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; 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.

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 Three; Hocky Games and Heart Transplants

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

“Congratulations,” I proclaim in reply.

“Smart ass.”

“Always.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s honestly pretty damn good.

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

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

I start to get, well . . . pissed.

Let me explain why.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I just laugh.

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

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

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

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

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

Hockey season is just around the corner.

And I just happen to be free.

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

“I am becoming a lesbian. Men suck.”

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

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

Sigh.

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

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

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

Only me. Only me . . .

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

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

I am both perpetrator and victim. Nice.

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

Sorry for the dude digression.

As I was saying:

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

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

“He’s a dick, Audra. Forget him.”

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

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

And then grunts, again,

“Dick.”

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

“Not the same.”

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

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

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

This is not uplifting.

Not uplifting at all.

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

“What? Why not?”

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

“What?” he says again.

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

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

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

Huh?

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

Screwed.

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

I am going asexual amoeba.

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

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

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

Well, that was fun.

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

Icksnay on the atchdotcommay.

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

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

(Pause for dramatic effect).

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

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

BoulevardofBrokenDreams.com

IStillLiveWithMyParents.com

HaveEnoughBaggagefor2People.com

Or, my personal favorite:

MyBadIThoughtThiswasaSexSiteCanUSendmeNakedPhotos.com

Yeah.

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

Welcome to my hell.

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

Step One: Fill out a profile.

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

Damn.

Step Two: Post Pictures

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hence began an interesting two weeks.

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

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

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

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

It was depressing. And overwhelming

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

Exactly.

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

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

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

In other words I deactivated my profile.

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

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

Oh well.

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

Chapter Sixty Four; Convents and Fussy Fests

I am so going to end up a nun.

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

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

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

Next.

No, I am not a registered Democrat.

Next.

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

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

Next.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I know. I am really serious about this.

Bring it on. Dating Land, here I come.

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

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

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

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

Anchors away!

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

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

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

Ever. Never.

Next.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Apparently so.

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

A convent.

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

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

. . . nun.

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

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

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

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

I gasp and gush, “No way.”

“Way.”

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

Ew.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not even a little kidding, people.

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

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

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

We’ll see.

Tune in next year. You never know.

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

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

Chapter Forty Nine; We'll Always have Outlook, Email Guy

Well. It’s official.

We’re broken up.

Oh wait a second, I wasn’t even dating this guy. Oh, wait two seconds. I have never even met this guy.

Regardless of these very basic relationship requirements, the proclamation, “Audra and I are officially over,” was just announced to one of my friends yesterday.

What the?

Welcome to Email Guy, a man who apparently possesses the ability to bend the time space continuum.

I hate to even write about this because he is going to read this blogmentation which will only serve to feed his ego. Which judging by our email correspondence does not need more inflation. But unfortunately . . . this is blog fodder of the highest caliber.

And I can not let my Divorce Land readers down.

Here’s the scoop:

So EG reads my blog and sends me a flattering email letting me know who he is (we share a mutual friend so at the very least it is not likely he is of the axe murderer variety) and that he is really enjoying my writing. This part was fine. This part was great. I love my fans!

He then switches gears and alludes to a date when he suggests meeting me sometime for a glass of wine. I reply, gracefully decline the invitation and instead concentrate on the fact that he appears to be my most enthusiastic blog fan yet. Yay, me! (No, Mom, you don’t count. You have to cheerlead any and all of my writing endeavors, it comes with your job description. Hell, if I ask you what you think of the grocery list I just jotted down you are obligated to suggest it could be nominated for a Pulitzer.)

Back to EG:

I respond again simply thanking him for checking out Divorce Land and taking the time to email me such affirming feedback.

And he replies. Very interestingly . . .

And thus begins, my (apparently torrid) twenty four hour phantom affair with . . . my inbox.

I will spare you the pain of a full copy and paste and simply recreate the super condensed version of our correspondence here for your reading torture.

It went a little something like this . . .and a one, and a two, and a one, two, three, four:

EG: “Hi Audra, Love the blog! You and I have a mutual friend. I am divorced too, want to go out sometime?”

Me: “Hey, thanks for reading and for your kind words. I appreciate the invitation but I am not interested in dating right now. But maybe our paths will cross sometime around this one horse town? Perhaps the next time I am out with (insert name of the mutual friend we share). But, absolutely, thanks again for reading and for the kind words. Please check back often and send the link to all your friends. Have a great day!”

