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

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

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

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

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

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

And I would be free.

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

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

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

I look for him though. I do.

Now that I can.

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

I know. So foolish.

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

That is exactly how long my marriage was.

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

And wonder.

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

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

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

With a couple cats.

God, don’t let this be my fate.

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

But on the edges of that life?

Like I said.

I look for him.

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

Much. Too soon.

Sigh.

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

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

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

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

That is how I go back to those hay bales.

That is how I run away.

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

And still trying desperately to hold on to that dream.

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

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

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

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

And here’s a note to him:

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

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

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

I just use mine.

As ink.

Chapter Eighty Six; Summoning My Hella Wordy Girl Powers

I hate this.

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

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

Hmmmm.

Point blank?

I am just a hella wordy girl.

What can I say?

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

“I. Love. Your. Blog.”

That’s cool as hell. I confess.

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

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

Oh yeah, no pressure.

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

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

Oh well.

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

For the most part.

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

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

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

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

Ta da! That blank screen is now full.

My hella wordy hasn’t failed me yet.

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

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

Chapter Eighty Five; You Dated Who? When? What? (Or What I Like to call Bad Flashback to High School)

I am speechless.

Believe it.

And.

Becoming a lesbian.

Okay. Don’t believe that.

But what you really won't believe is this zero degrees of seperation story.

Once upon a time, roughly five weeks ago, back in the GOOD old DAYS, when my life was mundane. And nun like. The highlight was the occasional flirty text from my good old buddy, the ER Greek god (ERGG). (Refer to Chapter 37 for the whole story there).

Fine. He’s flirty. Fine. Harmless.

Well, I have no idea how, but I nonchalantly mention ERGG to a new girlfriend of mine. Probably clearly as an illustration that my life is so dull on the dating front that the only blip on the radar is the occasional “Hey, pretty lady” text from him.

And she does this when I mention his name:

GASP!

Then her mouth hangs open.

Then she says, “What? He texts you that stuff?” I hesitantly confirm yepperooni, he does. Her eyes narrow as she processes and then bursts, “But he’s dating MY FRIEND!”

And then I do this:

GASP!

And then my mouth hangs open.

Because boys with girlfriends should not send flirty texts to other girls. This is called “How not to be a Dick” 101 if any guy out there missed registering for that life lesson.

That night I fight the urge to execute plans that include words like frame or blackmail (this ain't the movies) and decide to just confront ERGG with the ah HA! truth.

I text him:

"Hey."

He promptly shoots back:

"Hey, what's up, babe?"

“Not much. How's the girlfriend?"

Silence. For, oh, five minutes. And then . . .

"Uh, girlfriend?"

"Yeah. Girlfriend."

“Whoops.”

Uh…yeah.

Whoops is right.

I rip him a new one and he apologizes. I say fine. He wants to stay friends. I say fine again. Flirt away if you’re single but good gawd, if you start dating someone?

Icksnay on the irtflay.

And he promises to obey these ground rules.

Sigh.

Men.

(And hell yeah I’m keeping him around as a harmless texting palarama. Did you miss the part about him being a Greek god? Hello? Oh, and okay, I do enjoy his friendship. I confess. Plus, the guy has muscles and a pick up. He’s at the top of my “move a heavy piece of furniture for Audra” list. This is necessary in the life of a single woman.)

Strangely enough, he and the girlfriend actually break up shortly after so that was that.

So.

Onto my “This town ain’t big enough fer the both of us” tale . . .

La la la la la. So here I am, innocently and foolishly drifting through life. Fall into a hole with "So NOT the List Man" (SNLM) and whatever. Not revisiting that part. (Refer to Chapter 79 for that scooparama.)

But.

BUT.

Get this.

Back track just momentarily to the girl who SNLM claims he was “just dancing with” in chapter 80? Remember?

Yeah.

I find out dancing girl is . . . the same girl who was dating ERGG when he was sending flirty texts to me!

I shit.

You not.

So. Are you following this?

Here’s the recap if I lost ya:

Five weeks ago dancing girl was dating ERGG and he was flirting with me. Two weeks later I am seeing SNLM and he is flirting with dancing girl.

Get it? Got it?

Good. Grief.

All the sudden I feel like I am in some kinky love trapezoid.

Ew.

Now let’s all link arms and start singing: “It’s a small world after all . . .”

I am half tempted to suggest we all turn gay. SNLM and ERGG can get together and this girl and I can hook up and the circle will be complete.

Either that or I propose a foursome.

