Chapter Sixty Six; Dearly beloved. We're gathered here today to get through this thing called Life . . .

I met a friend for lunch the other day and the conversation veered toward our personal lives. Are you dating anyone? Nah, not right now. So, how’s your girlfriend? Oh she’s doing well, has a new job. Awesome! Tell me more about that.

The small talk soon opened a door to something a little deeper and before long I was listening intently to his honesty and sharing my insight and perspective when invited. Mid-conversation he stopped abruptly, shook his head and said, “I can’t believe I am subjecting you to my personal life, so sorry.”

Subjecting?

I tossed aside his analogy and simply stated, “Are you kidding me? Your personal life is your life. What other life is there?”

He paused to contemplate my assessment, smiled back across the table and said, “Yeah, Audra. Yeah. You’re exactly right,” and then offered affirmation by repeating my words, “what other life is there?”

Obviously, this blog is about relationships. Mainly mine. Friendships, my children, my parents, my ex-husband, or any guys (poor souls) who end up on my dating radar (with a high dose of discretion on my part, always). It doesn’t mean I don’t watch the nightly news, I don’t have a job, or that I haven’t noticed that the country’s economy appears to be on the brink of collapsing (Damn, should have kept that cardboard box my refrigerator came in should I lose my house some day). My point is that, yes, I do live in the same world you do. Those things are just as much a part of my reality as anyone else’s, but I’ll let the talking heads spend their time expounding on those elements of life.

I am going to blog about the more important parts of humanity.

The estrogen infused sap that I am would rather seek out the universality of the human experience (fancy way of saying that is what authors, poets, and song writers do) and write about the things that tie this fragmented cloth of humanity together: happiness, heartbreak, love, and loss.

And, well, if I can do that and eek a chuckle out of someone in the process, then high fives all around. I love doing that. I love just writing about life.

All that being said, an anonymous comment appeared on my blog the other day requesting updates on the Divorce Land girls, the women who inspired me to start this blogarama in the first place, the four girls behind the email address attached to Divorce Land: fourgirlsonestory@gmail.com.

Those four girls are: Susie, Julia, Annie, and Sonja. (Five girls if you count me.) We’re all friends, and we all went through a divorce this past year. We honestly were only loosely connected prior to our divorces, but through the process of pain bonding and the circumstance that is serendipity, we found each other, and what a gift it was.

The anonymous poster is right, I haven’t done an update on the DL girls in a while. Mainly out of respect for my friends (although every time they’ve been blog fodder they have loved it, we’re all suckers for our 15 minutes of fame) but also because Divorce Land is coming to a natural end. It’s been quite a year, and our journeys through divorce significant, but not defining. Our futures will not be monuments to our past, but instead hold promising discoveries waiting to be unearthed as we all navigate our second chances, our Act Two.

I promised myself I would continue this blog until December 14th. The one year anniversary of the day my own divorce was final. At that time, I will close this chapter in my life for good, and ending Divorce Land will be a symbolic gesture toward that endeavor.

But until that date, I promise to continue to bring my DL readers along for the ride, give regular updates of the DL girls (look for that update in my next essay!), and continue to allow the world a glimpse into my own journey post-divorce.

In other words, I have a few more months left to devote to blogging about my personal life.

Because after all.

What other life is there?

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If you were born in the 80's you might not get the Prince Reference in the title . . . I highly suggest you listen to the best Prince song ever immediately, "Let's Go Crazy," or risk dying truly unenlightened.

Chapter Fifty Eight; Screaming in my Living Room

“How was your run?” my daughter asked.

“Well, it was great other than the fact that I think I saw a caterpillar lap me. Twice.”

She snorts a laugh so I don’t argue back that I am not even remotely exaggerating.

My dead woman running took place a few weeks ago while on vacation at a lake, supposedly, in Minnesota. I say supposedly because after the run I had on the road around it I am starting to wonder if perhaps I’d taken a wrong turn on the way to our cabin and actually ended up somewhere in the Rockies. Or Cascades.

Holy hills, Batman.

As if the mountainous terrain wasn’t bad enough it also didn’t help that I had some kind of a “searing pain in my heel” thing going on and at one point I was literally limping up a hill.

And did I mention it was pouring rain at the time?

Yep.

“Boy. Is this a metaphor for the last year of my life, or what?” I clearly remember thinking at the time.

But regardless. I still love running. It has carried me through some very dark places, literally lifted my spirit off the ground with every stride. So when the Olympics invaded my flat screen a few weeks ago I could not wait to watch the track events. I popped the popcorn, dimmed the lights, and camped out in my *egantic recliner to cheer on the athletes. (*Siamese twin to the new adjective "gynormous" if I lost ya.)

I watched 38-year-old Constance Tomescu-Dita of Romania win the women’s marathon. And the American men’s relay team race to a new world’s record in the 4X400. I am sure someone in Bejing had to have heard me screaming from my living room.

And Usain Bolt from Jamaica? Hello? If I were pregnant right now I would absolutely name my child after that fastest man in the world.

Girl or Boy.

Usain Ann. Usain Joe.

They both sound great considering that dude is a sprinting god and what baby wouldn't be honored?

My favorite Olympic track stories, though, by far, are the ones about people from third world countries. The ones who were not pampered children of former Olympians. The ones who didn’t grow up with access to private gyms or world renowned coaches. The ones who tell stories about watching Carl Lewis years before on the only television in their remote village.

The ones for whom running has literally saved their lives.

Like Samuel Wanjiru from Kenya. A day laborer who used to earn 30 cents a day.

30 cents, people. What can you buy for 30 cents in this country?

Maybe a toothpick?

Exactly.

I watched this twenty-one year old young man, who has probably seen more adversity in his life than a hundred years of nightly news will ever show any of us in this country, striding through the sticky Bejing morning men's marathon.

Mile 15.

Mile 21.

Mile 23.

I watched him grit his teeth in the final stretch. I watched him surpass the rest of the lead pack. I watched him douse his head with bottled water in the morning heat as the Eagle’s Nest came into view.

And I watched him run.

And I watched him.

Win.

And when he crossed that finish line he sank to his knees while making the sign of the cross.

And on the other side of the world some blonde runner was hopping all over her living room hooting and hollering.

And celebrating with him. And for him.

Because there is no greater metaphor for life than the endurance of an athlete. Be it just some chick overcoming hills and rain and pain on a run around a lake. Or a young man a world away overcoming life circumstances, remote chances, and fueling it all on nothing but a dream in his head.

Life sometimes is just pain.

And all you can do is run through it. Run on.

And endure.

And yes, even sometimes.

You can win.

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

I am no Olympian, now or ever, but I do pin on the occasional numbered bib and let people time me. Here's "Sonja" and I at a 5K last week getting ready to rock and roll! (And let me just acknowledge that this woman is a size ZERO. Hello! Most anorexics would look wide next to this chick! Love ya, Sonja! You hottie! Thanks for making me and my size four ass stay humble!)

Chapter Fifty Six: Saying "I do!" To the Future.

The origin of the whole idea is fuzzy in our collective minds. Whose idea was this anyway? None of are really sure. We can’t pinpoint the exact date that the concept took root, but nevertheless, it did.

And over the months. It evolved. And took hold.