Most people (I assume?), at this point, would get the hint and leave with their dignity intact. And really, I didn’t say never, I just clearly said, “Not now.” I thought that was pretty level-headed of me?

Apparently not because I received a response that I will now super condense into the following synopsis:

EG: “No seriously, let’s go out. I’m funny and smart and witty. See? See? See my smart and funny wit?”

Me: “Thanks again for reading my blog! And have a SUPER day!”

Translation: Get a clue buddy.

Email Guy: “I said, “WANT TO GO OUT SOMETIME!?!?!”

Me: “And I believe I replied, “THANKS FOR READING MY BLOG! HAVE A FANTASTIC DAY!”

Alright, by this point, forget about “maybe someday.” Did I or did I not clearly just say, “Cold day in hell.”?

Yes, I realize, I should have just quit replying. Email is great that way. You just become a black hole and viola! End of story. But EG and I have this shared acquaintance; therefore I am captive in an email hostage situation.

EG, of course, responds . . . again, only this time with a thinly veiled insult insinuating I am obviously still in some post-divorce induced coma and that I should call him when I come to the conclusion that he is the most wonderful man on the planet.

I grit my teeth and type back, again, “THANKS. FOR. READING. MY. BLOG.” I say nothing about the kind of day I hope he has this time.

Do I really need to translate at this point?

Silence finally ensues, but I am subjected to one final email where he blames the fact that he was using a Blackberry when he constructed his last few emails and that it is the technology’s fault his sarcasm didn’t translate well.

Well if that’s the case, then I can not possibly be held responsible for the construction of this blog post documenting the rise and fall of our relationship.

My Dell laptop made me do it.

Chapter Forty Two; Rejection Sucks and my Almost Stalker Moment

Done. Done. On to the next one.

These are lyrics from the Foo Fighters. I like that band, but they’re pretty raw and not exactly Celine Dion in their approach to love and loss.

They’re also dead freaking on when it comes to two of the most emotionally raw aspects relationships:

Rejection. And his evil twin: Replacement.

It is extremely painful to learn when someone new is standing in the place you once stood. That someone was chosen over you.

Logically, we all know our worth is not determined by the opinion of another mere mortal, yet we’re all guilty of placing exactly that much value on the simple opinions of equally imperfect human beings.

All the time.

We watch our friends go through break ups yet we say, “Get over it, move on, so what if he/she didn’t choose you? Who cares?”

Yeah. Easy to say when you’re not the one who was erased and replaced, huh? (Foo Fighter reference there again for those of you not as cool as moi.)

Here is the deal:

Sonja is reeling. Her divorce has been final for six months. But she just learned that her husband had been cheating on her during their marriage.

He is now living with that woman.

That really sucks.

Because even though Sonja is done done on to the next one herself for the most part, it’s still hard to learn that really, the end of her marriage did not play out how she had believed. Everything was a lie. It was not as simple as just growing apart, or making a mistake.

It was about her being rejected in the end.

And there is nothing more painful.

I had a very ironic experience the other day that reminded me of that fact. My story is not even a part of the same solar system as Sonja’s, but it was definitely a dimension of the rejection universe.

I was innocently driving down the street to run an errand over lunch the other week, mindlessly singing along to my iPod. I stop at a red light, and slowly my mind processes that the car in front of me looks vaguely familiar.

Shit.

DLTC.

But he wasn’t driving.

Well, if he was, he’d since gone blonde and had a sex change.

Holy mother.

I literally said out loud, “Thanks God. Nice sense of humor. I appreciate this. Lovely. Just lovely.”

I called my envy hotline immediately: Susie.

“I hate this freaking small town!!” I gush into the phone as soon as she answers.

“Okay. Spill.”

“I am behind DLTC’s car in traffic,” I flatly confess.

“Okay,” she hesitantly responds, I can hear her processing, “On purpose or accidentally?”

“Accidentally! Good gawd. What are the odds?”

“In this town? Pretty low,” she observes. No shit sherlock I think to myself. She then advises, “Alright, its simple, just turn off the road.”

“Duh, but holy crap, not the worst part: there is a girl driving it.”

“Okay . . .and?”

“I am calling you for support.”

“My support is to advise you to turn. Are you still behind her?”

“I just missed my turn.”

“And . . . why?”