Okay, not going there either.

(She's not my type.)

So that's the "Am I in high school again?" story that has left me dumbfounded and for once in my life?

Practically speechless.

(I say practically because notice I am typing it all out here.)

I guess in this complex and confusing single world, as we all just try to navigate a perplexing labyrinth of false starts and promising new discoveries, we are bound to trip over one another from time to time.

And in the end?

Well, there's really nothing left to say but . . .

Whoops.

***************************************
I wrote this up a couple weeks ago but it was too fresh at the time to publish. Because of course, yes, I can spit out a silly essay on the too close for comfort twist but the reality behind the irony is that this was not a party for everyone involved. Kinda sucked. The follow up to this is that in the end? ERGG has been a good friend to me and a good listener throughout the drama. Now then, that's lucky for me because I do have a piano that may need moving someday. . .

Chapter Eighty Four; Never Under Estimate the Power of Self Help Crapola

“Every day is a new life to the wise man.”

I read this quote the other day embedded in one of Dale Carnegie’s classic self help/change your life/read this for emotional health books. And in true Dale style, the quote was the cornerstone of a story about a woman who used these words as a ladder to climb out of a pit of grief.

This woman had experienced some adversity. Oh just the usual. Husband croaked. Lost her job. Got a little cancer.

You know. A typical Monday.

Yeah, not so much.

Obviously after that generous helping from the tragedy buffet she was on the verge of losing her mind.

Who wouldn’t be?

I’d imagine I would just be in a fetal position in the corner, myself.

But these words resonated with her. They picked her up and shook her into the realization that the losses of yesterday can not be undone; no amount of mourning will resurrect them. Every day is not only just a new day. It is a new chance.

A new life.

Apparently this little phrase had the power to rescue her from paralyzing depression. To stop looking backward, and to start looking forward. To stop sinking under the weight of the cross she was carrying, and to put it down.

To move on.

One new day at a time.

The story ends with her not only persevering through that tumultuous chapter in her life but giving much of the credit for it to those simple words.

Hmmmm.

Well, now. I read this story and I think. Good god. I don’t have nearly anything that shitty going on in my life. Lately, my biggest drama has been guy related.

Everything else is clicking along for me. Kids are great. Job is great. I am in the best shape of my life, and that’s a good thing too. Even my ex-husband is not nearly the pill he used to be.

Check, check, check, and check.

I started feeling pretty lucky.

And so I decided in order to keep this perspective, I put these inspiring words on the chalkboard in my kitchen. And I now read them daily as I sip my coffee in the morning sun.

And as I do I vow to myself that as the next twenty-four hours unfold, I will grasp the good that they offer. Because life only comes, last time I checked, one moment at a time.

And I’ll be damned if I am going to let myself get so distracted by the stuff that didn’t go so well yesterday that I allow myself to miss the good stuff happening to me today.

So bring on the junk.

Because this wise woman knows that tomorrow it's history anyway.

So I will just enjoy my java. Read my scrawled in chalk wisdom.

And smile to myself as I look forward not to just another new day.

But to a pretty damn blessed and happy.

New life.

Chapter Eighty Three; Out of Context Conversation Snippets

I seriously would never be able to pull a Tom Hanks in Castaway. I would never survive.

The desert island thing? I could do. Hello? Bikini? Beach? I am so there.

But the all by my lonesome with no one to blab with thing?

Nada.

Let’s just say Wilson the soccer ball would never cut it for me.

I need my girlfriends.

Without them, my proverbial life rafts, I know for a fact I would soon be submerged by life’s responsibilities, dragged beneath the waves of unexpected adversity, and swept away on a current of confusion.

They keep me from drowning. They keep me afloat.

And.

They keep me laughing.

Here’s a few snippets from some of my conversations with these women this week. And I am not going to reveal who said what when or in what context. I am just sharing sound bite glimpses into the chicks who infuse my life with absolute insanity, which ironically?

Keeps me sane.

1. The “Genital Warts What If” Conversation

“Holy crap, yeah. I would never want to mess with that. Let me tell ya. At this age, if I stumbled upon that shit, I don’t care how naked and hot it was, you could bet it would go a little something like this:

Whoa.

Hold it.

Time out. Time OUT.

Get off me!

What the hell is that?

Flood light.

Magnifying Glass.

Tourniquet.

Scalpel.

Acid.

Okay, buddy, now count backward from one hundred.”

2. The “Where is my Period? Has Anyone seen my Period?” Conversation

“You can not be pregnant. Do your boobs hurt?”