We would do it. We absolutely would do it. When all the divorces are final.

That is when we will make it happen.

Five girlfriends, bonded by the serendipity of similar stories, will gather on a bridge to ceremoniously release the past into the water below. The tears, mistakes, and failures of yesterday will go to a watery grave, while the gift of today and promise of tomorrow will be baptized with champagne.

And now. That day is today.

“Alright girls, check out my big ass veil,” Julia announces as she pulls the monstrosity from a bag. It is a hot August night and our group is perched on a picturesque bridge over the river that runs through our town.

We can only gasp our horror at the site of this blast from Julia’s bridal past.

“Holy shit!” Annie exclaims. Which pretty much sums it up.

“I can’t believe someone married you with that thing on your head,” I deadpan. Julia’s veil rivals something one may find on a mutant cockatoo. She puts it on and we all gasp again for good measure.

That thing is huge. And high.

And awful.

“I know! I know!” she affirms, “What the f**k was I thinking?”

We all collapse into hysterics. And then, of course, all insist on trying it on.

Last winter, when we began to plot Divorce Palooza 2008, we went back and forth on what to throw when our collective freedoms were finally official. We all wanted to choose something from our weddings or marriages that would symbolize the past.

Susie confessed solemnly, “I have every single rose petal my husband ever gave me.”

“No way.” I couldn’t believe it.

“Yes way,” Susie confirms, arching her eyebrows for emphasis, “And I think that would be the perfect little memento to toss into the water.”

We all nod in agreement. Absolutely.

“Well, my ex-husband and I were together since we were freshmen in high school,” Sonja reminds us. “There is nothing from my past that he is not a part of. My entire adolescence and adulthood, he was there. Let’s just say I have a lot to choose from.”

“I don’t know, I just don’t know,” Annie interjects, “I’ll think of something.”

“Well I am throwing in the damn dress,” I announce. Because of course, I want to be the most obnoxious.

Susie snorts into her martini and shrieks, “What the hell! The dress?”

“Yes, the dress. It was awful! I’d just had a baby; I was a fat ass snow beast of a bride. Besides. It will look HILARIOUS floating down the river! Can’t you see it?!?!” I eloquently exclaim as I sell the concept to the group.

“Oh my god, don’t you want to keep it? Have baptismal gowns made out of it for your grandchildren?” Susie offers in defense of the dress.

I just stare at her.

Who thinks of crap like that?

Apparently Sappy Susie that’s who.

I explain to her, and the rest of the Divorce Land girls, that that dress was some beaded shoulder-padded throw back to 1890 that I wouldn’t wish upon my worst enemy. Let alone my defenseless descendants.

They cackle in agreement. If it is as bad as I say it is. They’re on board with the dress toss.

And so. It is settled.

We will do it.

And last Thursday night.

We did.

Amid champagne. And laughter. And friendship.

We let the past go.

Dried rose petals. So many “I love you’s.”

Engagement pictures. Two kids smiling into happily ever after.

Love notes from a husband who cheated. Talk is cheap.

Two names entwined on a wedding reception napkin. A promise that was never kept.

A bad fad wedding veil. Chosen by a girl who has since become a woman.

And one big white wedding dress. Marriage is not at all about the wedding day.

All of it descended into the water. All of it floated away.

As five girls said goodbye to yesterday.

And “I do.”

To the future.

Chapter Fifty One; Crank up the Beastie Boys! Life is Good.

Damn it.

I am in a good mood

The morning sun is shining, I have a Grande Starbucks skinny Cinnamon Dolce Latte (with whip, life is better with the whip) in my hand as I cruise into work, and the start of a gorgeous summer day is pouring onto my head through my open sun roof.

I am listening to a cd a friend of mine made for me and I just start laughing out loud. What the? Is this the Beastie Boys? Yep. Good grief!

Why did he think I would even/ever want to listen to the Beastie Boys?

But I crank it up anyway. Some song about a booty.

I laugh out loud it is so ridiculous, take advantage of the fact I own a foreign-made sports car, and drive a little faster.

Just because.

All things considered, I should not be so giddy.

This year has sucked.

Hello? Divorce.

Kind of a bummer.

I should be crabbier.

Sadder.

And some days I am. But on this beautiful day, my rebellious nature gets the best of me and I say screw sadness.

I’m smiling.

I mean, after all, if I want to start pointing out the suck ass parts of my life, I am at no loss for creating that list.

In fact, it isn’t even so much about where to begin, it is more about where does it end.

Oh, you don't believe me?

Well then. Let me start by illustrating my top three crap things I oh so deserve and am oh so entitled to whine about this past year:

• I asked my husband for a divorce last summer and he got over me in about .00075 seconds. Nice.

• I figure, well, I'll move on too. So I start running around like a nut and accidentally fall for someone in the process. But that didn't work out. I was disappointed and slightly heartbroken when it went nowhere. (Oh, so you want to question my adverb choice? Forget it. It's intentional. I am sticking with the downplaying approach. I stand behind my “slightly.” I realize it is kind of like you can’t be “a little” pregnant. Cut me some slack, if he reads this blog I want to give the impression I am fine. Even this blogging blonde has her dignity. But let's move on with the whining, shall we?)

• And finally, I am young but I have a teenage daughter. I am coming to the realization this pretty much makes me "un-dateable” for guys my age. Not many guys my age are interested in dating a woman whose daughter wears the same size she does. Jeans and bra. It just weirds them out to no end.

So those are my top three “Topics I like to bitch and moan about the most whenever I decide to throw a Pity Party.”

And yes, I have let all of the above get me down. But at this precise moment they don't seem like something worth fretting TOO much about.

Because really:

• My ex husband is a great dad. I won't complain. He sees our kids every day. He's on a business trip this week and it is practically killing me that I don't have his help. He’s really great in that department.

• Yeah, boo hoo about my first trip into Dating Land. I am just out of practice when it comes to matters of the heart. Totally, absolutely, completely. I am not in denial there. I really REALLY suck at this. He was a nice guy. Just because we didn't run off into the sunset I am going to try not to pout about it too much, or too long. I believe there is some sea out there with more fish in it? So I hear? Someone hand me a pole. (Fishing, not stripping. It's a metaphor. What kind of bait do you think I plan on using?)

• Yes, I have children. One of whom is more woman than child. (Hey, I started young. I have energy to mother them and it rocks!) I am sure there is some guy out there who someday who will be ecstatic to get a glimpse of our little estrogen charged world: a place where no road trip is complete without Hannah Montana’s latest cd, pedicures rank right up there with food and breathing (yes, I have the 7 year old brain washed already!), and chocolate is considered a vital food group.

So on this day I resolve to cease with the complaining and pseudo suffering.

As long as the summer sun decides to shine once in a while, Starbucks keeps cranking out over-priced happiness in a cup,and the Beastie Boys rap about a booty on my Bose, then I will continue to make every effort to turn life’s junk circumstances inside out.

And choose for myself the best kind of mood that I can.

A good one.
******************
Hey "Kris" . . . thanks for the cd! Even when you're in China you continue to infuse my life with "cool weirdness." And oh, hope that hunt for my rice bucket is going well! Later calculator.

Chapter Forty Eight; Angelina Jolie I am Not

I am going to cave to the pressure and give in to my fans.

