Chapter Seventy Eight; Cigarettes, Snot and Team Pandora

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

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

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

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

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

What?

You’d have done the same thing.

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

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

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

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

Or sometimes, like Bonita . . .

. . . like we’re dying.

She came over again to talk a few days later.

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

She cried.

I cried.

I tried to make her laugh.

She chuckled through her tears.

And then she cried some more.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I tell Bonita all this.

And she nods silently.

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

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

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

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

Team Pandora.

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

. . . to love.

Chapter Seventy Two; Why I Never Want to be 25 Again

The best part of cleaning closets, I think, is the part where I stumble across a box of old photos, cards and letters. And then promptly lose myself in the past for a good twenty minutes.

Last weekend I did just that. While sorting through the contents of the top shelf of my bedroom closet, I couldn’t resist cracking open a photo album from my college days. Of course, my initial response was to cringe at my hideous hair (I swear, I never smoked pot in college. But with hair that high and huge, it is almost embarrassing to admit that I did that to my myself sober. And on purpose.)

One of the pictures was of an old boyfriend I am still in touch with. I couldn’t resist snapping a camera phone copy and shooting it off to him immediately.

“Check this out,” my accompanying text message read, “I found this in an old album, had to send it to you.”

I wondered what he would say.

After all, almost twenty years had passed (okay, only eighteen, but still) since he and his friends had leaned against my dorm room wall and smiled into my camera lens.

He texted back in about five seconds, his response exactly on target.

A simple observation summing up what almost two decades of living had done.

“I miss my bangs.”

Was his reply.

I just rolled around on my closet floor for a while laughing. I did. I absolutely did. So much for any profound nostalgia.

When it comes down to it, the guy just misses his hair.

And so began a texting repertoire documenting our lost youth. On my part, I missed my pre-baby no stretch mark 20-something body. He was on a hair kick I guess because he texted back how he missed not having grey in the hair he does have. Oh fine, I jumped on that bandwagon and gave thanks that although mine isn’t greying (yet, knock on wood) I certainly do miss having all that hair (even if it was big enough for its own zip code.)

On we went, lamenting what time has stolen.

Eventually I had to get back to cleaning that closet. I thanked him for the chuckles and wished him a good bang-less kinda/sorta greying fabulous day.

And as I continued sorting through my boxes of junk, I wondered:

Do I really mourn the loss of my youth? Hmmm. Well, maybe some things. But I am in my 30’s in the age of botox, gym memberships, and teeth whitening. I don’t look half bad for my age. The little bit time has done, I can live with. Yeah, I have stretch marks, but I take care of myself so underneath them are abs of steel. And lest not forget, I have two fantastic kids. I think they were worth it.

And truly, when I look back at those pictures, yeah, I had a lot of hair, but what was underneath that 80’s mane was the spirit of a young woman who had so much yet to learn.

Would I really like to go back there?

Are ya kiddn’ me? No way Jose’.

After I really thought about it, time doesn’t steal so much as it bestows.

When I was in my 20’s I thought I knew everything yet I wasn’t quite sure enough of myself to live like I did. I second-guessed all my decisions, and if I didn’t, then I stood behind them with extra helpings of conviction, just to make sure.

Life seemed to have a black and white road map back then and I stuck rigidly to the course. I lived my life how it was supposed to be. I was militant about following the guide books. And always did what I perceived to be the “right” thing.

But then I turned thirty, and life got grey. Things didn’t go as I had planned, and suddenly everything I thought I knew just . . . disappeared.

And now, I’m past the mid-way point of my 30’s, and these grey areas, honestly? Are far more comfortable. I understand that people, myself included, don’t fit neatly into all the boxes I had drawn in my 20’s. There’s overlap, muddy places and sometimes everyone around me is just coloring outside the lines.

Oh well.

You see, I feel a peace about life now that I never could find a decade ago when I tried to shove everything into neatly labeled boxes of my own making.

