“Mmmm, hmmm,” Naomi’s listening skills hum in my ear. I’ve just finished giving her my Nick report and she is processing. “So, uh, yeah. Two steak dinners, one fireside soul connecting conversation, and a big bunch of daisies. And now ? A Harley ride with firefighting calendar material hero. Uh, yeah. I think I saw this one. Didn’t it star Kate Hudson and that guy who is allergic to his shirt, what’s his chest, Mathew McConaughey?"
“Bite me,” I deadpan.
“What? I can’t keep up. It’s freaking surreal.”
“Jealous,” I accuse.
“Fuck yeah,” Naomi admits as she continues her assessment, “But seriously, when did your life turn into a Nora Roberts novel? Oh, and remind me not to tell Brenda about the Harley. You remember Brenda? Cute little friend of mine I know from work? Yeah, she pines for a man on a Harley. Underscore pines. Even went to a Harley store once for the sole purpose of finding a man. With a Harley,” and before waiting for my reaction to this story of contrived desperation she responds on my behalf and adds, “I know. Crazy. My point is she is going to kill you when I tell her you literally tripped and oh, looky here! I have a boyfriend. And whatdoyaknow? He has a Harley.”
“Boyfriend?” I challenge.
“Well you’re on the boyfriend highway and taking the boyfriend exit and arriving at boyfriendville in approximately one point two miles at this rate.”
I just smirk to myself.
Boyfriend.
I am liking the sound of that.
“Oh my god,” Naomi announces, “You didn’t say anything.”
“What?”
“Hello? I just said the “b” word and you are hardly flinching. What the hell? Ten days in and you’re running around like Kate Winslet in Titanic,” she justifies and then sidebars, “Yes, thanks, no I don’t need a receipt.”
“Where are you?”
“Grocery store. God, my kids. We’re out of fruit roll ups and you’d think it was on the same level as toilet paper.”
Naomi is the queen of multi-tasking. I once had a cell phone conversation with this woman while she colored her hair and passed a kidney stone. She offered to send me a picture. (Of the stone, not the hair.)
I declined. It was bad enough I was virtually there by audio at the time.
I still shudder with the memory.
“I hate Titanic,” I counter, “that’s a stupid ass infatuation story masquerading as love. It completely ruins a historical event in American history and insults the real people who lived through it. And the ones who didn’t,” I haughtily reply.
She snorts, “You own the movie.”
I tell her to shut up.
Because the truth is. Yes. I am fast becoming infatuated. In fact, instead of a bloodstream, I think I now would bleed endorphins if someone took a blood sample. But I am trying to stay aware of that. Yet at the same time, I am trying to also enjoy it. Because isn’t this the magical dreamlike place where true love takes root? Passion is this amazing component of being human. It’s that innate hunger planted deep within all of us. And every one of us is on a quest to find that one person who ignites it.
And even though Nick gets paid to squelch flames, uh, yeah. He's more like an arsonist in this situation.
If I got any hotter for this guy I'd need an ice bath.
But I'm not apologizing.
I mean come on. Many a classic love story is not about love at all but about the beginning of love. Romeo and Juliet. Whuthering Heights. Or any of Jane Austen’s novels. Naomi is right. Even the pop culture version of Titanic qualifies. Hello, good old Jack and Rose knew each other all of a few days in that flick. And all across America, women and girls swooned to the tune of a multi-million dollar box office opening weekend.
“Jack, come back! Come back! Jack!”
Yeah. If your nose just did that burning thing when you read those words as you pictured Rose in the icy Atlantic as Jack succumbs to his icy doom . . .
. . . AH HA!
That scene illicits emotion in every girl and metro sexual man who watched it. We all want a Jack. We all want to fall madly in love in 6 seconds and have it last for 6 decades. (Obviously skipping the inconvenient part where the leading man dies of hypothermia in a watery grave.)
“Well, I just worry about you,” Naomi finally discloses, “You’re usually more guarded and this is different.”
“Different is a good word,” I tell her, “because you’re right. This is different. Nick is different. I can’t explain it. I just think he’s the most compassionate, empathetic, and articulate man I’ve ever met. I don’t know how to put it into words, Naomi. He looks at me like no one has ever looked at me. Ever. And I don’t know what this is all about. I just love talking to him. I love being around him. It is the most amazing feeling I’ve ever had.”
“If you tell me he completes you, I am going to gag.”
I cackle with laughter, “You’re going to gag? Hello? Kidney stone? I didn’t complain.”
“Hey, don’t talk about Pebbles like that,” she chastises.
And yes. She named her kidney stone. Even sent birth announcements. Forget making lemonade out of life’s lemons. This woman could find humor in a cancer diagnosis.
And I simply love her for it.
“Yeah, I’d like the wax,” I hear her murmur to someone in the background.
“Please don’t tell me you’re at the salon because I refuse to talk to you during bikini area upkeep,” I warn.
“Nope. Car wash,” she clarifies.
Thank god.
“Alright, I gotta run, Kate. Let me know if the firefighter lets you slide down his pole any time soon.”
"Winslet or Hudson?”
“Hudson. You’re too skinny to be Winslet.”
That night I find myself fantasizing about the whole fire station pole analogy.
But you know what? I don’t have to daydream for long. Because one day later.
It's a rock solid reality.
Monday, September 28, 2009
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Chapter Nine; Just Hold on to Me. And Try not to Scream.
“There is nothing to be afraid of, I am an extremely responsible driver,” Nick assures me.
Yep. You got it.
Today is the day Nick has talked me into risking death by road rash.
My first motorcycle ride.
Ever.
“Alright,” I announce as I stand in my driveway and prepare to potentially die of a brutal head injury, “but if this is awful, and if I am screaming you have GOT to stop. Seriously. I get motion sickness swinging on a swing. So if you don’t listen? You are risking a barf scarf because I am going to hurl on the back of your neck.”
Nick laughs.
“You think I am kidding?” I challenge, cocking an eyebrow.
He feigns seriousness and begins to instruct me where to put my feet. Not here, not there, but here. And, he explains, if I arch my foot too far forward or backward, I risk burning off the sole of my shoe.
Oh joy.
I just bought these shoes.
Nick laughs and clarifies he is far more concerned about burned rubber on the Harley than my fashionable footwear. And he isn’t kidding. He relays the story of a scorched flip flop incident forever etched on his buddy’s tail pipe. (Or whatever it’s called. That shiny thingamadeal on a motorcycle that gets hot and burns sandals. Yeah. That thing.)
Gee, thanks.
He climbs on and then it’s my turn.
Deep breath. Here I go.
I am a fan of straddling a hot man but there's something about the "certain death" element in this situation that really negates all the positive aspects of said position.
So I put my feet “not here, not there, but here” as instructed.
And Nick roars the engine to life beneath us.
“I don’t wanna do this,” I announce.
“Too late!” Nick yells over the monstrous rumbling as he sets us in motion, "Just hold onto me!"
I cling to him for dear life as my hydrangea bushes lining my driveway hurtle past my peripheral vision in a blur and my heart and stomach switch places. I feel like I am in a falling dream only I am not startling awake in my safe bed, instead, I am on a rocket to Pluto and helpless to stop it.
I lean instinctively into the turn as Nick takes us out of my driveway and launches us down my street and into the golden sunlight.
And yep. You got it.
I scream.
For about fifty feet.
The plan was Nick was just going to take me around the block first. See if I hurl. Fall off. Die. One or all of the above.
But quickly, I settle into the momentum of the motorcycle and yell into his ear, “Hey, this is kinda fun!”
“You like it?” he shouts.
“Yeah!” I exclaim, “Yeah, I do!”
And before I know it, the mundane and predictable backdrop of this town that has been my life for almost twenty years, takes on a whole new meaning from the back of a motorcycle. As we head south down University drive, my hair twists in the wind and assails my sunglasses, the still July day suddenly blanketed in the cool breeze that the motorcycle invents as we speed past the same old unsurprising people, places and things. But now, they all look so different.
I can smell the air, feel the wind, and everything is sharper and crisper without a windshield in front of me.
The atmosphere is intoxicating.
The motion beneath us.
Liberating.
I hang onto Nick but not because I am afraid.
Because.
I am free.
*****************************
Dear DL fans,
I guess I am going to have to quit doing the teasers for the next chapters . . . here I think I know exactly what is coming next, but I guess writing is just like life: unpredictable. Most of you realize that the blog is not real time, so of course, I wrote this chapter several weeks ago. I had planned for it to appear slightly later in the story, but it called to me to throw it in now.
Tonight was a beautiful fall night and I found myself thinking back to this Harley ride with Nick this summer. So I followed that inspiration and thought today would be the perfect day to relive that moment on Dating Land. . . I hope you feel as free as I did on that perfect July day.
Thanks for reading and tune in Thursday . . . because this ride is soon going to take an unexpected turn. So hold on. And try not to scream.
Muah!
~Audra
Yep. You got it.
Today is the day Nick has talked me into risking death by road rash.
My first motorcycle ride.
Ever.
“Alright,” I announce as I stand in my driveway and prepare to potentially die of a brutal head injury, “but if this is awful, and if I am screaming you have GOT to stop. Seriously. I get motion sickness swinging on a swing. So if you don’t listen? You are risking a barf scarf because I am going to hurl on the back of your neck.”
Nick laughs.
“You think I am kidding?” I challenge, cocking an eyebrow.
He feigns seriousness and begins to instruct me where to put my feet. Not here, not there, but here. And, he explains, if I arch my foot too far forward or backward, I risk burning off the sole of my shoe.
Oh joy.
I just bought these shoes.
Nick laughs and clarifies he is far more concerned about burned rubber on the Harley than my fashionable footwear. And he isn’t kidding. He relays the story of a scorched flip flop incident forever etched on his buddy’s tail pipe. (Or whatever it’s called. That shiny thingamadeal on a motorcycle that gets hot and burns sandals. Yeah. That thing.)
Gee, thanks.
He climbs on and then it’s my turn.
Deep breath. Here I go.
I am a fan of straddling a hot man but there's something about the "certain death" element in this situation that really negates all the positive aspects of said position.
So I put my feet “not here, not there, but here” as instructed.
And Nick roars the engine to life beneath us.
“I don’t wanna do this,” I announce.
“Too late!” Nick yells over the monstrous rumbling as he sets us in motion, "Just hold onto me!"
I cling to him for dear life as my hydrangea bushes lining my driveway hurtle past my peripheral vision in a blur and my heart and stomach switch places. I feel like I am in a falling dream only I am not startling awake in my safe bed, instead, I am on a rocket to Pluto and helpless to stop it.
I lean instinctively into the turn as Nick takes us out of my driveway and launches us down my street and into the golden sunlight.
And yep. You got it.
I scream.
For about fifty feet.
The plan was Nick was just going to take me around the block first. See if I hurl. Fall off. Die. One or all of the above.
But quickly, I settle into the momentum of the motorcycle and yell into his ear, “Hey, this is kinda fun!”
“You like it?” he shouts.
“Yeah!” I exclaim, “Yeah, I do!”
And before I know it, the mundane and predictable backdrop of this town that has been my life for almost twenty years, takes on a whole new meaning from the back of a motorcycle. As we head south down University drive, my hair twists in the wind and assails my sunglasses, the still July day suddenly blanketed in the cool breeze that the motorcycle invents as we speed past the same old unsurprising people, places and things. But now, they all look so different.
I can smell the air, feel the wind, and everything is sharper and crisper without a windshield in front of me.
The atmosphere is intoxicating.
The motion beneath us.
Liberating.
I hang onto Nick but not because I am afraid.
Because.
I am free.
*****************************
Dear DL fans,
I guess I am going to have to quit doing the teasers for the next chapters . . . here I think I know exactly what is coming next, but I guess writing is just like life: unpredictable. Most of you realize that the blog is not real time, so of course, I wrote this chapter several weeks ago. I had planned for it to appear slightly later in the story, but it called to me to throw it in now.