People want updates. People want details. People want to know my business.

I am amazed.

Seriously?

My business?

Wow.

I had no idea the life and times of Audra was truly that intriguing. Oh sure, since I am the one living it is interesting to me, if I do say so myself. But isn’t it just like everyone else’s life? I just happen to have a talent for blabbing about mine in Microsoft Word and pasting it onto a public form.

Hmmm.

But fair warning, this isn’t exactly fodder for a prime time mini-series.

I’m kind of a snore.

I mean really, it’s not like I stole Jennifer Ashton’s husband, added three more tots to my orphan collection and then swamped the tabloids when I gave birth to twins in the south of France the other day. You gotta love Angelina, people. Can you imagine her blog? Good gawd. It would read, “Today Brad and I saved the world on the way home from Asia, signed a deal for a mega-million dollar action flick over lunch and then tattooed our love onto our pinky toes in a long lost language recently discovered off the coast of Zimbabwe.”

Now THAT is an interesting life.

Weird as hell.

But intriguing nonetheless.

As for mine, I got nothin’ but mundane melodrama of a Midwestern nature. But you asked, so here it is:

DLTC. (Acronym for “Dating Land Traveling Companion” if you are just hopping aboard Audra’s blogarrama express for the first time.)

Everyone wants to know what happened to that guy. Oh, FINE, here's the deal.

The synopsis:

We dated this winter. Then we broke up.

The back cover overview is as follows:

(Feel free to picture the kind of novel where DLTC is ripping a civil-era gown off my DD figure, even though that isn’t remotely true. I’m flat as a flamcake. And the last time I wore a dress like that was a bad prom decision circa 1989. On top of that, the highlight of our courtship was probably the fact that I fed him a lot of my world famous beef stew. Not exactly the kind of page turning romantic sap that made Nicholas Sparks famous. Gee, starting to understand why we may have broken up . . .)

I digress.

Here's the deal:

After said break up we both proceeded to have a severe ambiguity attack because we still talked often and did platonic things like go to lunch and coffee and talk on the phone fairly regularly.

Weird.

After three months of the kind of situation that propelled Facebook to provide the option “It’s Complicated” for its relationship status section, it all culminated in what I like to call the “Great Greg Golfing Debacle.” (Yes, his name is Greg. I had to leave it in; the “ga ga ga” alliteration is just too sweet for this writer to resist.)

It was strange.

We did this golf outing, had a great time, went to dinner and I promptly drank a whole lot of “truth serum” (i.e. two glasses of wine) and demanded, “What is going on? Are we dating or not?”

The answer was “not.”

I bawled.

Tons.

(Not then, later. I do have some dignity.)

Sigh.

So that’s the story.

Wow.

So not fun.

I have just come to the conclusion that the heart is a complex and confusing element of our humanity. You can’t force yourself to love someone just as you can’t force yourself not to love someone. Every so often, our souls sense a connection that we did not plan, and it takes your breath away when it happens.

And when it is gone, you are just going to cry.

But you will breathe again.

It just takes time.

So that’s that.

Let’s just say I am watching the clock at this point and waiting for the healing that the minute hand is supposed to ultimately provide. (I also listen to a lot of rock music when I zoom around in my sports car and snap off the radio the instant sap lyrics along the lines of "I miss you" start threatening my sanity.)

On with the updates:

Smiley Susie Sunshine. My bestest Divorce Land Bud.

Everyone wants to know what is going on there, so here's that deal:

Divorce should be final any day!! Sweet mother of France, England, AND Spain it is finally (almost)over.

And all for the bargain price of a nice fat home equity loan on her part. Isn’t that just sick? Yeah, well, she’s still smiling. That woman is a rock.

She and I indulged in pedicures today and for some strange Susie reason, she decided to tell me all about a party she went to 20 years ago in college.

If Dr. Seuss and Mother Goose had a child, Susie would be it. That woman has a story for everything, I am telling you.

This one was particularly awesome.

It all began when Susie and her friend ended up on the guest list for a hoity toity party they suspected might be an extremely dull experience for a couple of college chicks.

So they devised a plan.

They would assume secret identities to spice up the night.

Susie’s alias was Barbara, her friend was Gidget. (I know, Gidget? Seriously? But they were 20 years old, cut them some slack.)

What kills me is this next part:

Should the “Lame Expectations” come to fruition, they plotted a clever escape route: weaving the fascinating topic of eucalyptus leaves into the conversation. Once either one started talking panda food that would be secret code for “we’re off like a prom dress, this party sucks.”

Which is exactly what Barbara and her sidekick Gidget did six beers and one hour into the gathering.

And why do I need to hear this story? Let alone retell it here?

Because just the other day Susie realized that the one individual they had visited with at that party so many years ago (yes, Susie’s memory is amazing) is the same local guy who sold his company to Microsoft and became a gabillionaire not too long ago.

Nice one, Suze.

If only you’d made a love connection back then, even if you had still hit Divorce Land, with money bags Microsoft man at least you would ended up with a vacation home in Tahiti as part of the settlement.

Woulda shoulda coulda.

And yes.

This is the crap Susie thinks of to chatter about during a pedicure.

I love that woman.

So those are the updates.

I am far removed from Dating Land and I got a pedicure today where Susie proceeded to yak my ear off about an ancient adventure.

Wake up, people!

If you fell asleep, so not my fault.

This is what inquiring minds wanted to know.

I am telling you, I should stick to the essay format. My online journal blog would NOT hold your attention. Considering the fact that as soon as I post this I am going to fold about three loads of laundry, you should all be thankful that I choose not to expound upon the benefits of Tide with Bleach and that I instead look for the quirky and crazy components of life when I choose to subject the world to my story telling.

In fact, this entry was so damn dull I am thinking I should seriously consider spicing up my life a little more.

Maybe after I’m done with the laundry I’ll have to see if I can fly over to Indonesia for the weekend and pick up an orphan or two.

I’ll have to get right on that.

Right after I steal someone’s celebrity husband and tattoo hieroglyphics onto my perfectly pedictured pinky toes.

Chapter Thirty Eight; The Great Grass Mystery and other Manly Secrets Revealed

Anyone out there looking for a husband?

If so, I have a great candidate:

Me.

Alright. Not really. Like I want to get married again? No way.

Okay, okay. Seriously. I do have a point. And an announcement:

I have decoded the mysteries of the male universe. And guess what:

NOT THAT DIFFICULT!

Closely guarded secrets of the husbandly nature are no longer locked in a vault of marital silence. Not that I really wanted to ever know where the grass clippings went, how to fix the garbage disposal, or get the central air fired up on the first hot day of the year, but hey, I am living in a testosterone free land here so I kinda had no choice.

I like to call my first adventure of my spouseless existence:

“The Discovery of the Great Grass Graveyard” (not that kind of grass . . .)

Here’s the deal:

My ex always mowed the lawn. And when he did, the leftovers mysteriously disappeared. Like magic. And I never asked where they went. It was like an unwritten rule. An unspoken understanding. Because all I knew is the husband had something to do with their disappearance. (And honestly? Like I gave a crap? I was just happy they were gone.)

Fast forward to now. Spring is here. I am divorced. I need to mow.

Check.

Crap.

Um. Help?