But now? The boxes are gone. I let things flow. And peace has miraculously descended.

So let time march on. Let the grey dance slowly into our hair.

But more importantly, let the murky areas of life seep into our realities. For with time, and age, comes wisdom, acceptance, and peace.

In many shiny and stunningly beautiful shades.

Of grey.

Chapter Seventy: Reflective Moment or PMS? Your Call

The rain is pouring down outside my bedroom window. It’s October. I suppose it shouldn’t be snowing yet, but it seems odd that it is raining.

Sheets and sheets of water are billowing in the skirts of light draped off the streetlights, over and over again, putting on quite the dance before winter transforms raindrops to snowflakes.

I figure I have another month. Possibly two before I have to worry about things like snow.

In the meantime, the rain will do what it always does. It will fall. Then. It will stop.

And when it does, autumn will take hold of the time she has left to wrap her colorful sweater around our world, one last hug before winter turns time to ice and nature slips into its frozen slumber.

Early this morning, before the rain began in earnest, I hit the trails for my standard three mile run.

I love nothing more than running in the fall.

I ran along the river in a ticker tape parade of leaves, the remnants of summer falling like confetti, carpeting my route. Everywhere I looked was a breathtaking view of orange and yellow and red. And every stride I took was buoyed by the sheer fact I was actually in this world magical world, not just watching it through a window.

It might have been endorphins, or it might have just been the sheer beauty of fall’s color explosion, who knows, but halfway through my run I felt utterly and completely . . .

. . . happy.

I felt blessed in unimaginable ways. As I ran I began to think of my life as an endless series of blessings. They effortlessly filtered through my mind with each step I took. My children. My health. My friends. My family. My job. My home. My health. My faith.

I am not sure if it was really an epiphany moment or just the chorus of Coldplay's “Viva La Vida” dancing through my iPod, but regardless, I ran smack into a realization on this particular run.

My life.

My life is what I am most grateful for.

And that includes even the less than pleasant things that, at the time, did not appear to be so great.

My divorce. My losses. My sadness. And my heartbreaks.

I realized that the complex and unpredictable labyrinth of it all is exactly what makes my story, my story.

And how could I not be grateful for that? It is a cumulative result after all. And that is what at that moment, on that run, that I stumbled into. And honored.

So bring on the rain.

It always stops eventually. And therein lies the cyclical and profound purpose of it all.

One blessed journey through the ever changing seasons of this blessed, unpredictable, and surprisingly beautiful . . .

. . . life.

Chapter Fifty Five; Hitting the Pause Button

“Alright, if we sit here at still as statues maybe the seagulls will come closer to us,” I propose to my seven-year-old daughter. We are on vacation and perched at the end of a dock tossing bread to the birds as we attempt to entertain ourselves on day two of fog and rain.

So much for my little fun in the sun plan.

My daughter sits quietly as instructed, blue eyes staring intently at the floating bread just a few feet from us, but her silence is brief.

“Mom?” she whispers.

“Yes?” I whisper back.

“Birds poop on statues.”

I giggle to myself as I turn to little miss reality check, poke her in the ribs and affirm with a smile, “Yes. Yes they do.”

The sun eventually decided to appear again just a few hours later and the rest of vacation went off without a hitch. My kids and I spent hours swimming in the lake, horsing around on the inflatable trampoline and just flat out enjoying our reprieve.

For them, the vacation was what a vacation should be when you are a kid. Hours of fun, sand in their hair, and a diet consisting largely of chocolate, marshmallows and graham crackers.

For me, it was all that and then some. Ironically, we adults oftentimes need a break from the very lives we are solely responsible for creating. The frantic pace of responsibilities: jobs, activities, even our friendships. And every once in a while it is imperative we take a time out and just sit still.

Like statues.

And on this vacation.

I did precisely that.

Our cabin included a lakeside deck crammed with squishy patio furniture. And whenever the kids had had enough of Mom and escaped to do their own thing (playing with new friends at the cabin next door won out over spending quality with mama bear on more than one occasion) I parked myself on those suckers, put my feet up, and just absorbed the stillness.

