Chapter Ninety; Saying Good Bye and Finding My Voice

If we are lucky, the story of our lives contain several chapters. Both bitter. And sweet.

This year my chapter was not really a chapter, but the end of one and the beginning of another. It was an in between time. A suspension.

Don’t get me wrong, everything in my life this past year post-divorce still went forward. Children grew. Work deadlines were met. And new friendships blossomed. But somewhere beneath the momentum, I felt like life just hit the pause button when I got divorced.

All of the things that had previously composed my identity vanished. Friendships that had seemed so real merely disintegrated into misty memory, to the point where I doubted they had ever existed at all. And I questioned myself for investing so much in something that life could not sustain.

In terms of my existence, I am pretty sure my in-laws just tried to forget I was on this earth at all. I never heard from them again once my husband and I separated.

It was like I just took a big eraser and in one swoosh of legal ink.

My life.

Was gone.

In the aftermath, I grasped fragments of who I was. Like a victim of amnesia being quizzed by the doctors, “Who are you? What do you remember?” I asked myself these questions and hesitantly answered myself with guarded answers, unsure of what was even real and solid any more.

Mom.

Daughter.

Neighbor.

But who ARE you? The voice still asked.

For a few months? I just didn’t know.

And then, one day.

I remembered.

Writer.

I am a writer.

Just prior to my husband and I separating, my first freelance article was published. I should have been ecstatic. My writing aspirations were taking flight, but what should have been a momentous moment was shrouded by divorce darkness.

And my writing endeavors soon disappeared into that black hole.

But now. They were trying to resurrect themselves.

I was haunted.

Writer.

You are a writer.

The voice in my head began to prompt and prod.

I resisted.

And sighed a lot.

I just couldn’t fathom finding the energy to write again. To go through the submission process. To attend workshops and network with editors. To work on my novel. To search for an agent.

I could barely get through my day the way it was.

Who was I kidding? For the past four months, any spare time I had had found me on my couch bawling, and eating a lot of cookie dough. On the weekends I didn’t have my children, I partied like a rock star.

It was either that or stay home and cry.

(Martini comas were far more appealing.)

And then, last January, I read the book, “Eat, Pray, Love,” by Elizabeth Gilbertson. Her literary voice was stunningly similar to my own. You see, every writer has a “voice.” A style that is unique. It’s our soul on the page, and I sensed a kindred spirit when I read Ms. Gilbertson's novel, and connected with her voice. Her quirky wit, coupled with introspective life observations, hit home.

And oh yeah.

Her novel is about her journey through divorce.

Shya Sista.

I could relate.

I devoured that book and wept when it was done. I didn’t want it to end. I read every syllable. Even the book reviews at the end.

Then I Googled the author like a psycho fan.

But I wasn’t searching for any more of her words.

I knew. I was just searching.

For mine.

And so one cold February night I just decided to take a short cut. I would start a blog. I had to have some outlet and this one looked just too damn easy.

I remember staring at the screen and trying to choose a title for this deal. I hated to put the word “divorce” in it. It seemed like all I talked about was divorce. But, the iron clad rule of pen for every writer, to “write what you know,” stalked me and forced me to succumb.

In other words, if you live in Africa and try to fake you are from Ireland when you write. Good luck.

You will suck.

Readers are smart. And they will never buy the concept of a Kenyan leprechaun.

Well, I wasn’t even going to try to pretend I was Irish. (Frank McCourt beat me to that . . . “Angela’s Ashes” if you haven’t read it, people).

I had to be honest.

There was only one land I was living in last winter.

And that one.

Was Divorce Land.

If I was going to write about anything, it was going to have to be this. I would write about the pain bonding with women who had previously been on the parameter of my life, who were also simultaneoulsy navigating their own divorces. You see, we didn't just stumble into one another and share martinis, we clung to each other like life rafts asking frantically if anyone had a compass. Nope. None of us did.

All we had was each other.

I would write about my first relationship post-divorce that I fell into simply because it seemed like a good idea to have someone to lie next to me at night. I just didn't know how to be alone.

I would write about the crazy antics my girlfriends and I got ourselves into (who can forget my ER Greek God adventure with Sonja? That night is still Divorce Land legend. Chapter Thirty Seven if you just got to Divorce Land.)

I would write about my first wedding anniversary post-divorce and how I couldn't let that day go by without reaching back in time and putting my arms around my former self, and letting her know, that I finally got here. I had set her free.