One quick clueless woman on the street survey of my neighbors later I learn there is this amazing place just a few blocks away devoted entirely to yard waste disposal. Really? What? You mean he didn’t zap them with his super secret man gun?

Wow. I am so shocked.

So, on my way to work on Monday I deposit the remnants of my weekend’s hard work in my trunk. And drive my little sports car over to the hush-hush dumping ground. I find it right away. And it is quickly apparent that I am obviously in a man’s world.

Because everything is clearly labeled in large black block letters.

I also know I’ve penetrated a sacred manly ritual because I am the only woman at this place.

I march my designer jeans up the ramp and promptly deposit the clippings under a large sign that basically grunts at me, “CLIPPINGS HERE” while all the men in the vicinity simply stop. And stare. And I don’t think they were checking out my ass. I think they were shocked to see that the gig was up. Estrogen was in the building. And she had discovered their covert operation.

I felt like maybe I should make some kind of proclamation? One that would accompany my sticking a flag in the receptacle claiming this new world for the Queen of Divorce Land and her loyal mowing female subjects?

Nah. I’ll just let the natives sweat it out. Let them lay awake at night wondering if this means they can expect more female colonists to invade their territory in the years to come and leave it that.

The rest of my adventures in man land include: finding an alternate use for a broom handle to unstick a stuck garbage disposal (worked like a charm). I also discovered that this box full of switches in my basement has a use. Its full of little deally bobs called “breaker switches.” And they are important little buggers. One in particular needed to be flipped in order to start my central air unit now that summer is here.

Phew!

I’m exhausted.

Someone wipe the sweat off my brow. This being a man is really intense.

Ah. Hem. Yes. Insert sarcasm.

Because like I am not noticing the blatant fact that these tasks are NOTHING compared to bearing children, cooking four course meals, coordinating the schedules of the entire family, paying the bills (creatively, during the lean years) and sewing every damn curtain in this four story well decorated joint?

What a crock!

And so, my female friends. If you do happen to be married, I have news. There is no man gun and their super secret world is well labeled and not that hard to locate. (It’s by the water treatment plant if any woman out there really wants to know.) And as for any garbage disposal or heating/cooling unit issues you may have, give me a call. I’ll come over, teach you to do amazing things with a broom handle and try not to break my pinky finger while flipping a little switch in your basement.

(Reread that last sentence . . . HAHAHAHAHA! Man, does that read like a metaphor that could be taken totally out of context or what? I am best at sexual innuendos when they just accidentally fall out of my face. This weekend I had guy over and I told him, "You have GOT to put your face in my bush."................I meant my lilac bush. Its in full bloom. He momentarily looked really exicted until I pointed at the flowers. ;-) And don't ask why I had a guy over. I'll blog about that one later....)

Maybe . . .

Back to my manly abilities:

Please note, if you do need my assistance in the honey do list department, I will need to lie down afterward on your couch for a few hours. And if its not any trouble, I’d like to watch South Park and drink a beer during my recovery from all that . . . cough . . . “work.”

But unfortunately, even though I really do have this man thing down, don’t even think about proposing.

Because right now the only woman I am planning to take care of . . .

Is me.

Chapter Thirty Two; Dating after Divorce is for Dummies

When I was in college and pursuing my undergrad in English, i.e. sitting under a tree and analyzing poetry with a professor who I am fairly certain was high 90% of the time, ("And the elephant represents mankind's submission to his primal cravings. . . " Um, yeah. The poem is about Africa. It's just an elephant. Move on already Dr. Druggie.) I spent a lot of time learning about the concept of the universality of the human condition.

This is just a fancy way of saying people's emotional responses are fairly predictable in a variety of life situations.

Our make up is relatively similar in this regard; this is why every memorable song and poem is always, always, always about some stop along the love highway: found, lived, or lost.

This unoriginal human nature is what contributes to your internally exclaiming, "That is just how I feel!" when lyrics drift over the radio waves that literally seem like the artist could be singing your diary.

For example: you get dumped. It blows ass. If you write a song about it, all the other millions of dumpees are listening along and thinking to themselves, "Right on! This really blows ass!" And then they become your die hard adoring fans.

Because you get them.

Whatever. You're just someone who got your ass dumped and actually possesses enough talent to set it to music. Get over yourself.

Well, I will grant an exception to Janis Joplin’s “Piece of my Heart.” That song just kicks ass and we all know it. It’s an awesome one to blare while you throw your ex-lover’s belongings on a bon fire.

Not that I would know.

I digress.

Because of this emotional predictability (“The universality of the human condition"…oh come on, I had to write it one more time. It is not every day I get to sound so brunette), I decided to start reading up on typical behavioral patterns related to divorce to see where I fell.

Why? Well, I was just curious about how, quote unquote, normal I was in this regard.

Oh fine. I wanted to know the answer to one burning question:

Should I be dating?!?!?

Logically, I figured I would be awful at this dating thing. After all, I haven't done it since 1993. Usually a craft you chose to abandon long before Clinton even met Monica’s blue Gap dress is going to be rustier than a piece of iron left on the front lawn. For a hundred years. In Seattle.

The research I uncovered pretty much advised me to write off any and all events of a dating nature within the first year of divorce. Why? Because divorce is a pretty significant life event, often likened to death. If you divorce and then enter Dating Land before the four seasons have fully cycled it is pretty much like leaving your mother’s funeral where you just bawled your head off, blowing your nose, and then heading straight to the single’s bar.

Not only will you look like absolute hell (let's be honest) but even the most normal person will come off a tad bit on the psycho side considering the circumstances.

You are in NO state to ask someone their sign or take down a cell phone number, let alone be expected to act like an emotionally healthy person. You just buried your mother for crying out loud! Cut yourself some slack.

Thankfully, the anniversary of my marital "freedom" is just a few weeks away. And even though the projected return of my sanity, perspective, and emotional health one year post-separation is simply a guideline, I am thinking that the people who documented this “Dating after Divorce is for Dummies” phenomenon are on to something.

Because I keep a journal.

And there was a cookie dough eating psychopath writing in mine this time last year.

Wow.

But in a few weeks time when I do finally hit that magical one year mark, I am going to do what every other person who has lost in love should do (oh stop, the only thing I plan to burn this year is that horrifying journal!)

Oh no. I am going to do something even better.

Write one hell of a hit song.

Chapter Thirty; How I Lost my Pants

A relationship takes two people. Agreed?

If so then each party is responsible for 50%. Again, agree?

Therefore, when a relationship turns into make war not love, it is pretty much established that each person takes half of the contributing garbage upon departure as a parting gift.

Crap.

I was so hoping I wouldn't have to actually take any responsibility for my divorce.

When I decide to get all egotistical on this topic (and that is often since being an ego maniac is what I do best) I like to apply the following, more user friendly, analogy to my marital demise:

My ex and I together were just like a bad fashion decision.

Let me explain:

I was the loud trendy little gauzy blouse; he was the starched wool-lined trousers. Not only do these two articles of clothing NOT go together at all, they aren't even meant for the same season. Therefore, it makes perfect sense why we are no longer together.

We simply did not match.

It is not scandalous. It is not juicy. It was just one unfortunate attire decision that was bound by a legal contract and lasted 13 years too long.