It is amazing how much easier it is to think when you aren’t in “your” life.

I don’t know if it was the view of the water stretched out before me like some big blue flawless piece of silk or the soundless silence.

Probably the combination of both.

Regardless, I felt like the stillness allowed me to literally empty out my head of all thoughts, spread them out before me and then consciously chose which ones to put back in and which ones were worthless wastes of mental real estate.

“Now this is a good one. I should spend more time with this one actually. Let’s put tha sucker at the front. On to the next. What the hell? Why is this even still in here? What is the point? I’m tossing this one in the lake. Alright, now look at this one. I should not forget about this one. This one rocks. Well holy crap look at this next one. Good gawd, this is nothing but junk that makes me feel bad when I give it attention and it just brings me down. Out you go.”

And on and on.

I mentally sorted.

Keeping the jewels. Relinquishing the shit.

It was freeing.

At the end of the week, we packed up the car, locked up the cabin, and headed back down the highway. Back to our lives.

Because although vacations are necessary, fun is essential, and the opportunity to sit still every once in a while is vital for sanity, life can’t be lived on pause forever.

After the stillness and the processing, eventually you have to just jump back into life headfirst. Get off that deck and go make some waves in that water. Live life and appreciate the treasure in it all: the joy of the good and the lessons that only the bad can teach.

Tempting as it is, you can’t sit still forever.

Because, like a wise little girl once told me:

Birds poop on statues.

Chapter Fifty Three; My Tainted Catholic Past

“Would you like to get together this weekend?”

“No. I just want your big boat and you just want my big boobs.”

“You’re funny! We can just watch a movie? Maybe some spooning?”

“Whatever. Spooning lead to forking, buddy.”

Welcome to my friend, Naomi!

The above was a texting exchange between she and some guy far too desperate. And far too cheeseball. And far too lame to handle the queen of sarcasm.

I love this woman.

Would you believe Naomi and I first met a million years ago when we were teachers at a Catholic high school?

True story.

Well, I was the teacher. She was the sub. I must have been sick a lot or something because she was always filling in for me. This was long before email so I had to communicate my lesson plans to her the old fashion way: handwritten notes. (I know, hard to believe we are not 85-years-old isn’t it? This was only back in 1998!)

It was soon apparent from our archaic correspondence that we had far more in common than a love for education. Our footnotes and side commentary soon clearly illustrated we were cut from the same smart ass cloth.

When we finally met in person I half expected her to produce a birth certificate and announce that she was really my identical twin and that we’d been tragically separated from each other at birth as a result of some freak accident involving a sleep deprived night shift nurse and acid-dropping unobservant birth parents.

And even though that wasn’t the case, I’d found something better.

A kindred nut job.

And a great friend.

And let me tell you, there is nothing better than that when you are working at a place where the janitor’s paycheck is higher than yours, the student parking lot is full of Land Rovers and Audis, and the only man your age on staff is celibate.

Talk about saving grace. Naomi was all that and more.

My favorite blast from the private school past involves a spontaneous coffee run to the teacher’s lounge. I had a prep period and Naomi had a gig subbing for the gym teacher and was between games of floor hockey. As we sauntered down the hallway chattering away, I was explaining to her how I’d caught one of my goody goody sophomores making up journal entries about doing hoes and smoking crack. Just as we opened the door to the lounge Naomi was exclaiming, loudly (the only way she knows how to communicate), “That kid wrote that? Oh, he wishes he had some hoes or even knew where to buy crack.”

The beauty of this commentary is that she announced it right as she opened the door to the lounge. And ended up screaming it into the face of a staff member who was just leaving the room at that precise moment.

Which staff member you may ask?

Oh no one important.

Just.

The priest.

“Oh, hi Father,” she nonchalantly tacked onto the statement and then turned to me without skipping a beat and inquired, “Coffee?”