I would write about the single parenting moments that sustained me through some of the darkness. Who knew biking for miles with a little girl could bring such joy?

I would write about breaking up with my first boyfriend, and creating a mountain of kleenex next to my bed to rival Mt. Everest.

All of it.

I would write about.

And so I did.

Every Monday and every Thursday.

I put an essay on my blog.

Most were humorous, but some just weren't. Because life seems to come with equal parts of joy. And pain.

I spammed everyone I knew and shared the link. And pretty soon, more than just my mom was reading this thing. People were emailing me. People were stopping me at the store.

I was making people laugh. I was making people cry.

And I couldn’t believe it.

But most importantly? I was writing.

I was me.

I’d found the thread of myself that had not vanished when everything else did. The piece of my soul that burned the brightest and would not be extinguished, the part of me that would actually outshine the darkness of Act One.

And light the stage up for my Act Two debut.

My words.

My writing.

My voice.

And so, dear Divorce Land readers. I am ending this blog today. It is the one year anniversary that I learned my divorce was final.

And it seems quite fitting to use this benchmark to move on. To get back to my freelancing. To my novel.

To my writing.

But before I go, I will give one last “Divorce Land” update. For the DL girls are all moving too. Each and every one of them has found new love and I celebrate for them. I will be a bridesmaid in at least one wedding this year, possibly two. And I am sure two more will follow . . .

(Oh shut UP, already, Julia! Queen of denial!)

I also included a post under this one I am calling "Divorce Land" credits. I'll post some pictures of the people who shared my Divorce Land spotlight for a while.

As for me?

Well, my life continues to be where it has always been: in God’s hands. Oh, I’ve tried to wrestle the map away from him from time to time, but he usually always gets it back. But yes, I am the last Divorce Land girl still standing in the single scene, but after the way God lifted me up this year, I don’t doubt that his plan for me may included love again . . . someday.

And so, I close the door on my in between chapter. And move on to the next one.

A new land.

Where writers write what they know.

And voices are never silenced for long.

Especially.

Mine.
***********************************
Divorce Land is retired but not vanishing. This simply means I will not be posting any new essays. I will keep the site live so feel free to come back and visit and read more if you haven't yet subjected yourself to the three hours or so of reading torture it takes to consume ten months of my Divorce Land adventures.

If I do start a new blog, it will be an author blog devoted to updating people on my writing endeavors and I will announce the site here. Obviously, the optimist in me hopes that blog will be titled something like, "Audra Gets a Book Deal" or better yet, "Pulitzer Land." (Hey, let a woman dream . . .)

I am only and always an email away at fourgirlsonestory@gmail.com and will continue to check that inbox from time to time.

Thank you to all of you for your support and encouragement along the way. In the solitary writing world I am now entering called, "Work on the novel already, you loser," I may just dredge up YOUR words from time to time. Those emails and comments you took the time to send me over this past year that were so encouraging and thoughtful.

And I will smile to myself in my second floor office.

And remember you.

And to those who wrote to me because your lives are in bitter chapters . . . keep the faith. And never forget.

YOU have a voice too.


Blessings . . .
~Audra

Oh, and P.S. Just stream a little Anna Nalick, "Shine" if you miss me. It's my theme song, my running anthem, and my saving grace. With it, I can shine, shine, shine, shine over shadows. Enjoy . . .

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 Eighty Nine; Facebooking

Do you have Facebook?

Is blonde my natural hair color? (Okay, don’t answer that . . .)

Of course I have Facebook. Who doesn't have Facebook?

About a year ago, my then boyfriend determined someone as social as me should be a part of this virtual land of friends and poking, groups and games, wall writing and picture tagging. He explained how some kids from Harvard had started this very intriguing social networking site only three years before and that I really should have a page too.

Hmmm. I’d heard of Facebook before. But it seemed really juvenile and slightly lame. But whatever. I am into juvenille and lame so I said sign me up.

So I put a flattering profile picture of myself on this deal (one that looked nothing like me, of course.) And when I read the status line, which asks me, “What are you doing right now?” I just thought, “What am I doing now? I am setting up a Facebook page, what does it look like I am doing right now?”

What the hell.

This is weird.

My BF walked me through adding a few “friends, people I happen to know in real life immature enough to already be on Facebook. And then, I just sat back over the next few days and marveled at things like, did I really need to know that a former co-worker of mine just got his money stuck in the candy vending machine two minutes ago?

Really? Is my life better now with this knowledge?

