Divorce Land Credits

To those of you who faithfully followed my Divorce Land adventures, as I end an era and say goodbye, here is simple proof that . . .

I did not make this shit up.

In other words.

I have pictures.

I'll start with the most recent events and go backward documenting some of Divorce Land's more memorable moments. (Oh, and yeah . . . I have a tall dark and handsome addiction. So enjoy the eye candy. I did!)

~Audra

I shall start with "So NOT the List Man" and "Dancing Girl." He's hot but his face doesn't deserve to be in this. Let's just relive his reaction to this photo for a moment when it came into my newsfeed on Facebook, "What? I barely know her!?!?!?"

Ah hem.

Yeah. Whatever. Thanks for the cyber knife to the heart.

Moving on . . .

Here is a happier moment . . . my friends and I out on the town posing with Santa. (I just paid a lot of money for those jeans, hence my ass flaunting.) Sonja is the one in the stripes. The other two gals are not Divorce Land girls, but they are dear dear friends whose love and support has kept me afloat on more than one occasion.

Here's a picture of me and my "crew" enjoying a summer night. (Martini anyone?) What is most hilarious about this picture, is it included DR. DUCK if anyone remembers that story! Sonja (in the pink) is snuggled up against him so I am thinking she must have been slightly intoxicated. Julia is on the other side of him and must be feeling just as "happy." I am the one in the green sandwiched in the corner.

And of course, I can't leave my friend "Kris" out of this. He was the one with the crazy Canadian couch surfers...oh, and Susie's "Eye Candy Adventure" . . .her former student, remember? Kris and I subsequently became good friends. He has promised to be "Maid of Honor" if I ever get hitched again. He is da bomb. (Gotta love the shoe phone . . . )


SWEET MOTHER OF FRANCE The Divorce Land credits just wouldn't be complete without a picture of my Emergency Room Greek God (ERGG). Isn't he adorable? Yeah. And, okay, I never put this detail in the blog but it's true. I did date him for a brief period of time . . . I confess. He continues to be a good friend, he even took me to dinner to cheer me up after I was crushed by So NOT the List Man. Yes, his inside is as beautiful as his outside. ERGG harbors professional baseball dreams, so stay tuned. I hope to be a fan in the stands at the World Series someday!

Of course, I have to include a picture of the last two Divorce Land Girls, Susie and Annie. Smiley Susie Sunshine, smiling as usual, and eternally optimistic little Annie. Here they are last winter, shocking there aren't martinis in this picture . . .

And last but not least, me and my Dating Land Traveling Companion (DLTC) last winter at a party I threw at my house. Even though Susie's arm is in this one, I love this picture of us . . . because I look happy. It's proof to me that that relationship was real for me. Because the smile on my face certainly isn't fake. In the end, it didn't go how I was hoping it would, but I'll forever be grateful that if I was going to fall for anyone at that time in my life, that it was him. A nice and decent guy. My snowboarding guitar hero playing deer steak making electrical (not mechanical) engineer. Who inadvertently rescued me from myself when he told me that the only reason his grandparents even have cell phones is to find each other at the mall,and that that is the kind of marriage he wants someday, too.

The guy I will always and forever remember, and never ever forget.

So that is the candid camera evidence to back it all up.

I hope you enjoyed the ride!

And now, DL fans . . . I am going on to one place and one place only:

Act Two

Roll the credits . . .

(Fade to black . . . play the happy song . . .)

The.

End.

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 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 Forty Seven; When Canadians Attack. (Or just Sleep on your Sofa.)

“Can you pick me up? Couch surfing Canadians don’t have room in their car,” read the text message from one of my newest, and most intriguing, friends, Kris.

It is really interesting the twists and turns life can take, the characters who filter in and out of our own biographies. Our lives are just stories in the end, with the largest and most important aspect consisting of the people whose presences unexpectedly weave into the fabric of our own.

Oh sure, for the most part we definitely have some level of control. For those of us lucky enough to live in the free world we have a say in who we marry (and divorce, in my case), where we choose to work and live,and what kind of activities fill the twenty-fours in each of our days.

But those are just the settings for life’s screenplay.

The cast of characters is another story entirely.

None of us hold auditions for our neighbors, co-workers, and the random people who seemingly stumble into our lives only to unexpectedly enrich them with friendships we don't know how we could have ever lived without. Ironically, these starring roles end up being played by people who arrived on the scene by sheer coincidence and the perplexing surprise that is serendipity.

And we are so often blessed because of it.

My friend, Kris, is one of those blessings for me.

I met him months ago in a mundane way: at the gym. And by some odd coincidental mixture of shared interests, friends, and basically just being at the same place at the same time often enough, we have become good friends this summer. Our values are very similar, and if there are any discrepancies between them, I absolutely confess it is because his are higher than mine.

On top of the fact that if he were Catholic I would petition Rome for his canonization, he is absolutely the coolest weirdo I have ever met.

Last Thursday night is a perfect example.