Did I mention that I love this woman?

Well, it’s ten years later. And thankfully Naomi is still around Her hair is longer and her boobs are bigger. (Who says Americans aren’t spending their tax returns wisely?)

And she is still cracking me up.

And yes, she too has entered Divorce Land (46% are the stats people. By the time you get to my age, yes, half your friends are divorced. It’s just true.)

But I am happy for her company.

And even though the two of us no longer teach at a Catholic school, some shred of morality and values from that gig must have obviously stuck.

After all, you gotta admire a woman who won’t go around forking some guy.

Simply because he has a big . . .

. . . boat.

Chapter Fifty Two; Sap Crap Aunt Ethel will just Love

We all get them.

Email forwards masquerading as meaningful correspondence. From our Moms. Or sweet Aunt Ethel who just discovered email six months ago.

You know the kind.

Those sappy stories of "life observations" that may be true, but really, if I am checking email it is either because I’m at work and need to follow up on something associated with my day job or else I am in my personal account late at night bantering with my girlfriends about something really important like, "What would you say if I got hair extensions?"

My point?

There’s enough in my inbox already.

Do I really need to make time to stop and smell the Outlook roses, too?

Yeah, not so much.

Delete.

(Sorry Aunt Ethel. I know it was "A Good one! Worth the read!" but I needed to write back to my sister about visiting Iowa this summer and although I'm sure your forward would have been, as you said, "Life changing!" when you sent it to me (and 200 of your closest relatives) I really don't have time to read about the little boy whose near death experience will send chills down my spine.)

My spine is busy.

But today I must confess.

I did something worse than take time to read a sappy forward.

I think I just . . . GASP! . . . wrote one of my own!

Hmmm.

It just came spilling out my fingertips like I was possessed by the sap devil.

And so here it is. The remnants of my major "life insight attack" that I couldn’t resist jotting down.

And then posting on my blog.

You might want to keep reading. It has the potential to be life changing.


“The Next time . . .”


The next time . . .
. . . you see a homeless person with a cardboard sign: give them all the cash you have on you.

It does not matter if they are in these circumstances because they are nuts. Or addicted. Or just lazy.

They are standing on a street corner with a cardboard sign.

And you aren't.

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

The next time . . .
. . . someone you know has a baby: rush to greet the new arrival before that kid is two weeks old.

Slather anti-bacterial on your hands and pick that newborn up. Play with her toes. Caress her little head. Gaze into her tiny face.

Because new life does not last long. It is something to marvel.

And it is not every day you have the chance to hold innocence in your arms.

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

The next time . . .
. . . you pray with your children: let them take the lead.

There is nothing sweeter in this world than listening to a child's prayer. A child will ask God to cure all disease and take care of all the poor people.

And then request, with just as much sincerity, a new bike.

Children are little mirrors. They want bikes. We want bigger houses.

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

The next time . . .
. . . a friend comes to you looking for advice: give it reluctantly.

And know in your heart all they are really asking is just for someone to listen.

Be their sounding board.

Let them talk.

And then give them only 5% of the opinion you have.

Because if you do, your friendships will be life-long and rock solid.

But most importantly.

The next time life gets hard for you and you need a friend . . .
. . . you'll have a long list of people to call who are willing to listen to you.

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

And now, email this to everyone you know.

And don't forget to include my Aunt Ethel in your distribution list. She's all about those life changing spine chilling forwards.

And if you’re wondering the real reason I think you should send this on?

Hey.

Because none of us ever really know if we’re even going to get another chance to see . . . the next time.

Chapter Forty One; The Night Susie showed up with her Top Down

What.

The.

Hell.

I had been crying. Now. I am just confused.

It is 10:00 at night. I had been sitting on my front step sobbing for the whole world to see for the past half hour or so. Smiley Susie, my personal savior, is sitting in my driveway in a 1962 push button convertible, top town (the car’s top. Geez, people. Pervs!), fuzzy dice swaying in the night breeze.