As far as I was concerned Facebook seemed like one thing and one thing only:

A giant waste of time.

In other words I just didn't get it.

At all.

My boyfriend didn't really use Facebook much either so other than the setup he was a rather worthless mentor.

Ironically, he ended up playing a pivotal role in my first Facebook creeping experience. Because it was on him. (Note: Creeping. The Facebook cultural term for looking at other people’s profiles and information that they put out there for one purpose only: for other people to see. Even though this is the whole point of Facebook in the first place (sharing information) apparently if you actually do that you are a “Creeper.”) It was around the time our relationship was unraveling and stuck somewhere in ambiguity land. I looked at his Facebook page (which I had hardly ever looked at before because why? I saw him all the time.) and noted an old girlfriend of his had written on his wall.

All the sudden Facebook seemed like an emotional torture device.

What was the lure of this again? I was so not sold at this point.

When we finally broke up I hit the delete key on his digital friendship. And it wasn't because I didn't want to be his friend anymore (It has such a kindergarten ring to it, doesn’t it?) I deleted him because if he was going to move on I would rather live sans botox and buy Lee jeans than have a front row seat to his life post-Audra.

You see, back in the good old days (like 10 years ago or something) when you had to actually be home to take a phone call as opposed to the grocery store or a public restroom (okay, I don’t do that but I’ve heard many a voice in the stall next to me say, “Hello? Jean! How ya doing?” and then . . . Flush . . . yeah, nasty.) and the only kind of mail you got arrived on a piece of paper not a screen, break ups were out of site out of mind.

You just went to your bedroom and cranked up some Def Leopard until you were over it. You didn't sit your pining ass down at a computer and subject yourself to creeper confirmations that yes, look at that, the ex is now groping some brunette on a dance floor downtown and here is the pictorial evidence to seal your insanity.

So Mr. X BF. I no longer own a Def Leopard cd but I do have a delete key.

Ah.

Maybe I could get used to this Facebook thing.

(So empowering.)

Oh, wait one second, I was just tagged in my friend’s album. And hot damn, I look good in that picture!

(So ego-feeding).

Oh, now look at this little nugget a friend just posted. Now, did I really need to know that about my neighbor’s husband?

(So T.M.I. But strangely intriguing . . . )

In other words.

I was soon hooked like a crack whore.

Before I knew it I’d arrived at a reality where my day just couldn’t begin until I knew what my cousin in New Jersey had had for breakfast. Or until I had checked my old college roommate’s status to see if she had survived her recent bout of malaria (drama queen, she has a cold). Or, of course, to see if anyone had sent me a Facebook email. (Forget my hotmail account. That inbox had nothing but crickets chirping in it. Facebook was my new communication command station.)

And guess what was worse?

I could get Facebook on my . . . are you sitting?

CELL PHONE!

I was in social connection heaven.

In the car, at the mall, at the gym. Facebook went everywhere I did. I could literally update my status AND check on the status of all my “friends” any time, anywhere.

Ah, Facebook, my new love. My relationship with the universe.

Thankfully, as with any new situation, the infatuation soon wore off. Now, Facebook and I have settled into a comfortable routine. Our relationship has stabilized and matured. (I only check it in the mornings and evenings. I break the "not during work rule" only if I am tagged in a picture because that is an emergency situation. Because what if it isn't a flattering shot? I am single. That is defcon 5 in my world.)

The fact is I don’t really care what people are eating for breakfast anymore. And I really only update my status at a ridiculous rate when I am, say, snowed in during one mother of a blizzard. (Audra is baking bread pudding. Audra is playing Wii with her kids. Audra is making gingerbread cookies. Audra is cleaning her house (a little). Audra just consumed a huge pan of bread pudding. Followed by gingerbread cookies. Audra is on the couch by the fire moaning in agony. Audra now has a clean house but a very fat ass, the Wii was not enough to burn off 10 gingerbread cookies . . .and an entire pan of bread pudding . . . and so on, and so on. )

Now days, Facebook is the central location for me to post pictures and videos to share with friends and family. And yes, it does function as my main resource for learning what is going on in the larger world of those people I care most about.

I know some people use it as a dating service but I already tried Match.com and I am not going there. If I have actually met someone in the flesh, I will accept their friend request. But I ignore these perfect strangers who found me in someone else’s friend list and obviously thought, “ooh, long blonde hair…”.

Gross.

And so, yes. Yes. I do have a Facebook page.

