly what I think of that crappola, all the while sprinkling in words like asshole, jerk, and player into my digital “AH HA!” And write some tell all statement on his Facebook wall.

Oh yeah.

I lost it.

Have you met my alter ego? Super Psycho?

Good gawd. I am so embarassed.

Because then he actually replies and he has a good story that clearly illustrates.

That the only jerk in this story?

Is overreative Audra.

So then I do the only other thing I can when I shred my dignity into tiny pieces all by my little self.

I call my mother.

And tell her what an idiot I am.

My mother agrees.

Thanks, Mom. Thanks a lot.

I can always count on my Mom to give it to me straight. My Mom is a farmer’s wife. She’s tougher than cow’s hide and fiercer than a rabid skunk.

So when I sense I need a life intervention, or just a good kick in the proverbial ass, I count on the woman who made me shovel grain bins, clean the barn, and weed the garden (and other ridiculous farm kid enslavement activities known under the legal term “chores”) to tell it to me straight.

So she does.

First she tells me I should be ashamed of myself for not getting the story from him first before hitting the ceiling. And that she feels sorry for “the kid” (as she calls him. Argh . . . ).

Then she tells me if I don’t start dating men born in the same decade as me that I had better get used to playing the fool.

Sigh.

Fine.

And then she kind of chuckles and adds, “And if you really think this is a problem, then stop botoxing, cut your hair and gain fifty pounds. That will solve your young stud situation.”

(Clearly, it is apparent where I got my “smart ass” genetics.)

I blab to that woman for an hour and in the end I feel a lot better. She does also say that she will always support me no matter what. Even on the age thing. Twenty or Fifty. If I am happy she’s fine with it, but if I am going to take a chance, then that means taking a chance.

And chances aren’t guarantees.

If they were they’d be called “sure things.”

And you can’t ever get to a sure thing, if you don’t take a chance or two.

I am so grateful God didn't give me the kind of mother who will blow smoke up my old enough to know better ass.

I hang up feeling a little stupid, definitely a lot embarrassed, but yet still lucky that I can be honest with at least one person on this planet and know she’ll still love me. Even when I am lost and over reacting and faaaaaaaaaaaaaaaar too emotional.

But I am still a ashamed. And maybe still questioning Not the List Man's story. Argh...so confusing.

Hence, the shoparama excursion.

Because this last little journey into guy land may have ended in a dignity debacle.

But it wasn’t a total loss.

Because I just did some sweet damage at Banana Republic.

And Posh Spice and can eat her own heart out. (She needs the calories anyway.)
*********************
P.S. I did not cut my hair, it is called a pony tail. I had been traveling earlier in the day. Who does their hair for the airport?
P.P.S. Here's a public apology to the poor guy who I subjected to the texting tirade and the Facebook temper tantrum. I am very sorry. Hopefully the public form is an illustration of my sincerity.

Chapter Seventy Nine; My Dream Guy and Susie's Love List

I have been thinking a lot lately about a phone conversation Susie and I had last winter when we were both in the midst of post-divorce drama.

And wondering what our new undefined life would hold.

And what the heck it really meant to be divorced.

And single.

Scary.

But we glossed over that scary with total pain bonding. And a whole lot of laughing.

We bantered by cell often and one of our more memorable conversations has floated to the top of my consciousness this past week. One where Susie, breathless with excitement, proclaimed her newest plan for our gettin' on with the movin' on.

“Get this!" she blurts before I can even get to the lo of my hello. "I gotta tell you this!"

She doesn't even wait for me to say okay. In true Suze style she simply unleashes her latest Divorce Land revelation into my ear drum, "So I am standing in the Wal-Mart checkout tonight, running around like a mad woman after piano and football, argh, crazy day, and I see this Oprah magazine and I can’t stand Oprah but I see this article on the cover about a love list and I think to myself, oh well, I love love, and I love lists so let’s read this baby while I am in line!”