“Hop in!” her curly head calls to me from behind the wheel, “The cheer up cavalry is here! And . . . she is driving a 1962 push button convertible,” she pauses for emphasis, “complete. With fuzzy dice.”

I sniff, and momentarily forget the fact that a few minutes later I had summoned Susie from my cell. Because I was upset. About a boy. Of course.

Good gawd.

Miraculously, sixty seconds later I am now so distracted by the fact that I am driving around in a vintage convertible that I forget to concentrate on the guy trouble simply because I don’t know what the hell else to think. I finally collect myself enough to stutter, “Um, where did you get this car?”

“It’s my Dad’s, isn’t it great?” Susie smiles again and then starts commenting on what a beautiful night it is and how time heals all wounds and that I will be fine and isn’t it cool she even has the fuzzy dice hanging from the rear view mirror?

I just stare at her like she is on crack.

Sometimes? I wonder.

“No, seriously, Suze. Forget my saga for just one second. I just want to know. Why. The hell. Are you in this car?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Dad lets me take it for a spin every once in a while and I thought tonight would be perfect! So when you called with your boo hoo hoo/woe is me/boys suck so bad/I might become a lesbian/night I had to come pick you up! Didn’t it work out great?”

I just nod, sit back in the seat and look up to watch the night sky scrolling above us. Susie is full of surprises. I have just come to expect it. Which runs counter to the entire concept that makes a surprise surpising, but that is the beauty of all that is Susie.

As she drives she chatters her typical perpetually irritating positive banter that I can always count on during times like this, something about, “Let go, let God” and “This is an answer to prayer, just give it some time.”

I interrupt her optimistic soap box soliloquy to insist, “Screw that approach little miss fuzzy dice. Let accelerate through the grief phase already. I just want to skip to the anger. That’s the fun part.”

Susie smiles, “Alrighty then, I think it might be too soon but we’ll give it a whirl! Here goes the anger: He’s an idiot. He can never do better, you’re a goddess and he has a brain injury to end all brain injuries. He is the king of the brain injured. In fact, he does not have a brain at all. We should alert the medical community. Quick! Someone study this man! How does he do it? He obviously has no brain, as is clearly illustrated by his breaking up with the most fabulously wonderful woman on the planet, Audra the Awesome, Audra the Amazing, Audra the Acoustic wonder!” she flashes a shit ass grin at me from behind the wheel.

“Acoustic wonder?”

“Hey, I can’t think of that many adjectives that start with “a” under pressure. Cut me some slack," she jokes, then turns her navigational focus away from my drama and back to the drive, “Hey, lets head down this street, its always a pretty one. Love these old houses.”

I am giggling. Acoustic wonder. What a doorknob.

But I attempt to go with it and try to let the insults seep in. And wait for the anger anesthesia to take effect. I watch the mansions of days past planted in their perfectly landscaped yards filter by us and sink back in the vinyl seat to ponder this brainless man’s said stupidity and inability to treasure the gem that is so obviously, moi.

That lasts all of ten seconds.

Crap.

I am soon gushing, “Oh, that’s not true, He’s NOT an idiot And he’s really smart, that’s why I like him. That’s why this sucks! Because he DOES have a brain!”

Susie just goes with the flow, and doesn’t miss a beat in this break up band. “Told you it was too soon for the anger. Give yourself a week. Or four. Or six. You’ll get there. I’ll come over when you get to that fun pissed off part. We’ll photoshop his picture,” she plots, then adds, “And drink an entire box of wine.”

Susie actually grew up leading a pretty pampered life (Hello? I mean really, what the hell? Her Dad has a vintage vehicle just lying around? Yeah. That outta clue you in.)

Yet.

She buys her wine by the box.

I love this woman.

I sniff, “You’re a good friend, Suze.”

“A good friend with a convertible in her dad’s garage,” she reminds me.