Because you know what?

Who doesn’t?

**************************
Today, December 14th, is the one year anniversary of the judge's signature on my divorce petition. Therefore, my next post, this Thursday, will be my last.

Divorce Land has come its natural end.

I started this blog because I am a writer. And writers, if we do one thing at all, we write. And at this emotionally paralyzing time in my life last year, I could think of nothing else to write about. My freelancing came to a grinding halt. The novel I was working on sat untouched.

Yet I probably had more to say than every before. And this blog allowed me the channel to say it.

I will publish my final post on Thursday. Thank you to everyone who came along for the ride.

This writer isn't done writing. So keep in touch . . . God bless, and yes, the book version of Divorce Land will be my next endeavor.

~Audra

Not slitting my wrists . . .

Sorry that everyone is concerned that my last few blog entries have been a little "Woe is me" . . . I am FINE!

Trust me...I am still me. I have a chalkboard in my kitchen where I write myself inspiring little "Pick me ups" and I am good. I do realize, right now in my life, it is not about what I don't have, it is about what I DO have.

And right now, I don't have a boyfriend. Oh well. What I DO have are two beautiful and hilarious daughters who have my undivided attention.

This is a gift.

And I do know it.

So just think of me as being a little "Elizabeth Gilbertson-ish" lately (as in "Eat, Pray, Love" . . . run, don't walk to Barnes and Noble if you have not yet read this book!)

Life is up, and life is down. And when I write it's a glimpse into a moment and a moment only.

And everyone has moments. I just put mine on the internet . . .

Chapter Eighty Eight; My Empty Christmas

I sat down fully prepared to publish a humorous essay I’ve been working on about Facebook (Oh, who are we kidding: Stalkbook. Or, in some quasi-dating cases: Emotional Torture Device.)

But I will get to that one later.

Because right now I don’t feel like being funny.

It’s Christmas. It’s the one year anniversary of my divorce (yeah, happy Christmas to me last year, huh?) and I am facing my first Christmas without my children.

Like toys we are supposed to share, my ex and I toggle the children every other holiday. Last year I had them. This year he does.

I am dying.

Because without my daughters I am not sure how I am going to be able to breathe.

Oh sure, the ex and I have concocted a plan that our littlest one is referring to as “the fake Christmas” because we are going to celebrate Christmas one day early at my house.

But that kid is smart. Because she’s right.

It’s going to feel phony.

When all is said and done, my daughters will pack up their favorite pillows, books, and new Christmas clothes. And drive to Minneapolis with their Dad.

And I will hit the interstate for the familiar three hour drive back home to the farm.

Alone.

I haven’t been to the farm by myself in years. Since I was 21-years-old, I’ve had a little person with me. And then later, two little people. Sometimes we would go without their Dad (duh, we ended up divorcing, we didn’t like to spend a lot of time together) but I always had my girls with me.

I always had my family.

I’ve had a baby screaming in my backseat for the entire three hour trip. And instead of losing my mind, I just marveled at the fact that I produced something that loud. I’ve had a toddler watch her favorite Barney episode on a portable VHS, over and over, the entire way. And I happily sang along, “I love you, you love me,” because I could celebrate the fact that even though yes, this was also hell, it was a few levels above that of an endlessly yowling infant.

And today, I have a teenager next to me who likes to think that the little movies she records on her camera of her Mom and sister rocking out down the highway will somehow bring her You Tube fame. (Laugh away. I make a mean Britney Spears when I am behind the wheel belting along to my Bose.)

But this Christmas.

I’ll make the drive once again. But the solitude of it will be anything but familiar.

Because when I do reach the farm, I am pretty sure the nagging feeling that I forgot something is not going to leave.

It will follow me in the wooden door. Through the kitchen over flowing with the scents of pumpkin bread, sugar cookies, and apple cider. Past the glowing Christmas tree in the living room corner. And up the creaky stairs to my childhood bedroom where my girls and I always stay together in the two big beds.

There will be no girly whoops of joy that we have arrived at Granny and Grandpa’s. No rushing back downstairs to sample the fudge. And no diving under the Christmas tree to identify who has more presents.

It will just be me.

Silently setting my suitcase onto one of the freshly made beds.

Less sheets for my mom to wash I guess.

And right now, that’s about as far as I can go with this. Because I can’t even imagine how the rest of it will play out. Christmas Eve dinner, opening presents with my parents, seeing all of my high school classmates and their intact families at church that night.