Shortly after receiving said text about sofa surfing strangers, I head out to pick him up as requested.

And why does he need a ride?

And what the hell is the story about the Canadians?

Well, he needs a lift because it is storming out and he only has a bike at the moment. Oh, I know! How lame is that? Totally lame.

Until you consider the fact that he has intentionally chosen not to fix his car so he can instead spend all of his money on a six week trip to China to immerse himself in another culture and learn the language.

Is that not cool or what? Oh, come on! It’s way cool.

It’s so damn cool I have to reach for a sweater every time I think about it.

In fact, shivering now.

As for the Canadians . . .

They are complete strangers he met on the Internet because he signed up on some obscure website to participate in some completely nut ball concept called “couch surfing.”

Don’t worry, I needed this explained to me as well.

Apparently you can literally register your couch on the web as a free place for nomadic strangers to crash. Kris thought this sounded like a fantastic thing to do.

Hence, two tattooed Canadian chicks are staying at his house tonight on their way to Halifax.

Yep. That’s pretty damn weird.

I totally agree.

But kinda cool too, I think?

After all, this is something that literally, only Kris could get away with. If the rest of us tried it, everyone would just think we were just nuts and ridicule us behind our backs.

And so here I am last Thursday, picking up his car-less-China-obsessed-Internet-trusting-ass, and letting two women from the land of maple leaves and Moosehead beer follow us to our favorite Thursday night hang out.

Let’s just say that since Kris arrived in my social solar system my life got far more interesting, to say the least.

We end up having a great time. As for what we talked about, let's just say these two didn't change my perception of Canadians. They were quite liberal. Case in point: I learned the hard way that if the topic of body piercing comes up in conversation and you do not actually see that this person has any obvious places pierced (nose, ears, even eyebrow) do NOT ask where these elusive pierced areas are.

Trust me.

You do not want to know.

The next day I email Kris to see if his hospitality included any waffle making the next morning. And of course, since these women were Internet strangers after all (and I've seen far too much Dateline), I wanted to confirm he was not the victim of a crazy international murder spree. Or worse yet, awakened in the middle of the night to find his hands duct taped to his headboard in some twisted cross country involuntary piercing escapade.

He emailed me back right away letting me know that no, he was not murdered. And as for my other theory, he assured me that his being anywhere in the vicinity of a bed with those two was probably not likely as considering how much the girls gushed about how pretty I was after I dropped him off, he was pretty sure they were lesbians.

Okay then.

Enough said there.

But my point is, as you can see, the addition of Kris to my life's cast of characters has instantly made my storyline more colorful. I didn't hold any auditions. He just showed up. Ripped cut off jeans, crazy ideas and all. (Don't even get me started on his scheme for Turkish food.)

So here’s to life’s twists and turns, and the uncontrollable dimensions that end up enriching our lives the most: unexpected friendships, and the arrival of one very cool weirdo in mine.

Couch surfing Canadians and all.

Chapter Forty Three; Divorce Land goes to Vegas!

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

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

So here it is:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So there you have it.

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

Just your average Vegas getaway really.

As for any scandalous fun?

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

. . . hehehehe . . .

. . . never mind!

Viva!

Las Vegas!

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

“I am going to change my name.”

“Oh yeah, to what?”

“I am thinking Susie Lotto. Susie Powerball.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s just true.

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

Here’s how it went down:

One snowy night last December . . .

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

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

I am a good, good friend.

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

“The bowling alley?!?” she slurs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Susie and Kris just stare at each other.

Kris hesitantly asks, “Mrs. Swenson?”

Susie stutters, “Kris Bergstrom?”

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

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

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

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

I have but one response:

HAHAHAHAHAHA!!

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

“Uh, I’m fine, Kris. You?”

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

I love this town and its half degree of separation.

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

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

I think she is hysterical.

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

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

“Oh, come on! It’s harmless!”

“It is gross! I am grossed out!”

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

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

Susie is now hoarse from trying to stifle her screaming.

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

“Quit laughing!” she orders.

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

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

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

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

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

I text her to get her ass over here.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh fine. I promise.

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

So here to you, Mrs. Powerball.

Chapter Thirty Seven; The Adventure of the Innocent Bystanders

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

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

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

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

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

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

This. Was not good.

Not good at all.

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

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

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

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

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

Let’s see. Hmmm. Should we stay?

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

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

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

I decide to hold his hand.

It was the least I could do.

Sonja leans over and gently touches his bicep.

“What the hell are you doing?” I ask.

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

“Oh good god.”

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

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

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

“I think it’s in his front pocket.”

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

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

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

I smirk, “Nice. Skip to the B’s.”

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

“What?”

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

I die. Right there. I just die.

Only us.

Only us.

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

“Who is it?” Sonja asks.

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

Sonja is once again soundlessly writhing in her seat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And absolutely only bystanding.” I add.

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

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

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

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

“You didn’t.”

“Oh, I did. I so. Absolutely did.”