How could I forget? I just shake my head as we ride in silence for a while.

“Susie?”

“Yeah?”

“You don’t even know what Photoshop is. You’re technically disabled.”

“Oh, I know!” she confesses with a big fat grin, “But I always thought it sounded like so much fun!”

I actually do let a snicker escape thinking about the digital damage I could inflict. (And the fact that this is the worst post break up revenge therapy Susie’s goody goody head can think of.)

We cruise around for another good hour, hashing out life, what has happened to us, where we are, and where we are going. And by the end of the night, I was definitely counting more blessings than curses on this crazy ride.

And that is exactly why, if you saw two chicks cruising around town about a month ago in a vintage convertible, they weren’t lesbians making out. It was just me and Susie.

Because any friend who can show up and instantly evolve tears to confusion to laughter is getting a big fat embrace from me. Even if we are in a 1962 push button convertible.

Complete with fuzzy dice.

For the whole world to see.

**********************************
Dear Blogaramma fans,
Two months later Susie took me out for my birthday in that borrowed vintage convertible of her dad's. . . here's a little visual for ya of THAT adventure! Her dad actually put in XM radio (cleverly hidden in the glove compartment so as not to destroy the classic cruising experience) So here we are jamming out to the oldies station, fuzzy dice and all!...but you'll have to turn your monitor on its side, because of course, Susie still hasn't figured out how to hold her cell phone correctly when taking videos!
Late gaters,
Audra

Chapter Twenty: Out of the Grave!

What do you get when you combine childish regression, a ten foot paper rock, food so good it could qualify as heaven on earth and one afternoon spent doing home improvement with the most positive and talkative woman on the planet?

The best Easter ever!

Alright, so Susie and I do not go to the synagogue or practice impossible yoga in order to cope with our children’s absence on this, our first post-divorce holiday alone.

Instead, these two Catholic chicks set off on an adventure that starts with our hitting the biggest Fundamentalist Christian church in town. (Over achiever that I am, I watch the entire Martin Luther Reformation documentary on the History Channel the night before. I wanted to be prepared in case there is some kind of test.)

I pick up Susie bright and early, blaring the theme song to Lilo and Stitch as I skid into her driveway, rationalizing that a little Disney infusion would ensure a zany start to our Easter escapade.

Twenty minutes later we are in an arena masquerading as a church singing away. We are good. We can totally do this! Catholics sing too, how far out can this possibly be? Although, we are little distracted by the titanic theatrical paper tomb on the stage below, above which hangs a colossal sign heralding the good news, “Out of the Grave.”

“What do you think they are going to do with that?” I ask Susie.

“Who knows but I have an idea!” Susie announces, the little wheels behind her eyes just turning away, “Grave? Dead marriage? You with me? We are out of the grave, Audra! It’s our symbol! Let’s take some pictures by that thing when this is done!”

I enthusiastically agree, as of course I am so on board with all things metaphor.

Of course, when I struck this deal I was blissfully unaware that the evangelical/fundamentalist/Pentecostals of the world are far more hard core than Catholics when it comes to suffering. This service took longer than it takes for the Catholics to choose a new pope as halfway through I am literally starving to death. (I don’t even get a tasteless communion wafer or sip of wine to tie my over? Who are the martyrs now?)

But wait, I soon forget my salvation starvation when the lights go down, the music goes up, and the paper boulder’s purpose is becoming increasingly clear when the service turns into the Price is Right, the preacher morphs into Bob Barker and the I Got Saved game show begins!

Testimonials pour forth from the gigantic screen in the front and a girl named Jenny announces, “I got saved at Kid Camp at the age of five!” People clap and holler, the pianist behind the preacher plays at a show tune pace on his electric keyboard, the spot lights zoom in on the artificial tomb and the pastor leads the crowd in dramatically chanting:

“Jenny! You are . . .OUT! OF! THE GRAVE!”