“Because I am a loser,” I readily admit, “Oh, I’m sure it is probably his cousin’s or friend’s wife. He’s a nice guy, probably loaning his car out.”

“Exactly, so why are you following it?”

“Because I have to confirm that theory. I should be able to see a wedding ring, right?”

“Audra?”

“Yes?”

“Turn around.”

“ARGH! I know. Okay, I am turning. I am turning.”

Silence. For five seconds.

Susie inquires, “Have you turned?”

“Nope. I think I am on stalker auto pilot now. Shit”

“No, you are not,” she argues and in true friend fashion gives me an infusion of honest reminders about myself, “You talk too much and email relentlessly and always need to have the last word but in the end if there’s anything I know about you it is that you’re good at ultimately letting go and letting God. You. Are NOT a stalker. Turn around.”

I know she’s right. This is not me. This is ridiculous.

So I turn around.

And I let it go.

But I am shaking. Even though, logically I am absolutely fine. Unfortunately, emotions don’t consult logic when they descend. They just swell up like a June thunderstorm. And precipitation and storm fronts and pressure systems are not controllable. You can take shelter from them, but that’s pretty much it.

And my emotional storm came out of nowhere and grew faster than a thunderhead in July, taunting me with uncontrollable thoughts like:

Erase/Replace?

Already?

I couldn’t really run from these emotions, but I could take cover.

And Susie made an excellent umbrella.

So I turned around, and drove to where I was going. Quit shaking and just took a deep breath. It is what it is. I will never know who this girl is and it doesn’t matter. We’re over anyway so if I have been erased and replaced immediately, what difference does it make?

None.

But even just the possibility of it really hurt.

The fact is as human beings we care immensely about what others think of us. We want nothing more than to be chosen. When we are, it makes us feel special, worthwhile, and loved.

When we are not, we feel exactly the opposite of all those good things.

And as for Sonja, of course she will move on. She will get over it. And someday she will give thanks for all of the events that brought her to the beautiful place she will eventually reside in emotionally. (Right after she burns her wedding album, tattoos her maiden name on her ass and consults a voodoo expert to secure a good curse.)

But for today, she is hurting.

And I must still be too as I was a stalker for all five blocks.

How pathetic.

Sigh.

I guess healing does not come over night.

But it does eventually arrive. The story of humanity promises us that much. And when it does, if we can count on anything being erased, it is the sadness.

And replaced.

With love.

***************************
It was odd to write this essay, because when I did, I was in Vegas. By a pool. Drinking something delicously alcoholic and enjoying the palm trees and a ridiculously pampered week. (I love my day job.)

Because of that, I want to point out the ebb and flow of life. My stalker moment was a moment. And it a passed. I recovered, life went on, and now I am soaking up the desert sun and having a pretty good damn time.

I know everyone is looking forward to potential essays next week about my and Sonja's wild and crazy adventures in Sin City, but I should warn you: So far, probably not possible! Oh, I'm having a blast, don't get me wrong. But something terribly ironic has happened: I love my life so much, that I didn't need a vacation from it.

My life back home is pretty fullfilling. And super fun.

So what does that say about my life? I think I have things in the right order. My "every day" life is fun and exciting.

When the craziest place on earth is a "break"...personally? I think?

I must be doing a lot right!

Here's to life. It's an occasion.

Rise to it!

Later gaters,
~Audra

Chapter Thirty Nine; Guys are like Shoes and other Dating Land Adventures

Annie is finally divorced.

And when she moved out of the two homes she shared with her ex-husband (yes two), it took her all of one day . . . just to move her shoes.

Her shoes.

It is hard to imagine not being happy with $20,000 worth of designer shoes in your closet, isn't it?

Obviously, the sweetest parts of life can not be bought.

The last few weeks I have been dabbling in dating. And I wasn't really trying to. A couple guys landed in my life in very normal nice ways so I thought I'd make another trip to Dating Land. I'd made a pact with myself to stop running away screaming the moment someone showed any interest in me and just be open to what life has to offer.

It has been.

Interesting.

Velly. Velly. Intallesting.

Because all that happened is I have ended up thinking a lot about Annie's shoes.

The deal is the guys as of late have just simply not been a good match for me. They honestly are great souls, but I’ve uncovered lifestyles and circumstances that . . . just don't work with Audra. Some of these experiences have literally been like trying to pair a stiletto with a work boot. Nothing wrong with the stiletto or the boot. They just obviously can not be worn together.