“I don’t think so . . .”

“Well find out! Hit them.”

“Hit them?”

“You heard me. Give ‘em a good punch.”

“Ow!”

“Well?”

“Well, what?”

“Do they hurt?”

“They do now!!!”

3. The “Deciphering Orientation” Conversation

“So his friend, who is English or Scottish, or some kind of “ish”, says to me, “My friend fancies you. He is wondering if you would be free to accompany him to the cinema.”

“Alright, that’s . . . kind of hot actually. That whole accent deal.”

“Yeah, but gay.”

“It’s not gay. The guy is British.”

“Like I said. Gay.”

“So what did you say?”

“I said I would consider it. He seemed normal. Professional. Possibly intelligent.”

“Well, that was two days ago. What has happened since?”

“Oh, yeah, well, I went to the strip bar a couple days later and saw him there in the front row.”

“Nice. So much for professional and intelligent.”

“What are you talking about? I am so thrilled he isn’t gay!”


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

And so, dear readers, if you chuckled, guffawed, or snickered at all . . . welcome to a day in the life of Audra.

And a little glimpse into the women and words . . .

. . . that keep me floating, and laughing, on this turbulent sea of life.

*************
P.S. No one in my circle has an STD . . . I am not pregnant (whoops,I mean "no one in my circle of friends" is pregnant) . . . and don't ask me why Naomi went to the strip club! (Oh, did I just type her name out loud?!?!?!)

Chapter Eight Two; The Music of Moments and How Falling Head Over Heels Knocked me on my Ass

Life unfurls so simplistically.

One.

Moment.

At.

A time.

Yet ironically, the complexities of life are a compilation of these seemingly innocent and effortless instants. Like haphazard quarter notes, our moments string together to form the chords, songs, and ultimately the soundtracks, of our lives.

And if we don’t like the melodies? Well, there’s no one else to blame.

For we are all both composer and conductor of our own songs.

And right now I am looking back at the events of the past few weeks of my dating life, listening to the tune, and thinking to myself, “Who the hell wrote this crap?”

Oh.

Yeah. That would be me.

You see, I had some drama. Nothing horrendous. No one died. But take it from me. The age old adages used to describe infatuation, "falling for someone," "getting a crush," or being "head over heels" are more literal than figurative. Notice all of these analogies suggest behavior that ends in injury. And I do not believe this is accidental.

Because I fell for someone head over heels, got crushed, and landed squarely on my Rock N Republic ass.

Ouch.

And then?

Well, I did what everyone does when something hurts. I cried. And you know what? Bawling is not my favorite pasttime.

Call me crazy.

In the end, the truth is I am not proud of some of my decisions in this story. I trusted too soon. Gave too much too fast. And didn’t protect myself from . . . myself.

Too often people want to blame others for our own fate. Like little children, we want to say, “But he made me do it!”

You know what that is? That’s bullshit.

No one makes you do anything.

I made choices. And the consequences are connected simply to my decisions. No one else’s.

When is life supposed to get easy again? Apparently 36 years isn’t enough time to figure much out if my life is any kind of sampling.

So that’s that.

Here I am. Looking back in time, turning back the clock a few weeks. And trying to unravel the moments that led to my writing such depressingly pathetic music.

Because I plan on deleting this track from my life’s playlist. Instead, I am going sit back down at that keyboard of life. Take some responsibility and learn from my mistakes.

And write a new song.

And you know how I am going to write this one?

One note. One chord.

And one moment.

At a time.

We interrupt our regularly scheduled program . . .

. . . to bring you a reprieve from my ranting.

I am out of town on business. The blogarama will have to wait.

I apologize for the delay. I will be back on Monday, dear fans! In the meantime, check out my latest self portrait. I liked the lighting in my Las Vegas bathroom plus how my hair turned out.

I feel 13 years old sharing this picture, but hey, the only person's dignity I ever sacrifice on the blog is MINE. So here's my latest "How dumb is this?" Audra moment.

Enjoy!

~Audra

P.S. Okay, I think I like this pic. I am making this my Facebook profile. If I look like an idiot, oh well, what else is new. I write about my life on the internet. I think I flushed my public image down the proverbial toilet months ago so what the flip have I got to lose?
P.P.S. Don't even think about robbing my house. I have an Alarm System people! Men with guns show up in two minutes flat. (Plus my neighbors never go anywhere and are incredibly attentive. Which makes living an interesting life kind of challenging sometimes but nevermind that . . . )