Tonight was a beautiful fall night and I found myself thinking back to this Harley ride with Nick this summer. So I followed that inspiration and thought today would be the perfect day to relive that moment on Dating Land. . . I hope you feel as free as I did on that perfect July day.
Thanks for reading and tune in Thursday . . . because this ride is soon going to take an unexpected turn. So hold on. And try not to scream.
Muah!
~Audra
Monday, September 21, 2009
Chapter Eight; Tell me your Story
Nick is adamant about seeing me again the next day (Twist my arm!) and says he’ll pick me up at 7:00. I agree but insist that this time?
I’m buying the dead cow.
What I am enjoying most about this little adventure into Nick land is that he is taking the lead. You see, I am a big believer in letting the guy be the guy and the girl be the girl. In other words, I refuse to chase. I’ve done it and it is just not a good idea. Hence, I’ve become a bit old fashioned when it comes to what I believe are the sacred roles each gender is meant to play. And that doesn’t mean I don’t think women shouldn’t work or vote, it just means that I believe the intricate dynamics of male/female relationships are long established in the pages, chapters, and plot of the human story. And honestly? I like it.
To me that means that I can be my independent feminine self, and at the same time, still seek that safe place to fall.
And strong arms to catch me when I do.
As for women who say they aren’t searching for the same thing? How can I say this gently . . .hmmm . . . how about this:
They're big fat liars.
The next night finds us at a restaurant once again, leaning into each other and talking away. Nick shares a lot about his family. And when you get on the topic of family, well, none of us are the Cosby show.
I am normally guarded on the topic of my own fam damily’s dysfunction and purposely hold back. A few things are on the tip of my tongue but I don’t utter them. Not yet. I want to confide some of these things with Nick, but something inside me says to wait.
So I do.
And so instead I comfortably put on my interviewer hat and learn all about him. How many siblings does he have? Tell me about your parents.
I love people. My dream job, if I ever were to ever make a career change, would absolutely be in the psychology field. I am endlessly fascinated by the experiences that mold individuals. What was your favorite thing to do when you were a kid? Who was your best friend? What’s something you thought was so traumatic when you were in high school but now you look back on and laugh at yourself for? How is your life unfolding now? Are you happy with it? Why do you think you decided to do that? What would you change? What decisions are you most grateful for that molded you? Which do you regret?
Everyone has a story. As diverse and unique as the person it resides within. And I am always so humbled when someone chooses to open their book to me.
Two hours and two glasses of wine later, we have wrapped up dinner (I bought, as promised) and are back at my house. I am perched on my writing desk in my home library watching Nick click away at my laptop, walking me through all of his Facebook pictures.
He is telling me his story.
And I am enthralled.
“This is my best friend. This was the time that this happened. This is when I took a trip here. This is when I learned this. Oh, this was so funny at work when we did this . . .”
His openness is captivating, his candor mildly intoxicating, and his stories a mixture of serious and silly. Usually people hold back so much, and he doesn’t seem to be at all. He talks as if he has had so much to say for so very long, but no one who really wanted to listen.
But I listen.
And while I do, two strong hands work out the knots in the arches of my feet and one deep voice lulls me into a dreamlike state.
At any minute, though, I worry that he is going to offer me center stage next and ask about my pictures, my family.
My story.
But he doesn’t. And I am glad. For on the bookshelf behind me is about twenty photo albums documenting every minute of the last several years and I just don’t feel like going there. There’s a lot of grief in those pictures. And I don’t want to talk about it.
Inside of me, I do wonder . . . doesn’t he want to know?
But then, I’m not really ready anyway. So I do not offer.
The whole point of coming back to my house had been to sit by my fire in the back yard, so when the pictures show ends we decide to take the party outside.
But in order to have any music, I confess to Nick my hysterical setup where I simply open my library/office window on my second floor, prop the speakers in the windowsill, and let the music waft to the patio below. Although getting the volume level can be a bit tricky. Normally I have to run back and forth between the patio and the computer constantly tweaking until its right.
Nick offers to stay in the office with the controls while I go outside and report back to him from the patio.
“Is this good?” he yells from the window.
“A little loud. And good grief, what playlist is this? I don’t think my neighbors will appreciate hearing Pink calling her ex-husband a tool at this hour!” I shout back with a laugh.
Nick laughs and turns it down. The music fades to a tolerable elevator music level and I just hope that the internet radio station starts playing better tunes. Because if Katie Perry is up next I am not going to sit by a fire with hero man and listen to I Kissed a Girl.
That’s just wrong.
Our fire side conversation meanders back and forth through our lives, odd trivial things. I end up learning about a car accident Nick was in when he was in college, which leads to some discussion about the things he sees on his job as firefighter. I ask about a tragic accident in town last summer where a young man was killed on his motorcycle. Was he working? Yes. He was the first one on the scene.
I am silent. So is he.
But soon, back and forth our words are again strolling through the firelight. I feel so comfortable with him. No topic is off limits which seems to accelerate the night. Which is, of course, coming to an eventual close.
He kisses me at my door, crushing me inside of his arms as he hugs me goodbye. I feel so little and so protected when he does that I just want to linger in his embrace indefinitely.
I put my head on his shoulder.
“Thanks for coming over,” I sigh.
“I have a hard time letting you go,” he whispers. “See you tomorrow?”
"Yes."
I stand in the doorway as he bounds down the step to his truck.
And then he is gone.
I sigh and just lean against the wall of my kitchen for a few minutes and marvel at what has transpired in my life in just under ten days. Where the helld did this guy come from? Why am I meeting him now? What does all this mean? Does it mean anything? Should it mean anything? I don't any of the answers. All I do know is that I’ve never felt like this before.
Equal parts comfortable and intense. Simultaneously sane and crazy.
And there is, ah hem, not to mention, this incredible attraction going on here.
Someone pass me a cold shower. And an air conditioner.
Because yes, you just read the description of this night correctly. Two grown adults. In a house by ourselves. On a Friday night.
And it stayed G rated.
Someone give me a cookie.
When it comes to physical intimacy, I am practically a nun. And it is not because I am a prude. It is because I am cognizant of my emotional reality. Once sex enters the picture, I am like the penguin version of Patrick Swayze. (So totally envious of that man’s love for his wife, I mean seriously.)
If I surrender too soon, I take the chance of artificially bonding with someone and that’s just got “bad idea” written all over it. In permanent ink.
So basically? Yeah, I can’t go jumping in the sack with every firefighter that comes along. (Okay, he’s the first firefighter to arrive on my single scene, but you know what I mean.)
I have a steadfast “no hanky panky until at least thirty days” rule.
But honestly?
I'm tempted to call up Michael J. Fox and see about getting myself a flux capacitor.
Because if there’s anywhere I’d like to time travel my Delorian to right about now.
It's about twenty days.
Into the future.
*****************************
Dear DL Readers,
Thank you for tuning into my KFGO debut! I'll be on three more times in October and I'll post the dates here. I really enjoyed all the great feedback, thank you for your emails! I was VERY happy to hear I did not sound like TOO much of an idiot, although I am always happy to make people laugh at my own expense.
As for the "surprise" I alluded to last time, it isn't happening. I was going to post Chapter 9 earlier but the stars are not aligning. Sorry! I know this will come as a shock, but I am not perfect. I know! Can you believe it?
See you back here on Thursday for Chapter 9 . . .the working title alludes to the movie "Titanic" and that's all I can tell ya.
As always, thank you for reading!
Muah!
~Audra
I’m buying the dead cow.
What I am enjoying most about this little adventure into Nick land is that he is taking the lead. You see, I am a big believer in letting the guy be the guy and the girl be the girl. In other words, I refuse to chase. I’ve done it and it is just not a good idea. Hence, I’ve become a bit old fashioned when it comes to what I believe are the sacred roles each gender is meant to play. And that doesn’t mean I don’t think women shouldn’t work or vote, it just means that I believe the intricate dynamics of male/female relationships are long established in the pages, chapters, and plot of the human story. And honestly? I like it.
To me that means that I can be my independent feminine self, and at the same time, still seek that safe place to fall.
And strong arms to catch me when I do.
As for women who say they aren’t searching for the same thing? How can I say this gently . . .hmmm . . . how about this:
They're big fat liars.
The next night finds us at a restaurant once again, leaning into each other and talking away. Nick shares a lot about his family. And when you get on the topic of family, well, none of us are the Cosby show.
I am normally guarded on the topic of my own fam damily’s dysfunction and purposely hold back. A few things are on the tip of my tongue but I don’t utter them. Not yet. I want to confide some of these things with Nick, but something inside me says to wait.
So I do.
And so instead I comfortably put on my interviewer hat and learn all about him. How many siblings does he have? Tell me about your parents.
I love people. My dream job, if I ever were to ever make a career change, would absolutely be in the psychology field. I am endlessly fascinated by the experiences that mold individuals. What was your favorite thing to do when you were a kid? Who was your best friend? What’s something you thought was so traumatic when you were in high school but now you look back on and laugh at yourself for? How is your life unfolding now? Are you happy with it? Why do you think you decided to do that? What would you change? What decisions are you most grateful for that molded you? Which do you regret?
Everyone has a story. As diverse and unique as the person it resides within. And I am always so humbled when someone chooses to open their book to me.
Two hours and two glasses of wine later, we have wrapped up dinner (I bought, as promised) and are back at my house. I am perched on my writing desk in my home library watching Nick click away at my laptop, walking me through all of his Facebook pictures.
He is telling me his story.
And I am enthralled.
“This is my best friend. This was the time that this happened. This is when I took a trip here. This is when I learned this. Oh, this was so funny at work when we did this . . .”
His openness is captivating, his candor mildly intoxicating, and his stories a mixture of serious and silly. Usually people hold back so much, and he doesn’t seem to be at all. He talks as if he has had so much to say for so very long, but no one who really wanted to listen.
But I listen.
And while I do, two strong hands work out the knots in the arches of my feet and one deep voice lulls me into a dreamlike state.
At any minute, though, I worry that he is going to offer me center stage next and ask about my pictures, my family.
My story.
But he doesn’t. And I am glad. For on the bookshelf behind me is about twenty photo albums documenting every minute of the last several years and I just don’t feel like going there. There’s a lot of grief in those pictures. And I don’t want to talk about it.
Inside of me, I do wonder . . . doesn’t he want to know?
But then, I’m not really ready anyway. So I do not offer.
The whole point of coming back to my house had been to sit by my fire in the back yard, so when the pictures show ends we decide to take the party outside.
But in order to have any music, I confess to Nick my hysterical setup where I simply open my library/office window on my second floor, prop the speakers in the windowsill, and let the music waft to the patio below. Although getting the volume level can be a bit tricky. Normally I have to run back and forth between the patio and the computer constantly tweaking until its right.
Nick offers to stay in the office with the controls while I go outside and report back to him from the patio.
“Is this good?” he yells from the window.
“A little loud. And good grief, what playlist is this? I don’t think my neighbors will appreciate hearing Pink calling her ex-husband a tool at this hour!” I shout back with a laugh.
Nick laughs and turns it down. The music fades to a tolerable elevator music level and I just hope that the internet radio station starts playing better tunes. Because if Katie Perry is up next I am not going to sit by a fire with hero man and listen to I Kissed a Girl.
That’s just wrong.
Our fire side conversation meanders back and forth through our lives, odd trivial things. I end up learning about a car accident Nick was in when he was in college, which leads to some discussion about the things he sees on his job as firefighter. I ask about a tragic accident in town last summer where a young man was killed on his motorcycle. Was he working? Yes. He was the first one on the scene.
I am silent. So is he.
But soon, back and forth our words are again strolling through the firelight. I feel so comfortable with him. No topic is off limits which seems to accelerate the night. Which is, of course, coming to an eventual close.