My ex will work so much better with someone pressed and proper and perfect. I am envisioning maybe a white crisp button down?

And I would obviously make so more sense with someone funky and fringed with fun loving foolishness. I am thinking a pair of deliberately destroyed designer jeans?

See? Using this analogy takes away the blame game and brings it all down to the fact that we are just talking good fashion sense in the end.

I know for a fact that my perfect pair would be most at home rocking out in the front row at a concert or roaring down the interstate on a motorcycle, yet absolutely comfortable milling around Barnes and Noble or working late to meet a project deadline at the office. Fun loving yet responsible and intelligent, versatile yet realistic and goal oriented.

Hey, at this point, I got nothing to lose. Damn right my expectations are higher than a Woodstock hippie. Why not? I'll add "models on the side for Abercrombie" to the list while I'm at it. (Do you have a crystal ball? Exactly. Shut up and let a woman dream.)

But finding that just right jean is, as any woman I know with an ass will attest to, can be the single worst task on the planet. Or more accurately: hell on earth.

I might be in this dressing room for a while.

Nope, not this one. Too tight. Gawd, my thighs looks like Siamese-twin sausages in this pair. You've got to be kidding me, no way. And why are all these things made for women with a six foot inseam? And who even has a six foot inseam? I would have to have an entire chapter devoted to me and my super freaky long legs in the Guinness Book of World Records for these to actually fit. (And no offense to the current super freaky long leg record holder, but there is no way that is possibly attractive.)

Like I said. Hell on earth.

However, the effort I am going to have to put forth to finally undo this fashion fiasco is not as simple as finally locating a complimentary article of clothing. Let's face it, after thirteen years this shirt could probably use a good ironing. And I really should spend some quality time checking out my jewelry drawer, I can't just go throwing on any old bangle with an outfit meant for such a significant occasion (duh, we are talking my life here, people). And really, good grief, this thing reeks. Where’s my Tide with bleach . . .

Therefore, I am going to first smooth out these creases (read some good books on how not to be a divorce' doorknob), spend some time choosing the right accessories (make sure I surround my self with good grounded people) and wash this baby to make sure its fresh and clean (work on the 50% that I contributed to the end of my marriage.)

Believe it or not I am not perfect. (Gasp!) I know. Its shocking to me too.

The truth is I am a control freak to end all control freaks and I should probably address that before I inflict myself on some poor unsuspecting soul. Because if I don't attend to that glaring personality flaw, well then let’s face it. I am going to be running around without any pants on for quite a while.

And I believe that is actually very much illegal.

But once the shirt is back in shape, then and only then, will I get serious about finding my dream jeans.

Because if I do the result will not only be the epitome of chic but more importantly than that it will be the kind of timeless outfit . . .

. . . that never goes out of style.

Chapter Twenty Three; The Anniversary

Another year has passed.

Time is marked and plotted and organized. Twelve months, 365 days, one endless circle of numbers that keeps repeating. We revisit and acknowledge yearly this passage of time again and again. Another birthday. Another anniversary.

They are guideposts that protect us from simply getting lost in the circular motion of time. When a date that carries significance on our calendar arrives, we have to look up and look around. And do the obligatory assessment:

Where have I been? Where am I now? Where am I going?

Today is one of those days for me. It is my 14th wedding anniversary. Or is it? After all, my marriage did not survive.

Fourteen years ago today I was in college. And pregnant. And shell shocked. And scared. And on auto pilot.

I was marrying a stranger, stuck on a runaway train with momentum so powerful superman on steroids could not have stopped it. The few times I had suggested maybe . . . not? Marriage? My doubts were gently, yet effectively, silenced. My parents, my friends, my soon to be husband, everyone advised that this was the smart and best idea. And I am smart. And I always try my best. So this seemed to be the rational answer. And I am not one to fight logic.

April 9th was a beautiful day in 1994.

Today it is a beautiful day in 2008.

Back then I was 21, hesitantly walking a brick pathway, then bravely standing beneath a bell tower only to obediently recite the words the Justice of the Peace prompted me to say.

I was terrified.

Now I am 35, confidently striding up that same brick pathway, peacefully standing beneath the same bell tower and owning every thought inside my head, every action of my present life, and every decision that impacts my future. No one prompts me.

And this time I am not scared.

Just a few hours before I had pulled from storage a dusty box.

And now I stand under this bell tower holding its contents.

14 years in a shoe box takes its toll on daisies.

I remember holding this bouquet so many years ago, watching the delicate flowers shake as I said words that truly had no meaning to me. Now, although the petals are almost dust, they are solid in my firm grip, moving only because of the spring breeze.

I gently place the crumpling and brittle remnants of that day on the ground, close my eyes, and think back to the younger scared version of myself and whisper to her in my mind, “I am sorry it took me so long to get here. You were brave. And you should be proud. Come with me now. I can take it from here.”

And I quietly retreat. Leaving the past to turn to dust with the daisies.

At the end of the walk way, something beckons me to turn and I look back, one more stolen moment of contemplation.

And as I do, I am struck by the silhouette of the four story bell tower against the sun beams streaming through the clouds in the distance. The sight is magnificent. But my silent observation is utterly brief, for instantly the air is pierced with sound and song.

The bells. Begin. To chime.

Loud and true. Big and bold.

As the air echoes and swells with deafening melodic chords, the perfection of the timing is a choreography that shouts and proclaims an affirmation of my life’s journey: past, present, and future.

In my awe, the tears come, as I realize that now, forever and always, April 9th was just assigned a new meaning. It will no longer stand for fear and failure, sadness and surrender.

Instead this date will now signify the miraculous moment when I saw, heard and felt a wondrous truth:

The unwavering and real.

Love and presence.

Of God.

Chapter Eighteen: A Man Free World?

The lesbians of this world might be on to something.

Or the nuns in the convent.

Both lifestyles, after all, are testosterone free.

But the truth is one thing I never want to be is a man hater. I certainly am not going to lump all of mankind under one giant “They are all assholes/idiots” heading. That is just not me.

But seriously. The men in my life in the last twenty fours have just left my head reeling.

First, there is the ex-husband: Mr. Drama on a level that would cause the words in this blog to overflow the screen, fall onto the floor, and leave everyone reading this standing in verbal vomit, and we can’t have that. I hate to “go there” but let’s just say by the end of the day yesterday, I was practically giddy with the thought that I no longer (or ever again for that matter) have to live with or wash the boxers of this irrational man. (And as Forest Gump would say, “That’s all I have to say about that.”)

Secondly, there is my gym stalker. Well, not really. Nice guy. Funny guy. (Okay, hot guy, there, I said it. Happy?) And a very not so subtle oh so after me for no less than six months guy. Somehow I ended up in a sweat flicking contest with him yesterday. “I sweat more than you do! No I do! No I do, take that!” What kind of middle school regression ritual is this? I think it’s called flirting but I haven’t done very much of it since 1993 so I’m not sure exactly.

And lastly, there is the aftermath of my former Dating Land Traveling Companion. I am inclined to lump all that that was and is into the category of “a good thing.” Even though it was hard, I celebrate that toward its end it differed significantly from my prior relationship track record. Back in Act One, I always played the role of stubborn control freak living in a stone tower, wearing a suit of armor and seeking pseudo protection behind emotional walls thicker than the earth’s crust (43 miles at its most pronounced depth).