Well, you could. But people might stare.

Here are my stories:

On Wednesday night I went to dinner. With a guy who had actually called me on the phone a few days earlier, and after a fun conversation sweetly confessed, "Ok, the real reason I am calling is to see if you would like to go out this week?"

It had been a long time since someone had actually asked me out so I said sign me up can we have steak? And he said hell yes and I said whoo hoo and next thing I know, its two days later and I am participating in something that sure looks a hell of a lot like a date.

And it was fun.

(And delicious. Here’s to sirloin. Yum-Oh!)

When I got home that night, I decided to go for a walk with a guy I had met the previous week. (Hey, if I am going to date, I am going to date. I figure as long as I can't get a disease from any of the dating activities multiple partners is fine.)

Besides, both these guys are fall on the floor hot. And hell yes I am going to brag about that part because after the year I’ve had I am way so oh entitled to the occasional arrogance attack. But with two interesting and gorgeous options all of the sudden, I felt obligated to myself to take full advantage.

(Not that kind of advantage.)

But honestly? If I am a stiletto then one of these guys is a funky flip flop and the other a beautiful high end tennis shoe.

First, my evening stroll with the flip flop (Hold on, I'll get to dinner with the tennis shoe in a bit. Trust me, this story needs to be told first.)

Let me cut to the chase: Flip flop is a raving maniac.

Literally.

He does the Rave thing.

Anyone seen Dateline? 20/20? Spent some time in Europe? Yes. When I say Rave, I mean Rave. Techno music and lots of Ecstasy.

I have but one thought: This is the Midwest. There are raves here? How many people actually do this out here in rural America? Like 12? And I find one of them? I can’t win the lottery but I can find this guy? And here I thought the worst thing I would stumble across is an alcoholic cowboy. Apparently not....

The conversation where this was revealed was the last conversation he and I ever had.

Yeah.

We were on our walk at the time and I pretty much continued with the walk.

Alone.

Buh.

Bye.

I called Susie from my cell immediately upon arriving at my front step.

"Isn't that where they suck on pacifiers and wave glow sticks around and listen to techno music and do a butt load of drugs for days on end?"

“You’ve seen Dateline, too, I take it?”

“Shitchya.” she confirms her source (geez we are goody goodies), and then kids, "Oh, come on, doesn't that sound like fun??!!?"

"Yeah. If you’re retarded." I quip. I was pissed. Probably at myself for demonstrating such severe misjudgment. This was upsetting.

I had really liked talking to Raving Maniac.

Seriously.

He is my age, I met him at a normal place in a normal way, he is in the same profession as my former DLTC which is a very normal thing to do with your life. He seemed perfectly normal! Seemed being the operative word. And normal obviously being a subjective state. (I am sure he thinks he's normal and I'm the weird one. Yeah well, none of my hobbies can get me arrested. That’s all I am going to say about that one.)

On to my steak date with the high end tennis shoe:

Alright. This guy is beautiful. There is not another word for him. Not hot. Not cute. Not attractive. Just plain beautiful. Abercrombie beautiful. As in, "I almost want to just do nothing but stare at him all night long across the table and forget about the sirloin" beautiful. Which is saying a lot. I really REALLY like steak.

But he is too young. And I am extremely hesitant about that whole cougar deal.

The last time I exhibited feline-like behavior it really did not go well. I am a confident and professional woman. When I tried dating someone so much younger it was not at all like dating. It was more like a hostage situation. And I don’t mean fun things like blind folds and hand cuffs. I mean I was the one calling all the shots. I was forever saying, "Let's go here!" or, "Let's do this!" And even though I am super ego maniac of the universe, I am still a fan of the guy doing the chasing. That whole thing was just wrong.

I like to think of that experience as the step-sister scene from Cinderella. That shoe did not fit at all and trying to make it work just hurt too damn much.

Tennis Shoe guy was aware of my prior cougar prey debacle and that I am now subsequently jaded beyond jaded on May/December situations.

So, what did this beautiful boy do? He came to dinner prepared. He brought a fortune cookie fortune he’d gotten earlier that day that said, “Take a chance.”

He slid it across the table at me and winked.

I smiled.

Oooh.

He’s good.

I have to confess: our evening was super fun. He was hilarious and I had a great time. But it was dinner and he’s still too young. He’s kind of a tenacious guy though, so we’ll just have to see. Because I have a feeling he might be pretty good at chasing. But for now, I’m putting him under the incompatible heading simply because of the age difference.