He kisses me at my door, crushing me inside of his arms as he hugs me goodbye. I feel so little and so protected when he does that I just want to linger in his embrace indefinitely.
I put my head on his shoulder.
“Thanks for coming over,” I sigh.
“I have a hard time letting you go,” he whispers. “See you tomorrow?”
"Yes."
I stand in the doorway as he bounds down the step to his truck.
And then he is gone.
I sigh and just lean against the wall of my kitchen for a few minutes and marvel at what has transpired in my life in just under ten days. Where the helld did this guy come from? Why am I meeting him now? What does all this mean? Does it mean anything? Should it mean anything? I don't any of the answers. All I do know is that I’ve never felt like this before.
Equal parts comfortable and intense. Simultaneously sane and crazy.
And there is, ah hem, not to mention, this incredible attraction going on here.
Someone pass me a cold shower. And an air conditioner.
Because yes, you just read the description of this night correctly. Two grown adults. In a house by ourselves. On a Friday night.
And it stayed G rated.
Someone give me a cookie.
When it comes to physical intimacy, I am practically a nun. And it is not because I am a prude. It is because I am cognizant of my emotional reality. Once sex enters the picture, I am like the penguin version of Patrick Swayze. (So totally envious of that man’s love for his wife, I mean seriously.)
If I surrender too soon, I take the chance of artificially bonding with someone and that’s just got “bad idea” written all over it. In permanent ink.
So basically? Yeah, I can’t go jumping in the sack with every firefighter that comes along. (Okay, he’s the first firefighter to arrive on my single scene, but you know what I mean.)
I have a steadfast “no hanky panky until at least thirty days” rule.
But honestly?
I'm tempted to call up Michael J. Fox and see about getting myself a flux capacitor.
Because if there’s anywhere I’d like to time travel my Delorian to right about now.
It's about twenty days.
Into the future.
*****************************
Dear DL Readers,
Thank you for tuning into my KFGO debut! I'll be on three more times in October and I'll post the dates here. I really enjoyed all the great feedback, thank you for your emails! I was VERY happy to hear I did not sound like TOO much of an idiot, although I am always happy to make people laugh at my own expense.
As for the "surprise" I alluded to last time, it isn't happening. I was going to post Chapter 9 earlier but the stars are not aligning. Sorry! I know this will come as a shock, but I am not perfect. I know! Can you believe it?
See you back here on Thursday for Chapter 9 . . .the working title alludes to the movie "Titanic" and that's all I can tell ya.
As always, thank you for reading!
Muah!
~Audra
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Chapter Seven; I Think I'm Fallin' for You
Nick lets me pick the restaurant, so I pick my favorite. And promptly order my favorite meal.
Steak.
Medium bloody.
Which for some odd reason, always impresses the guys I date. I have no idea why. Must be the Neanderthal in them, watching me knaw on a raw cow corpse must instinctually incite prehistoric desire. At least that’s my best guess.
We sit by the window while we wait for our dinner to arrive.
Nick gazes at me and tells me I look incredible.
Sigh.
I feel like whipping out my blackberry and asking him if I can record that.
But I resist.
Over dinner, the previous flow of our texts, emails, and phone conversations meander together forming a stream of discussion diverse in dimension. We joke around but eventually end up discussing things like injustice in the world and the power of a positive attitude. I tell him about some of my favorite “life” books by Dale Carnegie and Eckhart Tolle. He hasn’t read them but I outline the concepts and he is quick to illustrate circumstances where he’s had to adapt similar lines of thinking.
He does argue with me on one point that I make: that all people are innately good.
“Oh come on,” I challenge, “haven’t you read Anne Frank? She’s hiding with her family in an attic for four years, her entire adolescence stolen by war, all the while writing in her diary how she still believes there is good in all people. Are you hiding in an attic anxious your family could be discovered and murdered at any second?” I go on and respond to my own rhetorical question, “Exactly. If she can make that assertion about humanity under those circumstances, then we can too. That’s the whole point.”
Nick tells me he wishes he had my optimism, but that he’s seen a lot.
He thinks there are truly evil people in the world.
I argue that no one is truly evil; that people are the cumulative result of their experiences. It is what we choose to do with those experiences that allows either good or evil to flow through us.
He still disagrees.
I don’t want to know at this point what he’s seen that makes him so unwavering.
So I change the topic.
Other than that difference in philosophies, by the time our meal is over, I am completely in awe of Nick’s depth of character, his ability to express himself so articulately and the multi-faceted life experiences that he shares so candidly.
He’s tough yet vulnerable. A combination that captivates me.
As our conversation winds down, his blackberry, which never leaves his side, perks up and Nick tells me his fellow fire fighters are beckoning to us from down the street at the bar.
Nick pays, I thank him as I simultaneously promise to get the next one. As we start down the street I persuade him to take a brief detour and stop for one drink at one of my favorite places, a rooftop bar. He’s heard of it but never been up there, says it’s a little outside of his “crowd,” so I am excited to be the one to show it to him.
On the roof, we visit in the July air and I introduce him to a girlfriend of mine who happens to be there as well. Nick is so engaging and polite, I can see in her eyes she is thinking, “Where did you FIND this guy? He’s a catch!” (And apparently I need to maybe consider a career in mental telepathy because the email she sends me the next day basically said, “Where did you find this guy? He is a catch!”)
Just as she wanders back to her table, Naomi texts me:
How is the date? Are you running off into the sunset with Romeo? I am out with Linda, she and I are dying to know.
I love it when my life is so intriguing that Naomi can’t wait until the next day for the full account, she has to actually radio me in the field asking for a status report.
“It’s just my friend, Naomi. She is out tonight too,” I half confess the contents of the text to Nick.
“Tell her to meet us,” Nick offers.
“Really? Are you sure?” I ask.
“Of course!” Nick confirms with a grin.
And for some reason, at that moment, his sincere smile suspends me in time for a brief few seconds. The sun is setting on us and he is sitting in that golden glow. And I am struck by the simple fact that I am having a wonderful time with probably one of the nicest and most genuine guys I have ever met.
And I realize.
That at this moment.
I am so happy.
As I recover from this awareness I relay Nick’s invitation to Naomi.
She replies:
Hell yeah I want to meet him!! B there in 10!
I just smile at Nick and say, “She’d love to come.”
An hour later I am at Nick’s side and meeting the rest of the hero brigade. I am just amazed. I just met him a week ago, and yet he is immersing me into his world. It just seems surreal.
“This is Audra, I’d like you to meet Audra, come over, I want to introduce you to Audra.” Over and over. I am shaking hands and learning names and hearing funny stories. All the while Nick is standing protectively next to me, grinning away.
We finally break away from the crowd to order a few drinks and when we do he leans against the bar, plays with the vintage bracelet on my hand and whispers, “I like your style.”
And well. I just kind of do the melting thing.
Knowing full well.
That Naomi is going to kill me.
But I say forget her. I am falling and I don’t want to get up. I want to continue to tumble heels over head into this land of crushing endorphins and momentary madness. Pass me that cup of this crazy/I’m so into you/kool aid Nick is serving. I want to slurp it down with a straw, lick the edges, and inhale every last drop.
Because it is.
Delicious.
Oh, but wait a minute. Satan the cynical naysayer is here.
Naomi is in the building.
After lots of giddy “So nice to meet you!’s”, we finally deposit ourselves in a booth while Nick leaves to get another round. And, oh, you guessed it. Naomi jumps all over this first opportunity to milk me for info like a cow just in from the pasture.
“Okay,” she leans in a hushed whisper, “First of all. Holy crap! Great arms. My good GAWD you weren’t exaggerating. Has he done a calendar? I think he’s done a calendar. He should DEFINITELY do a calendar. But, seriously, I have to know: Have you even kissed him yet?”
“No,” I admit, wrinkling up my forehead and leaning across the table. Where is she going with this?
“What the hell!” she squeals, “And you’re here. Meeting all his co-workers and friends? And I am here? Meeting all of his co-workers and friends?”
“I know, isn’t it insane?”
“Hey, you said it, not me. You know,” she pauses and brings her voice down to her “Now hear me out,” level, which is at least two octaves lower than her prior whispered shrieks, and announces protectively. “Are we in a f*ckin’ movie? When does he turn into an asshole?”
“Oh come on, do not go there. It’s fine. Not everyone is a jerk you realize.”
Naomi’s jaw drops. Let’s just say she is not so used to hearing me defend the (emotionally) weaker sex.
Nick is returning. Naomi’s jaw is now fake smiling.
Before too long, it’s time to call it a night. After all, it is a Thursday, and I have a firm Cinderella rule about staying out past midnight on a work night.
Naomi heads out too, but not before hugging me extra hard. (I check my purse later to make sure she didn’t slip me a can of mace, chastity belt, or a taser gun. Nope. We’re clear.)
On the way back to Nick’s truck he sweetly takes my hand in his for the first time. And we walk down the sidewalk like a couple of twitterpated teenagers.
(I freaking love this!)
As he drives me home, I explain how I am playing “Hotel Audra” at the moment as my Grandpa is staying with me for the week while my Grandma recovers from minor surgery. I relay how good old gramps had asked me if he needed to get a hotel room for the night since I had a date.
“Grandpa!” I’d chastised, “Why would you ask that? This is my and Nick’s first official date!”
“Well, I dunno how things work in the land of divorce and dating, just thought I’d offer,” he’d sweetly justified.
Nick thought that was pretty funny. I tell him I just wonder if Grandma knows how much Sex in the City Grandpa has been watching.
Nick pulls his pickup into my driveway and stops. Obviously, I can’t take him in my house to say goodnight, with Grandpa snoozing on the sofa.
So there we sit.
Parking.
Which mentally propels me back to high school. I fully expect an 80’s band to start crooning a ballad from the dashboard at any moment.
But no music swells. Instead, Nick is talking a lot and I am just sitting there listening and trying not to worry too much about if he is going to kiss me now or what.
(I hope so!)
Nick opens the sun roof. Crickets serenade us as the summer night filters in. And he talks some more. And I listen. And forget all about kissing.
Because soon we are continuing our earlier conversation about injustice in the world and engaged in a 45 minute discussion. He tells me of a significant experience he had where he felt extremely wronged and how he handled it. I am enthralled by the story, with his resolve, his character, and his motivation to stand up for what is right.
But I also challenge it. I tell him, sometimes, isn’t just better to let things go? At what cost is justice achieved? At what point do we just surrender? After all, isn’t that where war comes from? Humanity’s inability to just let the small things . . . go?
He says he wishes he could do that.
I smile and acknowledge, “Well, I have to work on that a little bit myself, too.”
And then, we both go silent.
He leans back in his seat, smiles, and just looks at me.
“You’re amazing,” he says.
“Right back, atchya,” I say.
He leans toward me, the moonlight the only illumination on our faces.
And then.
“I’ve wanted to do this all week,” he whispers, his hands on my face.
And when he kisses me, the lyrics to every love song ever sung, I swear I can hear, echoing in the star scattered summer sky.
Above us.
*****************************
Dear Dating Land Readers,
Tune in tonight, September 17th, at 8:30PM on KFGO as I will be a guest of my host, Jason Spiess. Listen online (I posted a link for you in the sidebar) or turn your dial to 790AM to hear Dating Land live.
Thanks for reading and listening! Here's to love <3.
Muah!
~Audra
P.S See you back here on Monday . . . with a surprise worth waiting for!
Steak.
Medium bloody.
Which for some odd reason, always impresses the guys I date. I have no idea why. Must be the Neanderthal in them, watching me knaw on a raw cow corpse must instinctually incite prehistoric desire. At least that’s my best guess.
We sit by the window while we wait for our dinner to arrive.
Nick gazes at me and tells me I look incredible.
Sigh.
I feel like whipping out my blackberry and asking him if I can record that.