All I do know is that this will be a deafening silent childless Christmas.

And I think the only sound that will break it will be on Christmas Eve when I return home from midnight mass.

To that empty silent room.

And choke back my tears.

Because yeah, I'll have my mom's fudge and lots of gifts. But that isn't Christmas.

Christmas. Is love.

And I will be missing the biggest pieces of it in my life this year.

Good Things Come to Those Who Wait

There's only one thing to say after "Oh my aching heart . . ."

And that would be?

"Oh, my aching head."

Well. I am not sure how "Let's go to a movie!" turns into a night where Audra downs enough vodka to make a sailor puke and then dances her blonde head off until 2AM.

Damn corrupting friends.

God. I love ya.

And I had to sing at church on Sunday. By then, I was fine, but still. It took me two days to recover.

Good gawd.

Here's a little public thank you to all my friends who made me laugh this week and told me I am not an idiot, even though, I am perty sher, yep, I am.

Also, a public thank you to ERGG. You're the perfect dinner date, because there will never be leftovers. Thanks for listening and thank you for your friendship.

I mean really, if I can text you, "I have hiccups and I have to pee," at 1AM . . . well, obviously, our friendship is cemented in TMI.

So here's to everyone who swooped in this week when my idiotness was hanging out for all the world to see.

I'll write a real essay tomorrow, blogarama fans. . . because I have heard, good things come to those who wait.

Chapter Eighty Seven; Hay Bales and Farm Girl Dreams (And Why You Should Never F *ck with a Writer)

In the recesses of my soul's memory I harbor a dream.

I am not sure when I first dreamed it. It just seems like it was always a part of me. Somewhere within myself, I felt that out there in this world, was someone who I could love. Someone who would love me. And a life that we could build together.

I didn’t have the perfect childhood, but who does? Mine included a lot of yelling. And other loud stuff that would send this braided little farm girl in cut off jeans running out to the hay bales to escape.

And in that fragrant hay, the aroma of summer, far enough away from the farmhouse where the voices were faint, when all my tears ran out, I would reach into my heart and pull out that dream.

That someday my life would not look like this. I would find love.

And I would be free.

All through high school and college the dream was there. I even married someone I knew was not him. I am not sure why. Approval from others. Fear probably.

But I finally grew up enough to reclaim my life, and release myself so I could be free to find that dream. To find him. Wherever he was.

And now. I am trying to just live my life and not obsesses about it.

I look for him though. I do.

Now that I can.

Behind brown eyes, blue eyes, green eyes. Men my age and even men who are probably too young for me. The romantic in me thinks, well, maybe he is ten years younger or something and that’s why I couldn’t find him until now?

I know. So foolish.

The last guy who stumbled into my life is 13 years and 7 months younger than I am.

That is exactly how long my marriage was.

I didn’t tell him that because it seemed kind of stalker that I had done the math. But it made me pause.

And wonder.

Maybe I was just waiting for him to get here all this time?

I am kind of a sentimental fan of fate and the universe and a larger design I guess. I think it’s just me trying to make sense of how I ended up 36-years-old and still by myself.

And alone in a big house (on the weekends my children are with their father).

With a couple cats.

God, don’t let this be my fate.

And so here I am, stumbling around. Trying to raise a couple of amazing kids, be devoted to my job, take care of a household, pay the bills, and maintain a life.

But on the edges of that life?

Like I said.

I look for him.

So far all I have found is myself being far too picky. And then? Far too trusting. And then? Far too timid. And then, of course, I end up just being far too intense.

Much. Too soon.

Sigh.

I don’t know what to do. The few (unlucky) guys who I’ve actually felt a connection with in the past year (all two), well, I have handled it very badly. I am so scared of doing something stupid, that I second guess everything and end up doing something extremely idiotic.

They really have no idea who I am. I give so many mixed signals, the poor guys couldn’t find the real Audra if they had a global positioning system honing right in on my heart.

On top of all of this, I have this hard candy coated shell all around myself. It is pride and it is fear.

And if and when it does break, I am so hurt all I can do is lash out and blame them. It is like I am saying, “Look at what you did! You broke my protective coating and now all this sappy sugar in me is on the floor and I don’t want you to see it. So I am just going to cry and call you names to distract you from the fact that I you might have gotten a glimpse of the real me for a moment!”

That is how I go back to those hay bales.

That is how I run away.

So here I am again. It’s thirty years later and I am once again alone. And crying.