Oh get off my back! I am just trying to be realistic. Odds are he isn’t a match for me either.

Hmmm, but maybe just one more date . . .

(What? Don't you like my stiletto/tennis shoe look? Bite me. I'm a trend setter, ya never know . . .)

Stay tuned on that one.

So, it's only been a couple weeks that I've let myself be open to dating again. And truthfully? The guys I have found so far are honestly good souls. Even Raver Dude. He was fascinating and smart and funny and sweet. Sigh. But I have my bare minimum criteria which includes "no regular illegal drug use" so there isn't anything I can do about that one. And Ashton the second is awesome. But he can’t change when he was born so that’s just a fact.

And so.

So far . . . so weird.

Well, I'm going to try to remain positive. It's not like I'm running into jerks. I'm just running into people who are just not the shoe I am looking for.

Looks like I am just going to have to limp around here a while longer.

An in the meantime all I can do is just hope that at the rate I'm going I don’t end up giving Annie's shoe collection a run for its money.

Chapter Thirty Four; To Text or not to Text?

And so I texted him back, "In your dreams, Romeo.”

I was relaying to Sonja and Julia how I’d picked up some entertainment in the form of a hot texting stalker the prior weekend out. It was an interesting distraction from the crap week I’d had. Although by doing this I am absolutely compromising my convictions. And I am not talking about talking to a stranger I met at a bar. Oh no, that’s harmless fun in my book. What’s more concerning is that this texting junk may end up being the downfall of civilization as we know it. When our communication is relegated to 160 character digital grunting....what does this say about the status of mankind?

Exactly.

I have safe guarded my cell phone number over the past six months and enjoyed the reprieve. But due to recent developments in my life, I decided it might be a fun distraction to throw it out into the universe once more. One stupid phone number exchange later I am definitely being entertained, but only by the ridiculousness of it all.

Although Julia does feel it necessary to make one observations, “You’re texting? You never text! You never reply to me!”

“That’s because you’re missing a vital piece of anatomy,” I retort.

Julia pretends to be appalled but she can’t hide her pride.

(I have been told that one of the best things about being friends with me is that I possess this innate talent to be crude off the cuff. Fortunately (unfortunately?) I am zero act and all chatter.)

Julia and Sonja are proud of me for getting out of cold storage and getting on with my life. They actually called it “flirting.”

I correct them immediately.

Exchanging meaningless digital banter with someone I talked to for all of 30 seconds is hardly in the cutesy coy category. Besides, this whole situation is just the consequence of a dare from a friend on our way out of the bar. “Cheer up! Pick the hottest guy in here and just give him your phone number.” I was actually sober and pissed off enough at the time to follow through with her asinine suggestion. So I did. I grabbed a guy whose job must require him to be naked half the time (Calendar model? Stripper?).

Might as well aim high. (low?!?!)

"Hi! I'm Audra. Do you want my phone number?"

Alright, I'll confess I got a huge boost in the ego department when he looked like he'd won the hot babe lottery with his enthusiastic, "Hell yes!" response.

One week later our texts consist of him repeatedly trying to compliment himself into my pants. And my consistently insulting his transparent player attempts.

Its so poetically beautiful I could cry.

The experience has been strangely satisfying. What? Are you accusing me of appointing myself spokesperson for all women mistakenly sucked in by testosterone charged bullshit?

Damn straight.

Because to Texting Romeo I am now the "Impossible Challenge Girl." Which means, I hold all the cards, all the power.

BWAHAHAHAHAHA!

Ah hem. Sorry . . . got a little carried away there for a minute.

Well, if I am going to be Juliet, then forget the dagger, I have my cell phone. And it is not pointed in my direction.

Oh no.

I think its time to give this Romeo a little poisonous taste of his own medicine.

160 characters at a time.

Chapter Twenty Nine; Princeless Princess

From the age of three I was subjected to fairy tale propaganda that served only to convince me that every good happily ever after contains two vital components: a prince and a princess.

Couple all that preschool brainwashing with the super self assured state I’ve possessed since birth and its no wonder I have spent my entire life believing I am princess material. (Anyone need some extra ego? I accidentally got a second helping if anyone needs more? I don’t know how this happened. I never asked God to super size my sassy sense of self, I just arrived in this state.)