But I resist.
Over dinner, the previous flow of our texts, emails, and phone conversations meander together forming a stream of discussion diverse in dimension. We joke around but eventually end up discussing things like injustice in the world and the power of a positive attitude. I tell him about some of my favorite “life” books by Dale Carnegie and Eckhart Tolle. He hasn’t read them but I outline the concepts and he is quick to illustrate circumstances where he’s had to adapt similar lines of thinking.
He does argue with me on one point that I make: that all people are innately good.
“Oh come on,” I challenge, “haven’t you read Anne Frank? She’s hiding with her family in an attic for four years, her entire adolescence stolen by war, all the while writing in her diary how she still believes there is good in all people. Are you hiding in an attic anxious your family could be discovered and murdered at any second?” I go on and respond to my own rhetorical question, “Exactly. If she can make that assertion about humanity under those circumstances, then we can too. That’s the whole point.”
Nick tells me he wishes he had my optimism, but that he’s seen a lot.
He thinks there are truly evil people in the world.
I argue that no one is truly evil; that people are the cumulative result of their experiences. It is what we choose to do with those experiences that allows either good or evil to flow through us.
He still disagrees.
I don’t want to know at this point what he’s seen that makes him so unwavering.
So I change the topic.
Other than that difference in philosophies, by the time our meal is over, I am completely in awe of Nick’s depth of character, his ability to express himself so articulately and the multi-faceted life experiences that he shares so candidly.
He’s tough yet vulnerable. A combination that captivates me.
As our conversation winds down, his blackberry, which never leaves his side, perks up and Nick tells me his fellow fire fighters are beckoning to us from down the street at the bar.
Nick pays, I thank him as I simultaneously promise to get the next one. As we start down the street I persuade him to take a brief detour and stop for one drink at one of my favorite places, a rooftop bar. He’s heard of it but never been up there, says it’s a little outside of his “crowd,” so I am excited to be the one to show it to him.
On the roof, we visit in the July air and I introduce him to a girlfriend of mine who happens to be there as well. Nick is so engaging and polite, I can see in her eyes she is thinking, “Where did you FIND this guy? He’s a catch!” (And apparently I need to maybe consider a career in mental telepathy because the email she sends me the next day basically said, “Where did you find this guy? He is a catch!”)
Just as she wanders back to her table, Naomi texts me:
How is the date? Are you running off into the sunset with Romeo? I am out with Linda, she and I are dying to know.
I love it when my life is so intriguing that Naomi can’t wait until the next day for the full account, she has to actually radio me in the field asking for a status report.
“It’s just my friend, Naomi. She is out tonight too,” I half confess the contents of the text to Nick.
“Tell her to meet us,” Nick offers.
“Really? Are you sure?” I ask.
“Of course!” Nick confirms with a grin.
And for some reason, at that moment, his sincere smile suspends me in time for a brief few seconds. The sun is setting on us and he is sitting in that golden glow. And I am struck by the simple fact that I am having a wonderful time with probably one of the nicest and most genuine guys I have ever met.
And I realize.
That at this moment.
I am so happy.
As I recover from this awareness I relay Nick’s invitation to Naomi.
She replies:
Hell yeah I want to meet him!! B there in 10!
I just smile at Nick and say, “She’d love to come.”
An hour later I am at Nick’s side and meeting the rest of the hero brigade. I am just amazed. I just met him a week ago, and yet he is immersing me into his world. It just seems surreal.
“This is Audra, I’d like you to meet Audra, come over, I want to introduce you to Audra.” Over and over. I am shaking hands and learning names and hearing funny stories. All the while Nick is standing protectively next to me, grinning away.
We finally break away from the crowd to order a few drinks and when we do he leans against the bar, plays with the vintage bracelet on my hand and whispers, “I like your style.”
And well. I just kind of do the melting thing.
Knowing full well.
That Naomi is going to kill me.
But I say forget her. I am falling and I don’t want to get up. I want to continue to tumble heels over head into this land of crushing endorphins and momentary madness. Pass me that cup of this crazy/I’m so into you/kool aid Nick is serving. I want to slurp it down with a straw, lick the edges, and inhale every last drop.
Because it is.
Delicious.
Oh, but wait a minute. Satan the cynical naysayer is here.
Naomi is in the building.
After lots of giddy “So nice to meet you!’s”, we finally deposit ourselves in a booth while Nick leaves to get another round. And, oh, you guessed it. Naomi jumps all over this first opportunity to milk me for info like a cow just in from the pasture.
“Okay,” she leans in a hushed whisper, “First of all. Holy crap! Great arms. My good GAWD you weren’t exaggerating. Has he done a calendar? I think he’s done a calendar. He should DEFINITELY do a calendar. But, seriously, I have to know: Have you even kissed him yet?”
“No,” I admit, wrinkling up my forehead and leaning across the table. Where is she going with this?
“What the hell!” she squeals, “And you’re here. Meeting all his co-workers and friends? And I am here? Meeting all of his co-workers and friends?”
“I know, isn’t it insane?”
“Hey, you said it, not me. You know,” she pauses and brings her voice down to her “Now hear me out,” level, which is at least two octaves lower than her prior whispered shrieks, and announces protectively. “Are we in a f*ckin’ movie? When does he turn into an asshole?”
“Oh come on, do not go there. It’s fine. Not everyone is a jerk you realize.”
Naomi’s jaw drops. Let’s just say she is not so used to hearing me defend the (emotionally) weaker sex.
Nick is returning. Naomi’s jaw is now fake smiling.
Before too long, it’s time to call it a night. After all, it is a Thursday, and I have a firm Cinderella rule about staying out past midnight on a work night.
Naomi heads out too, but not before hugging me extra hard. (I check my purse later to make sure she didn’t slip me a can of mace, chastity belt, or a taser gun. Nope. We’re clear.)
On the way back to Nick’s truck he sweetly takes my hand in his for the first time. And we walk down the sidewalk like a couple of twitterpated teenagers.
(I freaking love this!)
As he drives me home, I explain how I am playing “Hotel Audra” at the moment as my Grandpa is staying with me for the week while my Grandma recovers from minor surgery. I relay how good old gramps had asked me if he needed to get a hotel room for the night since I had a date.
“Grandpa!” I’d chastised, “Why would you ask that? This is my and Nick’s first official date!”
“Well, I dunno how things work in the land of divorce and dating, just thought I’d offer,” he’d sweetly justified.
Nick thought that was pretty funny. I tell him I just wonder if Grandma knows how much Sex in the City Grandpa has been watching.
Nick pulls his pickup into my driveway and stops. Obviously, I can’t take him in my house to say goodnight, with Grandpa snoozing on the sofa.
So there we sit.
Parking.
Which mentally propels me back to high school. I fully expect an 80’s band to start crooning a ballad from the dashboard at any moment.
But no music swells. Instead, Nick is talking a lot and I am just sitting there listening and trying not to worry too much about if he is going to kiss me now or what.
(I hope so!)
Nick opens the sun roof. Crickets serenade us as the summer night filters in. And he talks some more. And I listen. And forget all about kissing.
Because soon we are continuing our earlier conversation about injustice in the world and engaged in a 45 minute discussion. He tells me of a significant experience he had where he felt extremely wronged and how he handled it. I am enthralled by the story, with his resolve, his character, and his motivation to stand up for what is right.
But I also challenge it. I tell him, sometimes, isn’t just better to let things go? At what cost is justice achieved? At what point do we just surrender? After all, isn’t that where war comes from? Humanity’s inability to just let the small things . . . go?
He says he wishes he could do that.
I smile and acknowledge, “Well, I have to work on that a little bit myself, too.”
And then, we both go silent.
He leans back in his seat, smiles, and just looks at me.
“You’re amazing,” he says.
“Right back, atchya,” I say.
He leans toward me, the moonlight the only illumination on our faces.
And then.
“I’ve wanted to do this all week,” he whispers, his hands on my face.
And when he kisses me, the lyrics to every love song ever sung, I swear I can hear, echoing in the star scattered summer sky.
Above us.
*****************************
Dear Dating Land Readers,
Tune in tonight, September 17th, at 8:30PM on KFGO as I will be a guest of my host, Jason Spiess. Listen online (I posted a link for you in the sidebar) or turn your dial to 790AM to hear Dating Land live.
Thanks for reading and listening! Here's to love <3.
Muah!
~Audra
P.S See you back here on Monday . . . with a surprise worth waiting for!
Monday, September 14, 2009
Chapter Six; Is it Thursday yet?
The next day, Sunday, my blackberry dings so many times with Nick’s text messages I am worried its speaker might wear out.
The level of attention Nick showers upon me over the next four days is completely foreign. Never have I had a guy show this much interest in me so soon. Never.
From:
Good morning, what are your plans today?
To:
How is your day going? What are you up to?
A couple dozen times a day.
I uncharacteristically follow with reckless abandon the momentum that he establishes and reciprocate at every turn.
My morning is lovely, just got done with a run. How is your morning?
And so forth. And so on.
Naomi, as my bestest bud, is obligated to suffer through every detail of this sudden devotion development in my dating life. (I believe it is in the gal pal contract, section 3, paragraph 2.)
And after listening intently to my retelling of this attention tornado she quickly brands him “Hurricane Nick.” She justifies, “If you weren’t so into him this is bordering on a stalker storm. You do realize.”
She doesn’t apologize for her concern and just reminds me to stay alert, as we all know, weather conditions are always subject to change. “Nick sounds great but he is a level one squall right now. And yeah, this mutual infatuation could culminate in my wearing a fuchsia bridesmaid dress this time next year, you never know, but just be cautious. A guy who comes on this strong may have only one windy thought running through his jet stream.”
The “Proceed with Caution, Girlfriend,” warning is in the same contract. Its right up there with never let a girlfriend drink Red Bull and vodka/wear skinny jeans/or drunk dial ex-boyfriends. (An addendum that was added after an unfortunate September outing last fall.)
I thank her. And tell her I will try to remain cognizant of her cautionary counsel.
But not before I remind her.
That I can’t stand the color fuchsia.
As the week wears on, hurricane boy and I banter back and forth, Nick continuing to incessantly quiz me on my day and how it is unfolding.
I do finally have to set a boundary and remind him that I DO have a job. And as much as I wish I could get paid just to talk to him that is not the case. He is respectful, but every day precisely one minute after my work day ends, his words are back on my blackberry screen asking me all about it.
And I keep waiting for it to get irritating.
It never does.
Our dialogue flows naturally beyond texting as we begin an email exchange, quickly flowing into personal topics about our families. He tells me about his grandpa, how having a Harley means a lot to him because his grandfather used to restore motorcycles. He openly confesses how much he has missed him since he died, and points him out in one of his Facebook pictures. A sweet little spectacle-clad old man stands next to Nick on a summer day in the photo, and I well up with empathy. I shared a similar bond with my great grandmother. I know exactly how he feels.
She’s been gone for twelve years and I miss that feisty and funny red-headed old lady.
Every day.
Nick deepens the dialogue and shares the love story of his grandparents that unfolded against the backdrop of World War II, the saving grace of serendipity that ultimately spared his grandpa’s life and how his grandmother, a young bride, stoically survived three years of solitude awaiting her groom’s return. He lets it slip that he hopes to find a love like that some day. His vulnerability catching me off guard but I trust it, and subsequently, I begin.
To trust him.
And I do not question it. For it is rare in this life that we stumble upon someone so willing to show you their hopes and dreams, for in that honesty, I believe, is where the soul resides.
I am getting a glimpse of Nick’s soul.
And I like what I see.
Very much.
He tells me again and again how much he enjoyed meeting my friends, my daughters, and that he can’t wait until Thursday. He asks me if he can take me to dinner for our date and if afterward I would like to attend a fundraiser downtown for fallen firefighters and meet all of his co-workers?
He’ll email me the information about it.