But this time around I lost the steel suit, took a wrecking ball to the stone walls, and instead opted to try on some (GASP!) vulnerability and (SHOCK!) raw emotional honesty.

Not bad. Not bad. Checked myself out in the mirror. Hmmm, looks good on me. Fits better than I would have assumed. The vulnerability is still a little snug, but it might stretch out if I wear it for a while.

And besides, the view is so much better from here without so many walls in the way. I think I can actually see my reflection more clearly now.

And so . . . lesbian or nun? I do wear a lot of black, the nun thing could work? Sister Mary Audra Elizabeth, maybe? But lesbian? Nah. I'm eternally entrenched on this team and I don't plan to entertain the concept of a switcheroo there any time soon (or ever).

So, even if I have endured some testosterone driven confusion as of late, I will never wave the man hater flag.

THAT much I do know.

Chapter Fifteen: Green Beer and Glitter

When my day ended yesterday, I knew it had been a good one based solely on the fact that I was washing green glitter off my face before heading to bed.

After all, any day that leaves me literally sparkling has to be worth noting.

St. Patrick’s Day. I have never actually celebrated it. Not really. Oh, maybe I’ve been known to bake a shamrock shaped cut out cookie or two in my life or worn the obligatory green attire, but other than that I have spent my adult life at home on this pint drinking day of leprechauns and Irish folk tunes.

“There is an Irish band playing at the Aquarium downtown, want to go?”

I am all set to turn down this eleventh hour invitation from one of my girlfriends. It is a Monday, people. I have a job. Besides, that’s a total college hang out and I would feel extremely out of place. But then I reconsider.

And call a sitter.

After all, this is Act Two. This is a new life. And the new me. And the new improved version of me decides that if I was hit by an asteroid tomorrow wouldn’t it be a shame that I’d never danced a jig while downing a green beer? Tragic.

Faster than you can say pink hearts, yellow moons, orange stars, and green clovers I am in the only emerald shirt I own standing in a cloudy bar sipping grass colored beer and stomping my feet to what I swear is the soundtrack from Titanic, the scene where they have one hell of a party below deck in C class. I practically expect Leonardo de Caprio to sidle up to me at any moment and whisk me off my feet. (Eat your heart out Kate Winslet.)

Instead, I am abducted by some curly haired kid who twirls me around and slurs that I am the prettiest girl in this whole damn bar. Actually, the whole damn town. Maybe the whole damn world. I just laugh at his alcohol induced awe, drink the compliments instead of the beer, and allow him to whirl and weave me from one end of the dance floor to the next. At one point some girl tosses glitter across the dance floor and we are both doused from head to toe in sparkles.

The band is exuberant and joyful, and I soon lose my drunken dance partner (intentionally) and trade him in for my girlfriends who are taking up the entire front row, clapping and singing along.

And in the midst of the singing and the music I take just a second to inhale the energy all around me and give thanks.

For life and music. For friends and glitter.

But mostly for a second chance around that seems to be suddenly lucky and charmed, and oh so magically delicious.

Chapter Fourteen: Future Feathers and Falling in Love

I think this is the year I am going to finally fall in love.

In fact, the person I would most like this to happen with has already begun to pamper me on a level I have never experienced. Just last week we were shopping and I was encouraged to pick out items that normally I would have found a bit frivolous, and even embarrassing. But this person whispered seductively in my ear, “Go ahead. These are lovely things, and you deserve all things lovely in this world.”

“Damn’t, I do,” I found myself believing.

And so I heeded the gentle coaxing voice of my new love, and found myself toting home a plethora of romantic and indulgent items from new bedding to a flowing little dress that I have absolutely no idea where or why I will ever wear, as well as two new bikinis and more frilly little panties from Victoria’s Secret than I have ever had in my life. I might need to reassign an additional underwear drawer in my dresser . .

When I arrived home, my bed was first.

And it was slightly ceremonial I confess. After all, some of this bedding I had had since my wedding day, and we all know how that ended. Out with the old and in with the new was long over due there, no doubt about that one.

I had purchased a feather bed topper, a down comforter, an assortment of down pillows, and all the blissful perfectly matching items that when assembled transformed my bed in a cloud of wispy wonder that I am sure turned the clouds themselves inside out with fluff envy.

Marveling only momentarily at this ensemble of poofy perfection, I dive in for a test drive.

Oh. My God.

The pleasure of this feather fest almost robs me of my sanity, for I find myself almost wishing for a terminal disease so I can simply die in the delightful dream that once was my boring bed.

I reluctantly recover and leave my downy delirium only to then try on every single item of clothing I purchased that afternoon. (Although truly, where I will ever wear this cute little polka dot dress is an absolute and total mystery.)

And as I tried on each item, I looked my new love straight in the face.

Because of course, I am in front of a mirror. And of course, that is the only place that I can look my new love right in the eyes.

For it is myself that I am falling in love with all over again.

Thank you, self. I don’t know anything about this life that is before me. But whatever it is, I am hopeful and firmly believe that it might be pretty exciting.

Because after all, when I arrive in that future place I will make my entrance in a delicate polka dot dress (made complete only by the secret that are my new frilly panties) and ending every future day in more down feathers than a gaggle of 10,000 geese on their way to Argentina for the winter.

And there is only one thing to say about a future with all those promising elements:

Rock freaking on.

Self, I love ya!

Chapter Thirteen: Baggage and Addictions

I can usually go about three days without a fix.

I haven’t gone longer for over two years now.

By the third day I am a desperate haggard addict who will stop at nothing to get her hands on that release. Frantic and irritable, my only inner dialogue is a constant chant, "I have to have it, I have to have it, I HAVE to have it!"

And when I finally get it, it is exhilarating. I am literally flying. My feet barely touch the ground, my breath is rhythmic and hypnotizing, and my body and mind meld into one.

I am free.

My drug is endorphins.

I run.

Some days I am running away. It’s true. I admit. There’s a park directly in front of the window at the gym I belong to, and I soar through those evergreens and into the setting sun. Just flying away.

And every time, whatever gigantic piece of emotional baggage I had with me when I got on that treadmill, my run evaporated it. Zapped it. Melted it. (Something like Northwest Airlines does I am sure, probably a similar concept.) I am not sure where all this unwanted luggage goes, but I am constantly thinking, “What happened to that 100lb bag I brought in here with me? I am sure I was carrying it when I got on this flight?” And no, I didn’t insure it when I checked in. And no, I don’t want it back if you find it accidentally got on a flight to Albuquerque. I shouldn’t have been carrying it anyway. It was full of a bunch of crap I obviously didn’t need.

And some days I am running to something. Life has been sweet and shown great promise for a tomorrow and I run from happiness and excitement. I am running toward something, not away. And on those days I leave my flight with only the sensible carry on that I need for the journey at hand. Nothing in it but an extra tooth brush, a good book, oh, and of course, my sanity.

Without running, I am not sure how I would have gotten through the last two years of my life. I would probably be in a fetal position on the floor. Or be all hunched over from carrying around all that heavy junk we all pick up needlessly on our travels through life. (And at the very least, my ass would not look very good. Hey, running does have its benefits!)