She rambles on and I just do what I always do in a Susie cell phone ambush.

Say, “Uh huh,” and “Really."

A lot.

And let’er fly.

She continues, “So this article, seriously, it’s amazing. It’s about a woman who, like us, went through a divorce. And she was alone for a long time and then one day she went to see this guru or this someone or this fortune woman, I don’t know what the hell, some lady who is some love expert chick,” she stops for one tenth of a nanosecond to catch her breath and then rushes on, “Who tells her, if you want to find love you have to make a list.”

“Okay . . .” I finally interject into her verbal hurricane.

She surges on. (Maybe I can sneak in a "Really?" here in a minute . . .)

“So it’s just so cool but check this out, the love chick lady says you have to make a list of a hundred things you are looking for in a guy and the woman is like what? A hundred? No way!"

(Alright, forget my "Really" aspirations, she's on a roll.)

"And the lady says yes, a hundred. List the traits of your dream man, from what color socks he wears to his favorite foods, to his personality, to his looks, to his values, all of it. Just list it all.”

“And you’re reading this whole article in the Wal-Mart checkout?” I finally managed to squeeze in a complete sentence, miracle of miracles.

“Uh huh, and I was speed reading man, kinda sorta skimming because I was so inta this list idea but the line was moving super fast.”

I laugh,“You could have bought the magazine, Suze.”

“Oh yuck, I hate Oprah, I would never buy Oprah,” she announces, as if the mere suggestion of her purchasing an O magazine proves I have lost my blonde mind, “But so," she continues, "I am checking out and I am reading super fast but I got the gist of the story so I had to call you and tell you because it’s just so cool and I am so excited!”

She breathes again and then goes on to explain the rest of the article, “So the woman follows the instructions and writes the list. She is amazed that she could come up with 100 things so effortlessly but she does. And then she does what the guru/love lady tells her to do, she puts the list away. “You are to just put the list away, don’t think about it again,” were her instructions. So she does. She writes the list. She puts it away. And then she forgets about it. Then a year goes by and -”

I interject, “A year goes by? What the hell? How is this inspiring?”

“Shut up! Stop interrupting, it’s cool!”

“Hey, this is my first time interrupting,” I say, giggling defensively and then add, “But I am thinking three-hundred-sixty-five days with no development is not selling me on the list deal.”

“Oh whatever, shut up and listen, year shcmear, you’re missing the point!”

Suze continues to yap about her love list discovery as if she has just discovered the 8th wonder of the world and I listen intently waiting for that climactic ah ha moment that this, please God tell me, story should lead up to.

She is still talking.

“And so, like I said, a year goes by, and she meets this wonderful man. And they date and they fall in love and he is amazing. But then something goes wrong and they are going to break up…and it’s awful, and they’re having a fight and she thinks it’s over but then, then!” Suze screeches for dramatic effect, “She remembers the list! She goes to her bedroom, gets out the list and throws it at him and says, “You can’t leave me, you are everything I ever dreamed of! I wrote this list a year ago and you hit it all, you hit it all!”

She finally stops.

And I articulate the only thought that comes to my mind in the wake of this story synopsis.

“Wait a minute, she didn’t get out the list until after they’d been together that long? What was the freaking hold up?”

“Argh!” Susie sighs in aggravation, “Shut up, point misser of the universe, I’m not done. So he opens up the pages and he reads the list and he sits down and begins to cry. He reads the whole thing and then he looks up at her and says,

“You got everything but two. I hit all of these but two.”

By this time Suzie is practically screaming in my ear, “98! He was 98 of the qualities on her list of 100! Can you even believe it?”

“Are you done now?”

“What do you mean am I done now? That is some cool ass shit, I thought you’d be so excited!”

“Oh, come on," I whine, "If you build him he will come? Gimme a break already. This is fabricated crap."

(Let's just say I was a little bit of a pessimist last winter. Okay a lot a bit.)