I am simultaneously impressed and floored that he is suggesting I meet his friends for our first official “drive to my house and pick me up” date.
And yes, I did just say friends not colleagues. Because isn’t a profession like this akin to the civilian version of Band of Brothers? My impression of that career is there is a big sense of camaraderie. And even though this town doesn’t exactly have a towering inferno every other week, it’s still a dangerous, and gruesome, job. (They are first responders after all. In this part of the country, who’s pulling frozen homeless men out of snow banks in December? Exactly. It’s these guys.)
For Nick to invite me to meet them seemed, well, pretty special. It isn’t like I am dating an attorney who is going to introduce me to his partner and secretary. (I’ve done that, not very exciting.) Nick wants me to meet the men who stand shoulder to shoulder with him through some pretty raw human experiences.
And I am humbled.
Wednesday morning before 7am .
Ding.
“I don’t think I can wait until Thursday.” Nick’s text reads.
I smile.
Because I am thinking the same thing.
But I resist the urge to rearrange my whole world to accommodate seeing him sooner, and stick with the logical circumstances that rule my single mom universe. Although I have a teenager and subsequently the freedom to come and go if I need to, I rarely take advantage of that. I am the mom here, not her. I have a life too, but my first duty is to spend my evenings doing mom things like: cooking dinner (Be quiet and eat that broccoli.), helping with homework (Why are they teaching you algebra in 3rd grade? Are they trying to make you into an electrical engineer by middle school?), doing laundry (What iPod? There was an iPod in the pocket of those pants?), and just spending time with my kids. (Get out of the recliner; I’ve had a long day. Pour your poor mother a glass of Riesling and paint my toenails, will ya?)
The fact is that Nick, as great as he is, is just going to have to wait his turn. There are a couple mini-me’s who have been on this scene long before Nick got here and they are my first priority.
On Wednesday morning (only one day to go!) as I drink my coffee on my patio in the summer sunshine, Nick texts me he wishes he were there with me.
I coyly reply, “Maybe someday you will be.”
At that moment, I hear sirens in the distance and the familiar horn of a fire truck.
Gotta go!
Nick’s text reads.
I text him back,
Stay safe.
About twenty minutes later he replies that it was just burned food; he’s back at the station. I am glad. I’ve heard those sirens a million times and never though too much of it.
Now?
That sound symbolizes the potential for peril I’d never before considered. And it’s a bit unsettling.
I shake the concern out of my head as I wait 36 hours for the clock and calendar to coincide.
And when time finally delivers the moment of my anticipation, Nick is standing on my doorstep with that great big grin of his, an enormous bouquet of flowers in his hand and a bottle of wine under one arm. (There is even a bow on the bottle. And yes, I ask him later if he tied it on himself? And he says yes. Yes he did.)
Forget "You had me at hello." This guy had me at the bow.
He hands me the flowers, “For you,” he smiles.
Daisies.
I am stunned.
Daisies were my wedding bouquet. And last year on my first wedding anniversary after my divorce, I had taken its brittle remnants back to where I’d said my marriage vows.
Closure.
I’ll never forget the peace that had enveloped me as I laid the leftovers of a lost life on the ground.
And now, I am holding the first bouquet of daisies that I have received since that moment. Eternal hunter of metaphors that I am, I just smile into the flowers and breath in this new beginning.
“You ready?” Nick ask, his enthusiasm contagious.
“Yes, I sure am!” I say, mirroring his excitement.
Because.
I am ready.
More ready than I ever thought I’d be.
****************************************************
Great news, readers! Dating Land is hitting the air waves this week. Tune in at 8:30PM on Thursday, September 17th, on KFGO, The Mighty 790AM. I'll be a guest of my host, Jason Spiess.
You can listen online at http://www.kfgo.com/. Just click the "Listen Live" link at the top of the page, or scroll over the "Listen Online!" link I posted in the sidebar of "Dating Land." We'll discuss several topics related to dating that I introduced in Dating Land thus far such as dating with children, social networking sites, infatuation, and dating after divorce.
Thank you for reading. I'll see you back here on Thursday for Chapter 7, which is not yet titled. The working title in the Word doc is lame so I'll try to think of something more fun.
Have a super week, Muah!
~Audra
P.S. Last week I heard from three guys I dated who appeared in my prior blog, Divorce Land. They all want to know why they aren't in Dating Land. One in particular said, "I read all the Dating Land chapters so far and thought to myself, "What? How am I not in here?!?!" Thanks guys, I am glad you enjoyed the spotlight! We'll see if I bring any of you back for a Dating Land cameo.
The level of attention Nick showers upon me over the next four days is completely foreign. Never have I had a guy show this much interest in me so soon. Never.
From:
Good morning, what are your plans today?
To:
How is your day going? What are you up to?
A couple dozen times a day.
I uncharacteristically follow with reckless abandon the momentum that he establishes and reciprocate at every turn.
My morning is lovely, just got done with a run. How is your morning?
And so forth. And so on.
Naomi, as my bestest bud, is obligated to suffer through every detail of this sudden devotion development in my dating life. (I believe it is in the gal pal contract, section 3, paragraph 2.)
And after listening intently to my retelling of this attention tornado she quickly brands him “Hurricane Nick.” She justifies, “If you weren’t so into him this is bordering on a stalker storm. You do realize.”
She doesn’t apologize for her concern and just reminds me to stay alert, as we all know, weather conditions are always subject to change. “Nick sounds great but he is a level one squall right now. And yeah, this mutual infatuation could culminate in my wearing a fuchsia bridesmaid dress this time next year, you never know, but just be cautious. A guy who comes on this strong may have only one windy thought running through his jet stream.”
The “Proceed with Caution, Girlfriend,” warning is in the same contract. Its right up there with never let a girlfriend drink Red Bull and vodka/wear skinny jeans/or drunk dial ex-boyfriends. (An addendum that was added after an unfortunate September outing last fall.)
I thank her. And tell her I will try to remain cognizant of her cautionary counsel.
But not before I remind her.
That I can’t stand the color fuchsia.
As the week wears on, hurricane boy and I banter back and forth, Nick continuing to incessantly quiz me on my day and how it is unfolding.
I do finally have to set a boundary and remind him that I DO have a job. And as much as I wish I could get paid just to talk to him that is not the case. He is respectful, but every day precisely one minute after my work day ends, his words are back on my blackberry screen asking me all about it.
And I keep waiting for it to get irritating.
It never does.
Our dialogue flows naturally beyond texting as we begin an email exchange, quickly flowing into personal topics about our families. He tells me about his grandpa, how having a Harley means a lot to him because his grandfather used to restore motorcycles. He openly confesses how much he has missed him since he died, and points him out in one of his Facebook pictures. A sweet little spectacle-clad old man stands next to Nick on a summer day in the photo, and I well up with empathy. I shared a similar bond with my great grandmother. I know exactly how he feels.
She’s been gone for twelve years and I miss that feisty and funny red-headed old lady.
Every day.
Nick deepens the dialogue and shares the love story of his grandparents that unfolded against the backdrop of World War II, the saving grace of serendipity that ultimately spared his grandpa’s life and how his grandmother, a young bride, stoically survived three years of solitude awaiting her groom’s return. He lets it slip that he hopes to find a love like that some day. His vulnerability catching me off guard but I trust it, and subsequently, I begin.
To trust him.
And I do not question it. For it is rare in this life that we stumble upon someone so willing to show you their hopes and dreams, for in that honesty, I believe, is where the soul resides.
I am getting a glimpse of Nick’s soul.
And I like what I see.
Very much.
He tells me again and again how much he enjoyed meeting my friends, my daughters, and that he can’t wait until Thursday. He asks me if he can take me to dinner for our date and if afterward I would like to attend a fundraiser downtown for fallen firefighters and meet all of his co-workers?
He’ll email me the information about it.
I am simultaneously impressed and floored that he is suggesting I meet his friends for our first official “drive to my house and pick me up” date.
And yes, I did just say friends not colleagues. Because isn’t a profession like this akin to the civilian version of Band of Brothers? My impression of that career is there is a big sense of camaraderie. And even though this town doesn’t exactly have a towering inferno every other week, it’s still a dangerous, and gruesome, job. (They are first responders after all. In this part of the country, who’s pulling frozen homeless men out of snow banks in December? Exactly. It’s these guys.)
For Nick to invite me to meet them seemed, well, pretty special. It isn’t like I am dating an attorney who is going to introduce me to his partner and secretary. (I’ve done that, not very exciting.) Nick wants me to meet the men who stand shoulder to shoulder with him through some pretty raw human experiences.
And I am humbled.
Wednesday morning before 7am .
Ding.
“I don’t think I can wait until Thursday.” Nick’s text reads.
I smile.
Because I am thinking the same thing.
But I resist the urge to rearrange my whole world to accommodate seeing him sooner, and stick with the logical circumstances that rule my single mom universe. Although I have a teenager and subsequently the freedom to come and go if I need to, I rarely take advantage of that. I am the mom here, not her. I have a life too, but my first duty is to spend my evenings doing mom things like: cooking dinner (Be quiet and eat that broccoli.), helping with homework (Why are they teaching you algebra in 3rd grade? Are they trying to make you into an electrical engineer by middle school?), doing laundry (What iPod? There was an iPod in the pocket of those pants?), and just spending time with my kids. (Get out of the recliner; I’ve had a long day. Pour your poor mother a glass of Riesling and paint my toenails, will ya?)
The fact is that Nick, as great as he is, is just going to have to wait his turn. There are a couple mini-me’s who have been on this scene long before Nick got here and they are my first priority.
On Wednesday morning (only one day to go!) as I drink my coffee on my patio in the summer sunshine, Nick texts me he wishes he were there with me.
I coyly reply, “Maybe someday you will be.”
At that moment, I hear sirens in the distance and the familiar horn of a fire truck.
Gotta go!
Nick’s text reads.
I text him back,
Stay safe.
About twenty minutes later he replies that it was just burned food; he’s back at the station. I am glad. I’ve heard those sirens a million times and never though too much of it.
Now?
That sound symbolizes the potential for peril I’d never before considered. And it’s a bit unsettling.
I shake the concern out of my head as I wait 36 hours for the clock and calendar to coincide.
And when time finally delivers the moment of my anticipation, Nick is standing on my doorstep with that great big grin of his, an enormous bouquet of flowers in his hand and a bottle of wine under one arm. (There is even a bow on the bottle. And yes, I ask him later if he tied it on himself? And he says yes. Yes he did.)
Forget "You had me at hello." This guy had me at the bow.
He hands me the flowers, “For you,” he smiles.
Daisies.
I am stunned.
Daisies were my wedding bouquet. And last year on my first wedding anniversary after my divorce, I had taken its brittle remnants back to where I’d said my marriage vows.
Closure.
I’ll never forget the peace that had enveloped me as I laid the leftovers of a lost life on the ground.
And now, I am holding the first bouquet of daisies that I have received since that moment. Eternal hunter of metaphors that I am, I just smile into the flowers and breath in this new beginning.
“You ready?” Nick ask, his enthusiasm contagious.
“Yes, I sure am!” I say, mirroring his excitement.
Because.
I am ready.
More ready than I ever thought I’d be.
****************************************************
Great news, readers! Dating Land is hitting the air waves this week. Tune in at 8:30PM on Thursday, September 17th, on KFGO, The Mighty 790AM. I'll be a guest of my host, Jason Spiess.
You can listen online at http://www.kfgo.com/. Just click the "Listen Live" link at the top of the page, or scroll over the "Listen Online!" link I posted in the sidebar of "Dating Land." We'll discuss several topics related to dating that I introduced in Dating Land thus far such as dating with children, social networking sites, infatuation, and dating after divorce.
Thank you for reading. I'll see you back here on Thursday for Chapter 7, which is not yet titled. The working title in the Word doc is lame so I'll try to think of something more fun.