Jenny bursts forth from the boulder, high five’s the pastor and sprints down the aisle leaving sin in the dust! The drums are a drumming, the bass player is a rocking and the congregation goes into an Amen tizzy fit.

All the while, two Catholic woman stand with their mouths agape as this repeats no less than 157 more times. Bobby, Bill, Cathy, Diane . . . they are all:

OUT! OF! THE GRAVE!

Our stunned silence can only last so long. This is, after all, Susie and I.

We quickly move on to stifled heathen hysterics trying SO hard to be respectful of the salvation show. I am clinging to her, she is gasping for air and we are turning every shade of magenta trying not to appear to be the blasphemous babes that we are.

We are failing.

People are staring.

It is obvious to all bible bystanders by now that Susie and I don’t have a snowball’s chance in Hawaii of making it outta the grave and that our poor unsaved souls will be taking up permanent residence IN the grave. (We are clearly not good contestant material for Tomb or No Tomb.)

An hour later, I am weak with hunger (someone throw me a Jesus wafer, will ya?) as the super saving ceremony comes to a close. We slither up front and boldly ask the pastor to take our picture in front of the big fake rock. Reverence goes out the window as I strike a Vanna White pose and snap, photographic evidence to forever commemorate one interesting Easter Sunday is secured.

The rest of the day finds us having a truly religious experience at an Easter buffet (I am still dreaming about that apricot glazed cheese filled crepe thingy), donning our painting clothes and tackling my formerly hideous dining room. I am blessed with Susie’s constant chattering the entire time and we finish up in a couple hours. I think I hear angels sing as I survey the paint job.

My Easter this year looked nothing like those of Easters past. It did not include an egg hunt, chocolate bunnies, my giddy children, a reverent mass, and my homemade glaze atop a ham for the first time a dozen or so years.

But what it did contain was an adventurous day with the two components that makes living this life a trip and anything but dead: endless laughter with a true friend.

And I am feeling pretty darned saved because of it.

Chapter Sixteen: The Fake Easter

“I am thinking the synagogue, seriously.”

“I am pretty sure the practice of Judaism does not support Easter. If it did, the followers of this faith would not be Jewish.”

“Exactly.”

Susie and I are plotting our first Fake Easter, i.e. our first holiday without our children. Both of us will be experiencing this divorce reality for the first time and we have vowed to spend the day together while attempting to be as creative and positive about it as possible.

I am lobbying that we spend our Easter Sunday at a temple somewhere chanting and meditating in a painful Yoga pose. I am thinking if I can just get my ankles behind my head I might be able to distract myself from this sucky dimension of divorce. Susie is 100% on board and has already begun stretching every night in preparation. “I can, I can put my toe to my nose. I am almost there!” (The mere visual of her attempting this physical feat while on her cell phone is almost enough to cure me of my whining about the whole Easter deal. What a nut!)

The weekend prior, I had what I referred to as “The Real Easter” with my children.

The Easter bunny came a week early, my daughters donned their pastel dresses, and we treated Granny (my Mom) to an all you can eat Sunday buffet after church at Granite City. My kids thought it was great and seem to honestly view the “double holiday” as a perk and benefit to having divorced parents. (At least, that is the cunning lie I tell myself. And I am not a very good liar so it isn’t working all that well.)

The truth is that holidays are the staple of pain when it comes to divorce. And since I don’t want to be a pain hog, I fully acknowledge that my children will bear the brunt of this division. For the rest of their childhood they will celebrate two of everything. All I can do is acknowledge the burden they will bear because of a decision they had nothing to do with while my ex-husband and I work together to do everything we can to minimize their trauma.

And shower them with far too many chocolate bunnies.

And so next Sunday Susie and I will not be sitting in the church we always sat in on Easter. It will be too hard and only serve as a reminder of how different, scary, and even lonely our new independence may be at times.

Instead, we will be struggling to twist ourselves into pretzels at a temple somewhere, giggling instead of chanting, and making it through our first Fake Easter in the best possible way:

Together.