And still trying desperately to hold on to that dream.

But I think I need to quit trying so damn hard to find him. Because odds are, based on my overly romanticized decisions, misguided assumptions and eyes wide shut missteps in my last attempt?

There's another more important person I need to find first before I can truly continue my search for him in earnest.

Myself.
***************************

The broken part of me warned this guy who tripped into my life, “Don’t fuck with a writer.”

And here’s a note to him:

I didn’t say that because I am going to slander you to the point where you will fear the word Google for the rest of your natural born life. It’s because those of us who were born to write know how to put our souls into words. And it is not just our own souls we write about. We carry the burden of all humanity. For our journeys are not unique in their pain and uncertainty.

So yeah. I did mean it when I said don’t fuck with a writer. And now you know why.

Because my tears . . . are everyone’s tears.

I just use mine.

As ink.

Chapter Eighty Six; Summoning My Hella Wordy Girl Powers

I hate this.

I hate it when the screen is blank and there are a million different directions I could go. It’s not really writer’s block; it’s more like writer’s overflow. Oh, and don’t mistake this admission for bragging. Oh, no. In fact, I think I’d almost take a shot of block once in a while as opposed to the cocktail of ideas that are all smeared together in my brain, raising their hands yelling, pick me! Oooh! Ooh! Pick me!

Should I write about this? What about this? Oh, that was hilarious this week, what about this? Or maybe this other thing that was very insightful bordering on profound? Perhaps I could share that?

Hmmmm.

Point blank?

I am just a hella wordy girl.

What can I say?

The truth is this blog is a ton of fun but at times I feel a little overwhelmed by the sheer amount of people who read it and why they read it. Don’t get me wrong, I love you. You complete strangers who stop me in the grocery store, grab my arm, and announce my own name to me as if I was unaware of my own identity, and then reverently proclaim:

“I. Love. Your. Blog.”

That’s cool as hell. I confess.

Some of you read my stuff because you find my life entertaining, some of you are going through difficult times and find me inspiring (which you must know I do find oddly baffling because I am just as lost and insecure as everyone else), some of you probably just read it because you know me personally and feel some sense of obligation. (Mom. Yes. I mean you.)

I honesty try not to think about why people read me. I don't want an arrogance attack. But I will confess that a few months ago a friend emailed me that she knows a woman whose husband has terminal cancer and that that woman reads my blog every week for a much needed escape.

Oh yeah, no pressure.

I try to just accept these reality jolts as the compliments they are. And feel blessed that my talent for being a weirdo makes people laugh. Or that my reflective moments have inspired others to contemplate their own blessings. And that even when I have shared my humiliation, it somehow makes other people feel better to know that this chick trips over her own humanity quite often too. (Well, forget tripping. Usually its more like a road rash inducing face plant. Oh yeah. That's gonna leave a mark.)

There's just no get outta jail free card when it comes to navigating life. Sometimes its funny. Sometimes its serious. And sometimes its a stupid self-inflicted mess that requires Puffs Kleenex with lotion.

Oh well.

And so. I just write. Whatever the flip floats to the top first. Basically.

For the most part.

(I do have to edit. Good gawd I’d have no friends if I didn’t.)

And so tonight, I just have too much “possible topic soup” in my brain to even pick one. So I am writing about how I am not picking anything to write about.

Call me the Jerry Seinfeld of blogging. The slackiest of the slackers. The woman who put “pro” in procrastination. (Actually, that doesn’t work. I’m not putting it off. I actually am doing it. Make that the girl who put the “ass” in half-ass.)

And what do you know? I’m at roughly 500 words.

Ta da! That blank screen is now full.

My hella wordy hasn’t failed me yet.

(Although I’m not sure successfully writing about nothing is a plus? I suppose the next time I make it through the produce aisle without being recognized, well, then I’ll know.)

***********************
I never actually heard anyone use "hella" in a sentence before until I met SNLM. Sure, I'd heard No Doubt sing, "You've got me feeling hella good so let's just keep on dancin'" but I didn't think anyone actually said it in real life. (Clear illustration that I should be applying for social security.) The first time he said it I thought to myself, "Did he just say hella? What the hell is hella?" And I realized...I am officially old and so not cool. So my putting it in my blog is just my borrowing his coolness. Any apparent coolness you may have detected is a total and utter lie. I'm a bore. Now, where did I put that Social Security application . . . oh, right here, next to my dentures and knitting . . .

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.

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