Have a super week, Muah!
~Audra
P.S. Last week I heard from three guys I dated who appeared in my prior blog, Divorce Land. They all want to know why they aren't in Dating Land. One in particular said, "I read all the Dating Land chapters so far and thought to myself, "What? How am I not in here?!?!" Thanks guys, I am glad you enjoyed the spotlight! We'll see if I bring any of you back for a Dating Land cameo.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Chapter Five; If I am Marilyn will you be my Joe Dimaggio?
I smile at Nick through the fence as he dismounts his motorcycle and makes his way down my driveway.
“I like your patio,” he grins, ambling through the gate into my backyard.
I seriously think this guy invented the sexy swagger. I try not to dissolve on the spot.
I introduce him to my little girl and she promptly starts showing off with her ribbon. Nick smiles, comments how she is really good at that, and I suddenly feel like this was probably okay.
We aren’t alone for long because soon my boisterous buds and their children are bursting into the backyard and demanding to know where the party is. As night falls, Nick is embraced by my friends as the adults laugh and joke the night away and the children run back and forth for hours between the swing set and the Disney Channel.
I am in full hostess mode and grateful for the brief distractions from Nick's presence that running into my house for more chocolate and wine glasses presents. He fits in really well with my friends and makes conversation with them effortlessly. I’m impressed because good gawd this man has to know that his every utterance and move is being scrutinized closer than a faint fingerprint at a crime scene by my overly protective gal pal posse. I am actually floored that when they found out he was coming they didn’t commandeer a floodlight, plug that sucker into my patio outlet, and start demanding, “Where were you on the night of . . .!” the minute they laid eyes on him.
One of my friends emails me her stamp of approval the next day confessing how she’d paid attention to Nick’s nonverbal queues. “His eyes followed your every move the entire night; I thought that was a great sign, Audra! He seems genuinely into you.”
You see, I haven’t exactly had the best dating experiences. While I’ve watched far too many of my friends divorce, I’ve also watched the majority of them pick up the pieces and fall in love with some amazing men. I’m already a bridesmaid in one wedding and I’m sure two more are in the works. Meanwhile, I seem to have attracted, well, not so amazing men.
“You’re Marilyn Monroe,” one of my girlfriends brands me one day.
“What? Why would you say that?” I ask, baffled, “Good gawd woman, do you not see the breast deficit?”
“Oh be quiet about the boobs. You’re gorgeous. I mean your track record with men. You’re Marilyn Monroe.”
She goes on to explain, “I just finished reading her biography, in it the author suffices that Marilyn struggled with finding and retaining true love because the men who were attracted to her weren’t really attracted to her, they were attracted to how being with her made them feel. I think that’s what keeps happening to you. These men fall all over you simply because you’re so damn pretty, and funny. They like how being around you makes them feel. And that is not the same as actually appreciating you.”
I snort. “Thanks for the arm candy analogy, but I have an overbite,” I object, “its bad.” I demonstrate by doing my best impression of Mr. Ed.
“See? You’re hilarious. And forget the freaking overbite; Angelina Jolie has one, too.” She counters and then adds, "And hers is worse."
“Another chick with a smokin’ rack,” I deadpan.
“Shut up with the boobs, already! Listen, what I am saying is you unintentionally make men feel inadequate. Just like Marilyn did. Her super stardom dwarfed the men she was with, and I think you have that same effect. Your extroverted nature and quick wit makes you a bright star, too, Audra. You are. ”
Sigh.
I tell her I love her.
And then I make her promise to come by and blow smoke up my wrinkled ass every now and again when I am 95 years old living with 72 cats.
She promises.
Pinky swear?
Pinky swear.
Back to my backyard . . .
Nick spends the entire evening sitting right by my side. At one point he leans in next to me and tells me a story about how he and his brother had a cat for years but they could never agree on the name. In fact they both called it something else for the duration of its extremely long life. I laugh at the story but confess that his piercing blue eyed presence distracts my concentration to the point that later on I draw a blank and can’t recall what the two names were.
This is worth noting because normally I have a memory like the elephant version of Rain Man.
To the point where it can really creep people out. “What? You don’t remember sharing your cookie with me on the first day of second grade? It was oatmeal, you had that Little House on the Prairie lunch box, and you were wearing that Holly Hobby shirt that your aunt bought you in Oregon. Come on, you have to remember!”
It wasn’t until I was an adult that I realized not everyone can do this. I am still waiting for a game show to come along that only quizzes me on the details of my own life.
I’ll take “What I ate for breakfast on June 27, 1985, for a $5,000,” Alex.
I’d freaking ROCK at that show.
I digress.
Everyone stays until midnight and Nick is the last to leave. The children all stayed up far too late, mine included, so when it was time to go, I find myself standing in my driveway under the stars, Nick standing next to his motorcyle, suddenly looking giddy and vulnerable, and one overly tired little girl at my elbow.
“I had such a good time. I love your friends, I loved seeing you with them and getting to know you better,” he smiles and then leans in and whispers, “thanks for letting me come over.”
I look down. My daughter is staring at me like, “Who the heck is this dude and can I go to bed now because its midnight and why are we are in the driveway because I am on the verge of a sleep deprivation meltdown.”
I consciously back away from Nick in an effort to avoid inflicting emotional trauma upon but my child, but I am pretty sure the look on my face is screaming at him, “Holy crap, do I want to kiss you.”
So we just stand there and grin at each other like a couple of idiots.
One tired little girl standing between us.
“Um,” he breaks the silence first, “I’ll just push my bike down the driveway so as not to wake your neighbors?” he offers.
Good call.
He pops up the kick stand, puts his hands on the handlebars but turns to me before he takes one step, “Can I see you again?”
Like he has to ask?
This guy is more addicting than gooey chocolate, a roasted marshmallow, and a couple of cinnamon graham cracker.
Color me infatuated.
“Yes, of course!” I say far too damn enthusiastically. Well, no one has ever accused me of being subtle so that is probably okay but still, I try to tone it down as I offer, “I, um, can make Thursday work?”
“I can’t wait,” he replies, his deep voice rattling some piece of my soul that has never before been rattled, I am pretty sure.
Can he hear my heart beating? I bet he can hear my heart beating. It’s so loud in my own ears I can barely hear anything else.
And then, there he goes. Pushing his motorcycle down my driveway, past my hydrangeas, and into the night. His broad back in a black leather jacket slowly melting into the darkness.
“Mama?” my daughter finally pipes up as he roars away down our street.
“Yeah?” I look down at her tired little face.
“I like Nick.”
“I like him too,” I cautiously confess.
“And,” her small sleepy voice adds as she turns to go into the house, “He’s smokin’ hot.”
I burst out laughing and chastise, “Kid, you are watching far too much Hannah Montanna! Now time for bed, chipmunk, let’s go.”
Exactly eight minutes later my blackberry dings.
I smiled so much on the ride back to my house
that I ate a bug. =)
Of course, I absolutely laugh out loud and respond:
Protein?
He replies:
You’re funny =) But I have one question.
I smile and text back:
And that is?
His reply boomerangs back to my blackberry in a nanosecond:
Is it Thursday yet?
Holy back flipping butterflies, Batman.
Because if anyone wants s’more right now, it’s me. S’more of that smile, s’more of that voice, s’more of that smokin’ hot boy.
And s’more of the possibility that if I am Marilyn Monroe?
Well, maybe, just maybe. If I am?
I may have just found.
My Joe Dimaggio.
******************************
I'll be back on Monday with KFGO radio details my loyal readers, and of course, Chapter Six; Is it Thursday Yet?
Have a tremendous weekend, stay safe, and see you on Monday!
~Audra
“I like your patio,” he grins, ambling through the gate into my backyard.
I seriously think this guy invented the sexy swagger. I try not to dissolve on the spot.
I introduce him to my little girl and she promptly starts showing off with her ribbon. Nick smiles, comments how she is really good at that, and I suddenly feel like this was probably okay.
We aren’t alone for long because soon my boisterous buds and their children are bursting into the backyard and demanding to know where the party is. As night falls, Nick is embraced by my friends as the adults laugh and joke the night away and the children run back and forth for hours between the swing set and the Disney Channel.
I am in full hostess mode and grateful for the brief distractions from Nick's presence that running into my house for more chocolate and wine glasses presents. He fits in really well with my friends and makes conversation with them effortlessly. I’m impressed because good gawd this man has to know that his every utterance and move is being scrutinized closer than a faint fingerprint at a crime scene by my overly protective gal pal posse. I am actually floored that when they found out he was coming they didn’t commandeer a floodlight, plug that sucker into my patio outlet, and start demanding, “Where were you on the night of . . .!” the minute they laid eyes on him.
One of my friends emails me her stamp of approval the next day confessing how she’d paid attention to Nick’s nonverbal queues. “His eyes followed your every move the entire night; I thought that was a great sign, Audra! He seems genuinely into you.”
You see, I haven’t exactly had the best dating experiences. While I’ve watched far too many of my friends divorce, I’ve also watched the majority of them pick up the pieces and fall in love with some amazing men. I’m already a bridesmaid in one wedding and I’m sure two more are in the works. Meanwhile, I seem to have attracted, well, not so amazing men.
“You’re Marilyn Monroe,” one of my girlfriends brands me one day.
“What? Why would you say that?” I ask, baffled, “Good gawd woman, do you not see the breast deficit?”
“Oh be quiet about the boobs. You’re gorgeous. I mean your track record with men. You’re Marilyn Monroe.”
She goes on to explain, “I just finished reading her biography, in it the author suffices that Marilyn struggled with finding and retaining true love because the men who were attracted to her weren’t really attracted to her, they were attracted to how being with her made them feel. I think that’s what keeps happening to you. These men fall all over you simply because you’re so damn pretty, and funny. They like how being around you makes them feel. And that is not the same as actually appreciating you.”
I snort. “Thanks for the arm candy analogy, but I have an overbite,” I object, “its bad.” I demonstrate by doing my best impression of Mr. Ed.
“See? You’re hilarious. And forget the freaking overbite; Angelina Jolie has one, too.” She counters and then adds, "And hers is worse."
“Another chick with a smokin’ rack,” I deadpan.
“Shut up with the boobs, already! Listen, what I am saying is you unintentionally make men feel inadequate. Just like Marilyn did. Her super stardom dwarfed the men she was with, and I think you have that same effect. Your extroverted nature and quick wit makes you a bright star, too, Audra. You are. ”
Sigh.
I tell her I love her.
And then I make her promise to come by and blow smoke up my wrinkled ass every now and again when I am 95 years old living with 72 cats.
She promises.
Pinky swear?
Pinky swear.
Back to my backyard . . .
Nick spends the entire evening sitting right by my side. At one point he leans in next to me and tells me a story about how he and his brother had a cat for years but they could never agree on the name. In fact they both called it something else for the duration of its extremely long life. I laugh at the story but confess that his piercing blue eyed presence distracts my concentration to the point that later on I draw a blank and can’t recall what the two names were.
This is worth noting because normally I have a memory like the elephant version of Rain Man.
To the point where it can really creep people out. “What? You don’t remember sharing your cookie with me on the first day of second grade? It was oatmeal, you had that Little House on the Prairie lunch box, and you were wearing that Holly Hobby shirt that your aunt bought you in Oregon. Come on, you have to remember!”
It wasn’t until I was an adult that I realized not everyone can do this. I am still waiting for a game show to come along that only quizzes me on the details of my own life.
I’ll take “What I ate for breakfast on June 27, 1985, for a $5,000,” Alex.
I’d freaking ROCK at that show.
I digress.
Everyone stays until midnight and Nick is the last to leave. The children all stayed up far too late, mine included, so when it was time to go, I find myself standing in my driveway under the stars, Nick standing next to his motorcyle, suddenly looking giddy and vulnerable, and one overly tired little girl at my elbow.