The fact that at age four I actually demanded my younger sister refer to me as Your Royal Highness is a perfect illustration. As you can imagine, that’s a mouthful for a two year old. But only because I knew what she meant was I okay with her referring to me as “Oil Mess” for approximately three years.

Arrogance + royalty complex = my (stupidly) deducing, “If I am said princess in every fairytale ever written, it therefore must be my life’s endeavor to spend every waking moment in hot prince pursuit.”

This has not worked so well for me.

It has only left me ranting, “Well Geeze Louise! If that is the case where the hell is he? As of today, he appears to be one oblivious blue blood. Didn’t he see the scroll nailed in the town square last December? “It is hereby declared Princess Audra is now divorced. She awaits her princely rescue!” So far, I see no hot royal ass upon a noble steed heading my direction. Screw this. I’m climbing down out of this the tower. I am so outta here.”

Hear ye, hear ye. Princess Audra has left the castle.

Henceforth, I chose Saturday as my day to begin banishing all princess-like behaviors and start acting more like the independent peasant that I am:

• Woke up early to birds singing. And I decided not to throw open the shutters and harmonize with the robins like I usually do. That is just so Snow White.
• No servant made my coffee, I brewed my own: strong and dark with far too much creamer, exactly the way I like it. (Oooh, good life metaphor. Note to self.)
• I decided if I am going to be any princess protagonist today, I prefer the pre-prince floor polishing version of Cinderella; therefore I cleaned my house until it sparkled like a drag queen tiara.
• I backslid briefly when I decided I had no choice but to tap some testosterone and summon my former DLTC to help me tackle some physical labor. But I was no damsel in distress. Oh no, I helped! (At least I like to think I helped. His version probably just has me chattering endlessly while he did all the work but even this scenario supports the case that at the very least I did not sit there comatose like Sleeping Beauty.)
• The rest of the afternoon, I confess, I indulged in some princess pampering when I headed to the mall for shopping therapy and an over priced pedicure. My toes are now lavender with flowers. (What are you going to do? Throw me in the dungeon? Bite me.)
• The day ended with Divorce Land Girl #5, Sonja, throwing a party at her kingdom to celebrate her “I am so not a princess either I can earn my own damn money!” MBA. Most importantly, I left no glass slipper behind at the ball as a calling card. And I was home before midnight. (I am not one to push my pumpkin luck.)

So far, so good.

For now, for today, my happily ever after does not include a prince at my side, and damn’t, ask me if I care. Because you know what? I look stunning without this crown on my head. It was totally flattening my hair.

But maybe deep down a part of me does hope that someday my prince will come thundering into my life, sweep me off my feet, and apologize profusely for being so damn late.

But until then, I will just have to secretly harbor the dream that all fairy tale influenced little princesses grow up longing for:

That one princely guy.

To call me Oil Mess.

Chapter Twenty Five; The Cougar Thing

The first time I heard the term "cougar" was back in my Dating Land days over dinner with an older and wiser successfully single girlfriend. I had just confessed to her how I had stumbled into a pseudo dating pothole on the Divorce Land highway and that my DLTC (Dating Land Traveling Companion) was slightly younger than me. Okay, maybe more than slightly. Oh fine, he was in second grade the year I graduated from high school. Actually, it might have been first . . .

“Ooooh, that makes you a cougar,” she purred over the top of her chardonnay.

“A wha?”

“A cougar. You know, Ashton/Demi?”

“There is a term for this ridiculous situation?” I was mortified. "I thought I was just having some kind of momentary isolated crisis."

When behavioral decisions have been assigned animal terminology isn't that evidence enough to rethink? Cougar. It sounded so primal. As if I wasn't second guessing this May/December deal already now I am a pop culture punch line? Indulging in the kind of lifetstyle trend that inspires reality television?

She encouraged me to check the calendar. It is 2008 and we women have arrived. It is acceptable to date younger men. Not only that, my ability to attract a man who moved from a tricycle to a two wheeler the same year I learned to drive is a badge of honor. I should be proud.

I assured her I was not some panting feline in heat. I was dating DLTC because I found him to be very smart, extremely funny, insanely ambitious and goal oriented. The birthday was something I was just trying to ignore.

My non-shallow declaration was quickly met with sly smirking and entertained eyebrow cocking from across the table.

“What?” I innocently inquired.

Her smirk spread and her eyebrow ascended into her hairline.