Today I pounded out a couple miles in no time flat as the treadmill read 7.2 mph. It was all I could do not to run even faster. “The Killers” were rocking out on my iPod and beckoning me to throw down a month’s worth of crap and run away. And so I did.

A friend of mine once commented, “You’re a little on the short side. Why are you running so damn fast? You look like you’re running for your life!”

Little did he know.

I am.

7.2 baby. Just try to catch me.

Chapter Twelve: Stop Sabotaging my Solitude

"I found a pediatrician!" Susie pants breathlessly into my ear. She is a die hard hockey fan and people are screaming and roaring all around her. I can barely make out what she is saying.

"Did you say pediatrician?" I yell into the phone to be heard over the ruckus, "My kids already have a doctor," then I pause to process the audacity of this announcement, "And why are you calling me from the hockey game at 9:30 on a Friday night to tell me this?"

As if I had to ask . . .

"Not for your kids! For YOU!"

Oh Good God in heaven. Here we go again.

Ever since I left Dating Land, the girls have been trying to set me up. Apparently it is a cardinal sin to be single longer than a week when you are in your 30's. Honestly? My grand scheme was to stay successfully single for at least year after my divorce. My detour into Dating Land was totally unexpected, and I am vowing to stay the course this time around. But the Divorce Land girls are not helping.

"Susie, I told you. I am not dating anyone new. Stop trying to set me up."

"But he's a doctor! And he has hair!"

She must be drunk. Because since when did my dating criteria consist soley of a high annual income and a family history free from male pattern baldness?

"Susie!" I chastise her. "Stop it right now. I don't want to date anyone. I'm still not recovered from my Dating Land traveling companion and if anyone knows that it is YOU. You need to respect that."

An exaggerated sigh comes out of my phone. "FINE," Susie surrenders. "I liked him too, you know I did, great guy, but seriously, you need to move on already because if you seriously do not want the pediatrician I have an attorney in mind." She paues only briefly to scream something about a goal her team just made, but quickly returns back to her harping in my ear, "But I think he might be receeding slightly. Very Jude Law-ish though. It's hot."

She is relentless.

When I finally get Susie (i.e. Molly the Matchmaking Maniac) off the phone I go to bed (and there is a lot to be said for a queen bed all to one's self) and ponder the fact that everyone is trying to ambush my alone time. The past two weeks I have been bomarded with, "I want you to meet my brother/cousin/co-worker/uncle's best friend's sister's nieghbor's friend who is a pilot/doctor/attorney/business owner."

Is solitutde no longer sacred? Must I be dining with a complete stranger who paid for my steak in order to justify my existence? What's wrong with spending a comfortable Friday night in faded sweats in bed with my . . . laptop. (My writing, not porn, people.) Doesn't some of the best soul searching happen when people are . . . alone? You can't figure life out if you are constantly pining and searching for someone else to make you whole. That much I know.

There is lonely. There is alone. And there is solitude. Sure, I've been all three and more. I am only human. But I am also not depressed or dependent. Just divorced.

And trying to make the most of the quiet I am finding in this new life of mine.

In the meantime, I plan to tell the girls to stop sabotaging my solidtude. I don't want hear about the rich successful coworker's nephew who you showed my picture to and thinks I'm cute.

I don't care how much hair he has.

And I can pay for my own steak, thank you very much.

Chapter Eleven: The Miracle at the Tanning Salon

It is a marvel that I don’t have ten children.

Because I am such a mother hen.

Other people’s sadness almost puts me over the edge. I just want to scoop up the whole world and in one fell swoop put an end to war, murderous tyranny and all other things awful described in detail daily on the nightly news. (I once tried to boycott the news, but my high school civics teacher must have slipped my class the equivalent of the blue pill in the Matrix because I am absolutely incapable of apathy when it comes to current events. I dream of sweet ignorant bliss. Those lucky Democrats . . . I digress).

Mostly in my little life I try to dismantle any negativity I encounter by being a crazy nut who talks a mile a minute and makes jokes at extremely inappropriate times. I am not exactly sure it is working very well but it’s pretty much all I got in my “first aid kit” for dealing with life.

Apparently except when it comes to one topic: divorce. I am like the divorce sniper. The divorce SWAT team. The divorce paratrooper! If I stumble across someone going through a divorce right now, I am the first one on the scene to radio for help, stop the bleeding, and call in for more back up if necessary.

Case in point: My tanning lady.

So here I am, doing something I have not done in fifteen years. I am at a tanning salon. And I am not sure exactly why. I am anti-wrinkle, anti-aging, and anti-old. In other words, I do all things humanly possible to convince the world that I gave birth to my first child at the age of eight. (She’s almost fourteen, so that would make me 22.) So how I decided this was a good idea I am not sure. It was probably the day I looked in the mirror and a corpse looked back. And if the Mayan calendar is correct, the world is ending in four years anyway so how wrinkled can I get between now and 2012, that’s what I would like to know?

So here I am, plopping down cold hard cash so I can look hot in the short term and hideous in the long term, when the lady selling me my tanning package reluctantly reveals that she knows me. We met three months ago at a mutual friend’s house.

“And you are getting divorced, right?”

“Yepperooni! Signed sealed and delivered as of December!” I enthusiastically confirm, inappropriate humor totally hanging out for the whole world to see.

“Me too.” She solemnly admits.

In three minutes flat I hear a story so sad and awful I am almost near tears! And in two minutes flat I am behind her desk frantically writing the names of books that she should read immediately. Books about children and divorce, scripture and divorce, making it through a divorce and even dating and divorce (hey, life goes on!) I am writing like a maniac and talking a mile a minute at the same time. I tell her about a scripture based group session at a local church that she simply must attend, and all the while, she is gazing at me like I am her new best friend.

She scribbles down her cell phone number on a card and we promise to have coffee. Right after she spends a small fortune at Barnes and Noble.

I leave the tanning salon and realize just how huge Divorce Land is. The magnitude of it is overwhelming sometimes, and I am just one soul who honestly, has no idea what she is doing most days.

But I realize that probably the greatest gift I have in this life is to learn from everything I encounter. And for me right now that is the experience of divorce. And if I would just sit still and stop talking and stop trying to make jokes about everything, I just might find an opportunity or two to swoop at least part of the world up into my arms and take away some of the sadness.

One divorced tanning lady at a time.

Chapter Eight: Tears and Snot Rags

As a Divorce Land Girl I have become fluent in snot speak, blubbering babble, and howling hysterics.

Here is an example of a recent voicemail I had to translate:

"Audra!" a recent message from one of the girls started out, "I just talked...." deep short breathing...."to".....incoherent blathering smothered with sobbing...."and he said".....forced gasps mixed with howling...."and I just can't believe"....incomprehensible words are blanketed with a minute long crying jag that rivals a colicky infant ...."call me! I can't believe this!"

I hang up the phone and think to myself, "I can't believe he really said that!" and call back immediately to offer comfort, support, and empathy.

Because yes, the larger language of divorce is not about legal terminology or visitation schedules. It is tearful truths, agonizing acknowledgments, and syllables sprinkled with sadness. It is a language of raw emotion and naked humanity, when the truth is public and the pain is no longer private. In other words: you will spend a small fortune on Puffs Kleenex with lotion.