“I had such a good time. I love your friends, I loved seeing you with them and getting to know you better,” he smiles and then leans in and whispers, “thanks for letting me come over.”
I look down. My daughter is staring at me like, “Who the heck is this dude and can I go to bed now because its midnight and why are we are in the driveway because I am on the verge of a sleep deprivation meltdown.”
I consciously back away from Nick in an effort to avoid inflicting emotional trauma upon but my child, but I am pretty sure the look on my face is screaming at him, “Holy crap, do I want to kiss you.”
So we just stand there and grin at each other like a couple of idiots.
One tired little girl standing between us.
“Um,” he breaks the silence first, “I’ll just push my bike down the driveway so as not to wake your neighbors?” he offers.
Good call.
He pops up the kick stand, puts his hands on the handlebars but turns to me before he takes one step, “Can I see you again?”
Like he has to ask?
This guy is more addicting than gooey chocolate, a roasted marshmallow, and a couple of cinnamon graham cracker.
Color me infatuated.
“Yes, of course!” I say far too damn enthusiastically. Well, no one has ever accused me of being subtle so that is probably okay but still, I try to tone it down as I offer, “I, um, can make Thursday work?”
“I can’t wait,” he replies, his deep voice rattling some piece of my soul that has never before been rattled, I am pretty sure.
Can he hear my heart beating? I bet he can hear my heart beating. It’s so loud in my own ears I can barely hear anything else.
And then, there he goes. Pushing his motorcycle down my driveway, past my hydrangeas, and into the night. His broad back in a black leather jacket slowly melting into the darkness.
“Mama?” my daughter finally pipes up as he roars away down our street.
“Yeah?” I look down at her tired little face.
“I like Nick.”
“I like him too,” I cautiously confess.
“And,” her small sleepy voice adds as she turns to go into the house, “He’s smokin’ hot.”
I burst out laughing and chastise, “Kid, you are watching far too much Hannah Montanna! Now time for bed, chipmunk, let’s go.”
Exactly eight minutes later my blackberry dings.
I smiled so much on the ride back to my house
that I ate a bug. =)
Of course, I absolutely laugh out loud and respond:
Protein?
He replies:
You’re funny =) But I have one question.
I smile and text back:
And that is?
His reply boomerangs back to my blackberry in a nanosecond:
Is it Thursday yet?
Holy back flipping butterflies, Batman.
Because if anyone wants s’more right now, it’s me. S’more of that smile, s’more of that voice, s’more of that smokin’ hot boy.
And s’more of the possibility that if I am Marilyn Monroe?
Well, maybe, just maybe. If I am?
I may have just found.
My Joe Dimaggio.
******************************
I'll be back on Monday with KFGO radio details my loyal readers, and of course, Chapter Six; Is it Thursday Yet?
Have a tremendous weekend, stay safe, and see you on Monday!
~Audra
Monday, September 7, 2009
Chapter Four; My Charming Prince comes back for S'more
“Mom! Look at this!” my little girl is swirling and twirling a brightly colored ribbon on a stick we’d bought earlier that day at a community event. “I call this one,” she exclaims, “the hopping rabbit!” her small form jumping up and down rapidly, the eight foot ribbon following her commanding movements, twisting wildly in the evening sunshine filtering into our secluded backyard.
I’m in sweats, starting a fire in our fire pit, still smiling to myself having just left my charming prince on his Harley an hour before.
“You’re really good at that!” I call out to her as she skips and twirls about the lawn.
Just then my blackberry dings. “Someone loves me,” I think to myself.
Nick’s name jumps off the screen.
Butterflies.
Pssssst, how’s the fire?
His words glow in my hand. I reply:
Should be fun, I have a couple girlfriends coming over.
Someone give me a cookie for being the queen of coy, will ya? Because what I really wanted to say was, "Not half as hot as you."
Just call me Lady GaGa for that Poker Face, will ya?
Nick wants to know if I plan to drink too much wine with my friends and I reply saying more like eat too many s'mores.
I don’t suppose you have any extra for me?
Do you? =)
Be still my heart.
I smile.
But I also hesitate. With my little girl here and my big girl, a blossoming and sensitive teen, arriving back home in about an hour, I balk at mixing any man with my maternal duties. Because last time I checked, doing that too soon is the kind of decision that inspires bad country songs.
You see, my mode of operation when it comes to dating is to insulate my children from it at all costs. It’s no secret if mama goes on a date, and they can certainly briefly meet who I am going out with, but I am hesitant to open my children up to situations where they might form a relationship prematurely and subsequently suffer a loss if the guy turns out to be temporary. If I have a break up, the only one I want crying in this house is me. In other words, no dude is going to come over, don a Kiss the Cook apron and wrestle with the dog on the living room floor on my mommy lioness watch.
Well, I don’t have a dog. I have two cats. But that analogy doesn’t apply very gracefully to cats. Besides, I wouldn’t want to date a guy who wrestles with cats.
That sounds creepy.
And painful.
I digress. My point:
This home is my children's sanctuary.
I’ve researched endless books on this topic as, unfortunately, divorce is a stark reality in our culture for many families. There are tons of resources available that I like to call, “How not to F*ck up your kids after a divorce.” Actually, there’s a whole section at Barnes and Noble on it. You can’t miss it, in fact, it’s right next to the massive one titled, “How to undo the mess of your life because your parents F*cked you up after their divorce.”
Like I said. Oodles of resources.
Therefore, my number one rule is no charming prince parade through the old homestead. And no boyfriend bonding with my babies until any relationship I meander into has matured to the six month mark. And well, if my life were an hour glass the amount of time I've spent with Nick so far doesn't even equal six grains of sand.
But how am I going to explain this heavy family boundary via a text message to Nick?
Tell him that I hope s'mores are at the top of his Christmas list this year?
Exactly.
While I discern this dilemma, one of my girlfriends texts me to ask if she can bring a guy buddy with her to my house. And it’s soon obvious I am going to have a fairly good sized group in my backyard of both girls and guys.
Hmmm. “Well, I suppose if Nick is just “one of the crowd” it shouldn’t traumatize my kiddos?” I justify to myself and secretly hope this doesn’t culminate in astronomical therapy bills ten years from now, my child sobbing on a counselor’s couch, “And then, my mom dated this guy on a Harley and my life was never the same!”
I take a deep breath. And text him back:
Yes, come on over!
Plenty of s’mores to go around :)
I then switch gears from over protective parent to vane dating girl and briefly ponder the fact that my ass looks terrible in these sweat pants. Maybe I should change back into my new blue dress?
Oh who am I kidding? I’m not JLo. And this is my patio.
As it turns out, I wouldn’t have had time anyway. Because five minutes later the summer air is filled with the chortling sounds of a motorcycle roaring into my driveway.
Queue James Dean.
My Charming Prince is back for s'more.
*********************
Come back on Thursday for Chapter Five; If I'm Marilyn will you be my Joe Dimaggio?
Also, on Thursday I'll have more details about Dating Land's radio debut. Yes, I just said radio. It's true, I'll be appearing regularly on KFGO to discuss the dating topics introduced on Dating Land so far such as social networking sites, blind dates, infatuation, and dating with children.
Details coming soon! And as always, thank you for reading. Muah! Love ya. ~Audra
I’m in sweats, starting a fire in our fire pit, still smiling to myself having just left my charming prince on his Harley an hour before.
“You’re really good at that!” I call out to her as she skips and twirls about the lawn.
Just then my blackberry dings. “Someone loves me,” I think to myself.
Nick’s name jumps off the screen.
Butterflies.
Pssssst, how’s the fire?
His words glow in my hand. I reply:
Should be fun, I have a couple girlfriends coming over.
Someone give me a cookie for being the queen of coy, will ya? Because what I really wanted to say was, "Not half as hot as you."
Just call me Lady GaGa for that Poker Face, will ya?
Nick wants to know if I plan to drink too much wine with my friends and I reply saying more like eat too many s'mores.
I don’t suppose you have any extra for me?
Do you? =)
Be still my heart.
I smile.
But I also hesitate. With my little girl here and my big girl, a blossoming and sensitive teen, arriving back home in about an hour, I balk at mixing any man with my maternal duties. Because last time I checked, doing that too soon is the kind of decision that inspires bad country songs.
You see, my mode of operation when it comes to dating is to insulate my children from it at all costs. It’s no secret if mama goes on a date, and they can certainly briefly meet who I am going out with, but I am hesitant to open my children up to situations where they might form a relationship prematurely and subsequently suffer a loss if the guy turns out to be temporary. If I have a break up, the only one I want crying in this house is me. In other words, no dude is going to come over, don a Kiss the Cook apron and wrestle with the dog on the living room floor on my mommy lioness watch.
Well, I don’t have a dog. I have two cats. But that analogy doesn’t apply very gracefully to cats. Besides, I wouldn’t want to date a guy who wrestles with cats.
That sounds creepy.
And painful.
I digress. My point:
This home is my children's sanctuary.
I’ve researched endless books on this topic as, unfortunately, divorce is a stark reality in our culture for many families. There are tons of resources available that I like to call, “How not to F*ck up your kids after a divorce.” Actually, there’s a whole section at Barnes and Noble on it. You can’t miss it, in fact, it’s right next to the massive one titled, “How to undo the mess of your life because your parents F*cked you up after their divorce.”
Like I said. Oodles of resources.
Therefore, my number one rule is no charming prince parade through the old homestead. And no boyfriend bonding with my babies until any relationship I meander into has matured to the six month mark. And well, if my life were an hour glass the amount of time I've spent with Nick so far doesn't even equal six grains of sand.
But how am I going to explain this heavy family boundary via a text message to Nick?
Tell him that I hope s'mores are at the top of his Christmas list this year?
Exactly.
While I discern this dilemma, one of my girlfriends texts me to ask if she can bring a guy buddy with her to my house. And it’s soon obvious I am going to have a fairly good sized group in my backyard of both girls and guys.
Hmmm. “Well, I suppose if Nick is just “one of the crowd” it shouldn’t traumatize my kiddos?” I justify to myself and secretly hope this doesn’t culminate in astronomical therapy bills ten years from now, my child sobbing on a counselor’s couch, “And then, my mom dated this guy on a Harley and my life was never the same!”
I take a deep breath. And text him back:
Yes, come on over!
Plenty of s’mores to go around :)
I then switch gears from over protective parent to vane dating girl and briefly ponder the fact that my ass looks terrible in these sweat pants. Maybe I should change back into my new blue dress?
Oh who am I kidding? I’m not JLo. And this is my patio.
As it turns out, I wouldn’t have had time anyway. Because five minutes later the summer air is filled with the chortling sounds of a motorcycle roaring into my driveway.
Queue James Dean.
My Charming Prince is back for s'more.
*********************
Come back on Thursday for Chapter Five; If I'm Marilyn will you be my Joe Dimaggio?
Also, on Thursday I'll have more details about Dating Land's radio debut. Yes, I just said radio. It's true, I'll be appearing regularly on KFGO to discuss the dating topics introduced on Dating Land so far such as social networking sites, blind dates, infatuation, and dating with children.
Details coming soon! And as always, thank you for reading. Muah! Love ya. ~Audra
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Chapter Three; CP on a Harley (That would be “Charming Prince”)
Saturday finally arrives and it is a sparkling summer night as I drive across town, sunroof open, to meet Nick for our second date.
He’d actually texted me several times over the past few days and he was witty and sweet, at one point sending me a silly camera phone pic of our mutual friend, Christiana, in an ad on the back of a bus (she does some local modeling). I reply saying my favorite is when I see her mug in that same ad campaign on bus stop benches. Because then I get to call her and announce, “Hey woman, I just saw a bum sitting on your face!”
Nick tells me I am hysterical.
Yeah, well. I try.