“Fine, be a boy buzz killer. I am going to be positive and inspired. I am driving home right now from Wal-Mart as we speak and as soon as I get these munchkins of mine off to bed I am writing down my 100."

And then.

She adds dramatically:

You.

Are.

Too.

I just chuckle and think to myself, yeah, whatever. I am too.

Not.

Lame.

Never.

Four days go by and the woman is relentless on this list shit. Freakin' possessed by the list nazi.

I get inquisitive voicemails.

“Have you written your list yet?"

I get demanding voicemails.

“Write your list!”

I get text messages. That say simply:

"List!"

Oh good gawd.

Fine.

A week later I sit down at my computer.

Open up Microsoft Word.

And type.

1. Funny

And then . . .

2. 6’ Tall, Dark hair (What? Hello? Call me crazy but my fantasy man is not 4'11" with a pink faux hawk. I know, so shallow of me . . .)

And then the rest just comes.

And I type away.

3. Likes to dance
4. Catholic
5. Comes from a big family
6. Likes and supports my writing
7. Sings to me
8. Understands Sarcasm
9. Cool but nerdy underneath
10. Grew up on a farm like I did

And in about ten minutes I was at 100.

Surprisingly, it wasn’t that hard. Once I started thinking about it, I realized, I knew exactly what I wanted.

Huh.

Perty kewl.

I fold up my dream man and put him in the glove compartment of my mid-life crisis sports car.

Seemed like a good place for him. Maybe someday he'll magically show up in my front seat and we can make out.

Fast forward to today.

One year later.

Almost exactly.

Susie has been dating her love list dude, my friend, Brian, for ten months. I shit you not. And I think he's about a 92 on her list. It's freaking nuts.

They met at a party I threw at my house last January. Next to my fridge, actually. And this summer, I joked to Susie that I would like to add, “Meet the man of my dreams in my kitchen” to my list. Hey, as long as I was aiming for what seemed like the impossible in the first place, why not?

Um.

Be careful what you wish for.

Because I threw another party a few weeks ago, and a dark haired six foot sarcastically funny Catholic guy sauntered into . . .

. . . you guessed it.

My kitchen.

Damn.

And over the course of the next few weeks?

He pretty much was the list.

Nailing it, actually. One by one. The more I got to know him.

The scarier it got.

Now stop reading right here if you are breathlessly anticipating some happily ever after. Because this is me, remember? Yeah. Exactly.

Because unfortunately . . .

I forgot to put one important item on that list of mine:

Birthday.

Me and my list man version 1.0 don’t align well with conventional cultural norms. In other words we'd have to start referring to each other as Ashton and Demi if this were really going to work.

Sigh.

So goes my life.

(And oh yeah, trust me, it was all I could do not to step out into my front yard and shake my fist at the sky cursing God for the taunting already.)

So maybe he wasn’t my love list guy after all. I don’t know. Who knows. Doesn’t appear likely and I am a firm believer in not forcing life but letting it unfold. But sweet mother of France . . . was he amazing. Is amazing. Are you kidding me? My list come to life? Uh, yeah. I think I could survive the cougar ridicule if he decided to give my crazy life a try. But I also had "smart" on my list and, yeah, well, he hit that too. Nuff said.

(Did I mention "hot" was also on my list?...damn...oh, and "good kisser?", actually make that "melt me into a puddle with a kiss kisser" . . . oh . . . my . . .)

Oh. Sorry.

Drifted off there for a minute.

(Excuse me while I just sit here and sigh for a second or ten.)

. . . Ahhh . . .

Um, where was I, again?

Oh yeah, as I was saying (typing), for whatever its worth, I am realizing that even if he was not the one I am waiting for, Susie was absolutely right to insist that I write that list.

This is my life. And these are my dreams and my standards. And far too important to be compromised.