When I was first entering into Divorce Land last summer, I ended up confiding in a work colleague at a conference who was in her second marriage about the pending demise of my own. The most prevalent piece of her experience that she shared with me was this, "I think back to the time of my divorce and I just remember all the bawling. At the grocery store. The gas station. Hell, if I didn't eat enough fiber that was bad because it provided too much contemplative time on the can and I would cry there too."

Yes, she really said that. And yes, I instantly thought of Elvis dying on the throne for some odd reason.

The point is that crying is a huge part of this process. It's a loss. And you can't escape.

So just buck it up and break out the snot rags if you find yourself residing in Divorce Land; for the only path home is flanked by a very salty sea.

Chapter Seven: When Idiots Attack

Poor Julia.

She is surrounded by idiots.

I no sooner post the Divorce Nuggets and she is being bombarded with email commentary from individuals disguised as friends but who I suspect are really undercover agents on a mission to make sure that the whole world stays married (with adjectives like "happily" or even "semi-contently" as purely unnecessary trivial details).

Because after all . . .

"Why would you get divorced? You just bought a house?"

Who knew real estate was the key to happily after, that's what I would like to know. As if simply having four walls guarantees that the life going on within them must be worth sustaining at all costs.

Or how about this one:

"Are you sure this isn't just a simple misunderstanding?"

Of course! After all, this is all about the toothpaste tube, the underwear on the floor, and leaving the garage door open at night. Silly, silly me . . .

Sometimes I wonder if people really think that divorcing people simply just wake up one morning and think to themselves, "Look at this, I don't really have a lot going on for the next six months. Hmmm, what to do, what to do. You know, husband version 1.0 is getting a little outdated. I know! I'll get divorced! That should make life interesting."

Really people. Really?!?!?

Take heart, Julia.

The rest of your friends know this has nothing to do with the nice house or the toothpaste tube.

Chapter Five: Holy Divorce Land Batman

Me, Susie, Annie and Julia. I dub us the Divorce Land Girls.

And by the way: hello, holy crap and wtf is going on? Is the earth moving through some kind of divorce force field? Has the entire world lost its mind? Is marriage all the sudden so last year? I mean really, four of us? All within shouting distance of each other? It was crazy when I disovered Susie, getting a little eerie when she and I found Annie, but with the addition of Julia this is just getting to be far too Twilight Zone.

Don't get me wrong, we're all happy to have found a solid circle that can relate to our very traumatic experiences, but even we are thinking this is just a little creepy. Even my own mother can't help but comment, "Are all your friends getting divorced?" Gee, sure seems that way, Mom, doesn't it?

Susie simply says, "It's God. It's just God. I don't understand how we are all going through this simultaneously."

"It's super weird," Annie concurs.

"Well I could care less how and why we all connected but here we are. Thank God, Thank Weird, Thank Alanis Morrisette because isn't it ironic, that's all I can say," smart ass Julia chimes in.

And so here we are. The Divorce Land girls. Navigating our very unique yet similar paths through divorce.

Side by side.

Chapter Six: Divorce Nuggets

By now it is obvious that this blog is dedicated to one aspect of our story and one only: Our friendships. The details of our divorces shall not appear on this blog. They are complex, emotional, and involve the loves of our lives: our children.

And as for our ex-husbands, even though we are no longer married to these men they are individuals who continue to deserve respect. Well, at least when it comes to a public forum. As for bitching and moaning about their shortcomings at the local Starbucks with the Divorce Land Girls, sign me up. Is an hour enough time? How about two? But here, no.

Instead, I want to deviate briefly and post some nuggets of truth that I either stubbed my toe on when I wasn't looking, (Ouch! What the? Who left this piece of divorce wisdom lying in the hallway?) or had thrust upon me be wise divorce veterans who held me down against my will and force fed me information I needed to savor. (Hey, not bad. Is that a hint of lemon? Can I have seconds?)

First Nugget:

"When your divorce becomes public, you will not receive support from the expected places. But you WILL receive support from the unexpected place."

At the time this advice was given to me, by a very dear friend who had gone through a divorce ten years prior, I didn't believe her at all. Thought she was more full of crap than a nursing infant. (We all know breast milk is explosive the second time around.)

As she shared, I smiled politely while resisting the urge to scream, "What F'ing Ever!" For at the precise moment she was bestowing her experiences with divorce, my best friend of six years had announced she needed to distance herself from me in order to "protect herself." As if my divorce was a contagious disease she could catch or a horrible traffic accident she needed to shield her family's eyes from. It was excruciatingly painful to lose her love and support. We were both devout Catholics and she simply could not accept my decision. I think I created a pile of Kleenex that rivaled Mt. Everest when she chose to abandon our friendship the same week my husband bought all new furniture and secured an apartment downtown.

Several months later, here I am and this blog is case in point that this nugget is TRUE. I never could have predicted the Divorce Land Girls in a million years. And yet, here we are. Calling each other every night, buying each other supportive books, being each others dates on the weekends. I have more love and support than I could ever have hoped for.

She was right. Even though I tossed her divorce wisdom aside at the time, I practically lost an eye when I tripped over it later in the form of the Divorce Land Girls.

Second Nugget:

"What people don't understand is that when the divorce decision is made, it is not as if there is any other healthy choice left to make. It is THE only choice left to make."

Now, this nugget is not true for everyone. There probably are shallow people out there who view marriage as disposable. Those of the pre-nuptial variety who have the paper shredder poised to rip apart the marriage certificate at the first sign of unhappiness. None of the Divorce Land Girls are cut from this cloth. Counseling has been sought, books have been read, and clergy have provided counsel. These marriages did not end without a fight to the death in some way, shape or form.

But the truth in this nugget is that marriage is about two people, and when you simply do not have two people putting in their fair share, no matter how badly one of you wants the marriage to succeed, it can't stand on two feet. It needs four.

And this is true no matter which side of a divorce you are on. That is the absolute truth and bottom line. It takes two. And you can not choose otherwise if you do not have that. There is simply no other choice when both parties are not "in."

This is hard for people on the outside to sometimes digest and accept. But guess what: not your problem. Your focus is your family, your children, and your life. You can't live your life for everyone else and divorce does not instantly make you shallow and selfish if it is the only responsible decision left to make when all other options have been exhausted. Noble people get divorced. Good people get divorced. Smart people get divorced. People who BELIEVE in marriage get divorced. Shockaroo.

Try that conflicting concept on for size. I first heard that one from a life coach who asserted, "People who pursue divorce actually believe in the true purpose of marriage almost more so than some of their married counterparts. After all, they chose to divorce because they refused to settle for something less. They believe marriage should be MORE. And so they sacrafice immensely in pursuit of that truth." The woman who made this mind boggling statement had actually been married to an alcoholic for twenty years. Divorced for five. And happily remarried for three. Call me crazy, but I am thinking she knows what she is talking about.

It took me a while to grapple with the reality of this particular nugget myself, even when I was in the midst of my own divorce. Had I done all I could? Was I making the right decision? Several "what if's" piled up in front of me and I felt obligated to carefully examine each and every one (as I should.) And when I had taken absolute and complete stock of my life and forged ahead with the divorce, it still took a while to swallow this truth whole, but when I did it wasn't as bitter as I thought it would be.

It was truth, and the truth is always sweet.