“Oh, FINE.” I nonchalantly conceded, “I admit. He’s also very cute.”

Her smirk morphed into a shit ass grin and her eyebrow dissappeared from her face. I think it moved to the back of her head.

“Alright! Alright! He’s so hot when he comes to my house I have to turn on the air conditioning. Happy?!?” (Which is saying a lot considering this conversation took place in December and I believe the temperature outside was around minus five degrees.)

Her eyebrow returned to her forehead as she high fived me from across the table.

I'd say she was pretty happy.

That night I Googled "cougar" to make sure I had not indeed lost my 35-year-old mind.

It turns out Madonna’s husband is 11 years her junior and, who knew, but the current reigning queen of the cougars is . . . Katie Couric? The epitome of brains and class? Wow. Her boyfriend wasn’t even BORN when she graduated from high school. And according to the Guinness Book of World Records some 34 year old man from Indonesia married a 101 year old woman just last year.

Whoa. I want the number of that woman’s plastic surgeon. Rock on granny!

My cyber cougar sleuthing was helping. I mean really, the age difference between me and DLTC was not that bad, I was certainly uncovering worse. Not to mention I was in the company of some strong and smart women who had stolen the contents of a cradle or two themselves.

I decided not to worry another second about it. After all, the last two years of my marriage were sad, tragic and frustrating. I figured if the worst thing I have to worry about at this stage in the game is whether or not my date will follow my uncanny knack for quoting Ferris Buehler’s Day off ("Life moves pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.") then my life has definitely taken a turn for the better.

Bring on the cat nip. And turn the air conditioning on high.

This cougar is on the prowl.

Chapter Nine: Prayers and Mottos

Smiley Susie Sunshine is at it again.

And here is why:

One crazy night shortly after my divorce I spontaneously decide to catch the red eye out of Divorce Land into Dating Land. And only one thing is for sure: We aren't in Kansas anymore, Toto. The signs are all in Japanese, a language in which I am certainly not fluent, and the customs are just as foreign and confusing. However, I am feeling certain that I can navigate my way based solely on confidence and logic. Before long, it is boldly obvious that I am a lost traveler who really has no business attempting to blend in with the locals.

As my journey in Dating Land enters ambiguity and my departing flight looms, I mourn the fact that I am not sure when and if I shall return to this place again. But thankfully, when I land back in reality my personal Divorce Land paramedics are there to meet my plane. And who else but curly haired Susie is behind the wheel of ambulance driving like Mario Andretti. She takes my pulse, feels my forehead and announces that I will be just fine in about a month, all I need to do is say one prayer daily to recover, "I don't understand God, but thank you."

It's sweet and nice and I accept her advice and prayer. But only for the time being. I don't have the heart to tell Susie that this prayer does zip zilch zero to decrease the growing pile of Kleenex on the floor next to my nightstand. Because Dating Land was fun. And wonderful. And intoxicating. And who wants to say goodbye to adjectives like that? Even if it was foreign and confusing, it seemed so well worth the inflated airfare for the trip.

Two nights after my arrival back home, I am reading in bed absorbed in Elizabeth Gilbert's book, "Eat, Pray, Love" that I quote in the "About Me" section of this blog. Liz, the author and protagonist, is sitting in an Italian Internet cafe in Rome. She has just ended an intense love affair with a man named David, her personal reprieve after the demise of her own marriage.

She has finally gathered the courage to accept the looming reality that she and David are more than likely not meant to be. Thus this scene finds Liz reading David's response to the sad and sorrowful goodbye email she sent a few days prior. As she reads, she is outwardly understanding and accepting of his agreement to move on, but internally hoping desperately that he has instead written, "WAIT! COME BACK! DON'T GO! I'LL CHANGE!" . . . but unfortunately the reality on the computer screen is made up of many many words, but none of them coming together to formulate such an exclamation.

David is not coming back.

Liz looks up from the email, tears streaming down her face, and announces to the wrinkled Italian woman mopping the cafe floor who does not speak one syllable of English: "This blows ass."

I drop the book into my lap and almost collapse with laughter! Grabbing my cell phone off my nightstand I text Susie the following:

New Divorce Land prayer (and motto!)

I don't understand, God. But Thank You.

P.S. God, in the meantime, you have to know just one thing . . . This blows ass.

I am thinking God will not question the sincerity of such a prayer, as I am thinking the big guy upstairs knows a thing or two about broken hearts.