The last real boyfriend I had? Yeah, he didn’t really hit that list. I confess. I am actually pretty sure his score would have been something like 40/100, which is a big fat F if I were going to grade him.

And I am not going to settle for a failing grade when it comes to love.

So I’ll keep looking. And if and when my list guy arrives?

I will know.

Because if he is the one the only letter grade he'll score.

Is an A.

For Audra's . . . dream come true.

Celebrating History in the Making: President Obama

A friend of mine lives in Chicago and he snapped this shot last night at Grant Park.

I think many of us wanted to climb a light post and wave an American flag like the woman in this picture.

Here's to America! We ARE ALL winners today.

Photo by Adam Callow

Chapter Seventy Eight; Cigarettes, Snot and Team Pandora

“See this shirt?” I smirk and point the question to Ted, the guy across the table from me, “It says Team Bonita. Not. Team Ted.”

Ted and Bonita are my friends. And they are breaking up after a year-long romance. And Bonita sat on my front step and bawled for, oh, like two hours or something the night before. (I still have her snot on the shoulder of my t-shirt if you want me to produce the evidence from my laundry pile.)

So let’s just say I wasn’t too happy to see Ted when he sauntered up to our table last weekend.

Mix those circumstances all together with a couple of drinks on my part, shake well, and . . .Viola! My instant smart ass takes over.

Our friends swoop in and gloss things over after my bitchy commentary but I still decide to scratch my face with my middle finger as I absently glance around the room avoiding eye contact with Ted.

What?

You’d have done the same thing.

But the truth is that was a booze induced reaction on my part. The sober and thinking version of Audra knows full well people are too complex, too grey. The only place you can find black and white is on a piano.

Ted has his feelings and Bonita has hers. Honestly, they’re both good people. I hate that their relationship is ending and that I have had a front row seat to some of that pain, but unless one of them is Jesus, they both contributed to something that in the end they could not build a future on.

It is sad and it sucks but if we didn’t have this element of humanity song writers and poets would be up shit crick because they’d have zippo for material.

Emotion is the architecture of our souls. Our logic gets us through our days and our lives and our jobs but our emotions are what make us feel alive.

Or sometimes, like Bonita . . .

. . . like we’re dying.

She came over again to talk a few days later.

She smoked a cigarette. I poured two glasses of wine. And we sat on my brick steps once again in the autumn air and watched the sun set through the towering elm trees on my street.

She cried.

I cried.

I tried to make her laugh.

She chuckled through her tears.

And then she cried some more.

But I just held my friend and let her sob it all out, “Shhh . . . it’s okay, I know, I know,” I muttered timeless fragments of comfort. The mother in me did for my grown up girlfriend what I do for my little girl after she falls off her bike. Although Bonita's fall can't be fixed with a bandaid and a boo boo kiss.

All I can do for her pain is simply sit next to her.

Because Bonita and Ted aren’t going to make it.

But that doesn’t mean love doesn’t win.

Ending relationships that weren’t meant to last in the first place is exactly the path that can lead us to that authentic life and the love we are all searching for. It can be a painful and faltering journey, as love and loss are so entwined. So much so that many people become too jaded and give up completely. Resigning themselves to a life of solitude and likening even trying to date as opening Pandora’s box. Not worth unleashing that much sorrow.

But people forget that in Greek mythology, yes, Pandora’s box contained ills, toils and sickness . . . but most importantly it also contained hope.

I tell Bonita all this.

And she nods silently.

And thanks me for listening. For not judging. For not bashing Ted in the end. For trying to help her look through this fog to see a happier future.

But for now all I can do is drink wine with her in the cool fall air, get more of her snot on my shoulder, and whisper silly jokes in her ear as she cries.

Because there is only one team I want to be on in this life.

The hopeful one. The one that doesn't give up. The one that goes through the crap but does not waver in its belief that through suffering comes clarity and life lessons that lead to authenticity.

Team Pandora.

The promise that even our painful paths can lead us . . .

. . . to love.