On the way there, I admit to myself how excited I am to see him again, which is just shocking for me. Normally at this stage in the dating game, my logical and cautious hat is securely fastened on my bleached head. This pessimistic self-protection approach allows me to secretly watch for signs that the dude I am dating may be a psycho/alcoholic/maniac. Well? You never know. But that hat must be in the mental laundry basket because I am ridiculously giddy about this date with Nick, having thrown all rational thought out my open sunroof in anticipation of tonight.
Which, when it comes to matters of the heart, isn’t that a good thing?
I meander my way down the street to the bar I had suggested we sync up at for our second date, and turn my car around a corner and into the parking lot.
And there he is.
Rebel without a cause, leather jacket clad, leaning casually against his Harley and absent mindedly texting on his phone.
Looking?
Hotter.
Than.
Hell.
Am I in a movie? I mean seriously.
Someone pinch me. Wait. Don’t. If this is a dream, I’d like to stay in this slumber with the sexy swaggering star of the show, thank you very much.
Check that. Make that a coma.
(Yeah, he looks that good.)
“Hey you!” I announce, pseudo confidence intact, as I step out of my car, wearing the new blue summer dress I bought specifically for this date. (When the a guy warrants the purchase of a new outfit? Be quiet. Guilty as charged.)
“Hey you back, so good to see you again, you look amazing,” he beams. There it was. There was that incredible smile once more.
I feel like replying, “Um, have you looked in a mirror lately, James Dean?”
This time, I have two hours to spare for this second date with Nick in my eternally chaotic life. Circumstances, not plotting, contribute to this brief window of time, and one minute in I am already wishing it were longer.
Elbows on the table in that smokin’ hot leather jacket, he leans in and his eyes sparkle as we exchange anecdotal stories about our lives in the “getting to know you” part of dating. Once again, we seem to form an effortless connection as we chat. His life, I think, is far more interesting than mine. A million questions swirl around in my head but I resist the urge to embark on a full scale interview, especially about the firefighter thing. I just assume everyone new he meets must interrogate him about that, it is intriguing.
Therefore, I refrain from asking things like, “Do you really slide down a pole?” and “How many babies have you saved from a fiery death?”
Because of course, I can see it now. Nick charging out of a burning house, infant in one hand, old woman clinging to his neck, and an unconscious puppy cradled under one arm.
Just call me Louis Lane, because yep. I am on a date with Superman.
As we talk, I shake the hero fantasies out of my blonde brain and become increasingly intrigued by the places he’s been, the decisions he’s made, and the things he’s seen. And I suddenly feel very dull next to him.
His life is one big adventure. Mine?
Pretty standard.
He’s never been married and he has no children. And I am glad. You see, I’ve been resistant about dating men whose lives have paralleled mine on the family/divorce front. I’ve already put my own children through a divorce, and as far as I can tell, the Brady Bunch is fictional. Blending families is difficult, and I haven’t been brave enough yet to entertain the thought of potentially putting my daughters through that.
So I gravitate toward men without children. Therefore, I’m thrilled Nick’s life story aligns with my ideal.
Nick does ask about my divorce, everyone does. And I try to stay classy and brief in my description, which is always challenging.
Because divorce is horrible. It just is. It’s hard to talk about it without sounding bitter and jaded and pissed off. It’s like discussing a murder. How are you supposed to talk about a homicide with a smile on your face?
I mean, really.
“And the victim suffered but not tremendously. But a lot of time has passed and the survivors are just peachy. Isn’t it glorious?”
Uh. Yeah.
But I think I do a good job as my answers seem to satisfy his curiosity and we shift off the subject of my marital failure.
I order a mojito so he does too. He’s never had one. And I soon learn that this joint makes lethal ones. Who is bartending? Obviously a raging alcoholic who is out to make the rest of world one too.
Because good gawd, one mojito later I promptly switch to water as I know I am feeling faaaaaaaaaaaaaar too relaxed for a second date. It has to be the alcohol.
How can I feel this comfortable around someone I just met?
Who knows, but I do.
His voice is deep and so calming that just listening to him talk lulls me into serenity like the drum of a summer rain. His laughter is honest and his smile. Oh, that smile. I’ve seen Nick now for all of three hours out of the 37 years I’ve been on this planet, but he miraculously inflicts a feeling of comfort that is usually only reserved for old friends who I’ve known since second grade, the ones who watched me pee my pants during show and tell and didn’t abandon me in my humiliation. Those kinds of friends. He’s simultaneously familiar and foreign.
And I don’t know why. All I know is it feels really, really.
Good.
When time does that warping thing once more and two hours mysteriously fade, we say our goodbyes in a parking lot once again. I show him my new car with my keyless entry; I call it my space ship. It’s so weird. You don’t need a key. You just push a button and viola! We test it out, how far back can this sensor I now carry instead of keys go before the car won’t open, anyway? He takes my purse and holds it back.
One foot, two feet. Oh, about two feet.
We both laugh. Awkwardly. Because you know what?
I think we both want to see the other one naked.
Oh not immediately. Get off my case, Mother Theresa.
He’s heading to meet some guys and I am heading home to entertain some girlfriends in my backyard over a fire pit.
We say goodbye again.
And as I drive away I crank up my “life is good” tunes of choice (anything and everything by Green Day)and smile my highlighted head off.
I am well aware that it too soon to say if this is a fairy tale or not.
But if it is, forget the white horse. My charming prince, just stormed into my life.
On a goddamned Harley.
**************************
Thank you for reading, my Dating Land fans! I'll be right back here on Monday with Chapter Four; My Charming Prince comes back for S'more. (Please note, sometimes I get super ambitious and publish a day or two early. If you'd like to be notified immediately when I post something on my blog, you can sign up to be a Follower with Google Friend Connect in the toolbar on the right. Thanks for stopping and see you again on Monday! ~Audra )
He’d actually texted me several times over the past few days and he was witty and sweet, at one point sending me a silly camera phone pic of our mutual friend, Christiana, in an ad on the back of a bus (she does some local modeling). I reply saying my favorite is when I see her mug in that same ad campaign on bus stop benches. Because then I get to call her and announce, “Hey woman, I just saw a bum sitting on your face!”
Nick tells me I am hysterical.
Yeah, well. I try.
On the way there, I admit to myself how excited I am to see him again, which is just shocking for me. Normally at this stage in the dating game, my logical and cautious hat is securely fastened on my bleached head. This pessimistic self-protection approach allows me to secretly watch for signs that the dude I am dating may be a psycho/alcoholic/maniac. Well? You never know. But that hat must be in the mental laundry basket because I am ridiculously giddy about this date with Nick, having thrown all rational thought out my open sunroof in anticipation of tonight.
Which, when it comes to matters of the heart, isn’t that a good thing?
I meander my way down the street to the bar I had suggested we sync up at for our second date, and turn my car around a corner and into the parking lot.
And there he is.
Rebel without a cause, leather jacket clad, leaning casually against his Harley and absent mindedly texting on his phone.
Looking?
Hotter.
Than.
Hell.
Am I in a movie? I mean seriously.
Someone pinch me. Wait. Don’t. If this is a dream, I’d like to stay in this slumber with the sexy swaggering star of the show, thank you very much.
Check that. Make that a coma.
(Yeah, he looks that good.)
“Hey you!” I announce, pseudo confidence intact, as I step out of my car, wearing the new blue summer dress I bought specifically for this date. (When the a guy warrants the purchase of a new outfit? Be quiet. Guilty as charged.)
“Hey you back, so good to see you again, you look amazing,” he beams. There it was. There was that incredible smile once more.
I feel like replying, “Um, have you looked in a mirror lately, James Dean?”
This time, I have two hours to spare for this second date with Nick in my eternally chaotic life. Circumstances, not plotting, contribute to this brief window of time, and one minute in I am already wishing it were longer.
Elbows on the table in that smokin’ hot leather jacket, he leans in and his eyes sparkle as we exchange anecdotal stories about our lives in the “getting to know you” part of dating. Once again, we seem to form an effortless connection as we chat. His life, I think, is far more interesting than mine. A million questions swirl around in my head but I resist the urge to embark on a full scale interview, especially about the firefighter thing. I just assume everyone new he meets must interrogate him about that, it is intriguing.
Therefore, I refrain from asking things like, “Do you really slide down a pole?” and “How many babies have you saved from a fiery death?”
Because of course, I can see it now. Nick charging out of a burning house, infant in one hand, old woman clinging to his neck, and an unconscious puppy cradled under one arm.
Just call me Louis Lane, because yep. I am on a date with Superman.
As we talk, I shake the hero fantasies out of my blonde brain and become increasingly intrigued by the places he’s been, the decisions he’s made, and the things he’s seen. And I suddenly feel very dull next to him.
His life is one big adventure. Mine?
Pretty standard.
He’s never been married and he has no children. And I am glad. You see, I’ve been resistant about dating men whose lives have paralleled mine on the family/divorce front. I’ve already put my own children through a divorce, and as far as I can tell, the Brady Bunch is fictional. Blending families is difficult, and I haven’t been brave enough yet to entertain the thought of potentially putting my daughters through that.
So I gravitate toward men without children. Therefore, I’m thrilled Nick’s life story aligns with my ideal.
Nick does ask about my divorce, everyone does. And I try to stay classy and brief in my description, which is always challenging.
Because divorce is horrible. It just is. It’s hard to talk about it without sounding bitter and jaded and pissed off. It’s like discussing a murder. How are you supposed to talk about a homicide with a smile on your face?
I mean, really.
“And the victim suffered but not tremendously. But a lot of time has passed and the survivors are just peachy. Isn’t it glorious?”
Uh. Yeah.
But I think I do a good job as my answers seem to satisfy his curiosity and we shift off the subject of my marital failure.
I order a mojito so he does too. He’s never had one. And I soon learn that this joint makes lethal ones. Who is bartending? Obviously a raging alcoholic who is out to make the rest of world one too.
Because good gawd, one mojito later I promptly switch to water as I know I am feeling faaaaaaaaaaaaaar too relaxed for a second date. It has to be the alcohol.
How can I feel this comfortable around someone I just met?
Who knows, but I do.
His voice is deep and so calming that just listening to him talk lulls me into serenity like the drum of a summer rain. His laughter is honest and his smile. Oh, that smile. I’ve seen Nick now for all of three hours out of the 37 years I’ve been on this planet, but he miraculously inflicts a feeling of comfort that is usually only reserved for old friends who I’ve known since second grade, the ones who watched me pee my pants during show and tell and didn’t abandon me in my humiliation. Those kinds of friends. He’s simultaneously familiar and foreign.
And I don’t know why. All I know is it feels really, really.
Good.
When time does that warping thing once more and two hours mysteriously fade, we say our goodbyes in a parking lot once again. I show him my new car with my keyless entry; I call it my space ship. It’s so weird. You don’t need a key. You just push a button and viola! We test it out, how far back can this sensor I now carry instead of keys go before the car won’t open, anyway? He takes my purse and holds it back.
One foot, two feet. Oh, about two feet.
We both laugh. Awkwardly. Because you know what?
I think we both want to see the other one naked.
Oh not immediately. Get off my case, Mother Theresa.
He’s heading to meet some guys and I am heading home to entertain some girlfriends in my backyard over a fire pit.
We say goodbye again.
And as I drive away I crank up my “life is good” tunes of choice (anything and everything by Green Day)and smile my highlighted head off.
I am well aware that it too soon to say if this is a fairy tale or not.
But if it is, forget the white horse. My charming prince, just stormed into my life.
On a goddamned Harley.
**************************
Thank you for reading, my Dating Land fans! I'll be right back here on Monday with Chapter Four; My Charming Prince comes back for S'more. (Please note, sometimes I get super ambitious and publish a day or two early. If you'd like to be notified immediately when I post something on my blog, you can sign up to be a Follower with Google Friend Connect in the toolbar on the right. Thanks for stopping and see you again on Monday! ~Audra )
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