The "Hot Date" Test

“Hey, how was lunch with that guy the other day?” Naomi is forever inquisitive of any and all interaction I have with the opposite sex. I can’t believe she didn’t interrogate me after my trip to the dentist last week, after all, he’s a male. (Albeit 62 and married, but still.) Perhaps her “I have a boyfriend existence” must be getting mundane since she’s endlessly searching for dramatic developments in my spinster/cat lady land life.

“That was lunch. He’s just a friend, why?”

“What makes you say he’s just a friend? How do you know he’s just a friend?” She narrows her eyes and I start wondering if she’s going to grab a spotlight out of her purse and begin a full on interrogation.

I briefly consider asking to call my attorney. “What has gotten into you? You have more tenacity lately than Tiger Woods in a brothel.”

“Well? Like I said, how do you know?”

This woman does not give up.

I grunt at her, cock my eyebrow upwards and announce, “I didn’t buy a new shirt. That. Is how I know.”

She collapses in laughter, surrendering to illogical logic.

Inside joke explained: I have this very very odd habitual pattern of running straight to the mall and buying a new shirt when I have a date with someone I really like. In fact, if it’s winter I’ve even been known to buy a new coat.

Twice.

In fact, Naomi likes to use my odd garment gathering as a barometer for just how of hot a date we're talking about here. “You like him? Alright, so how much was the shirt?”

In one case last year an ex-boyfriend of mine who I’d secretly pined for for months asked me to help him write his resume. Of course, I wanted to believe this was confusing boy code for “I can’t live without you, I want you back.” We agreed to meet for coffee to go over his career logistics but not before I went to the mall and bought the cutest damn shirt I could find.

(Naomi didn’t approve, she thought my history with him didn’t warrant the investment. Advised me to keep the receipt.)

I thought it was a wonderful wardrobe decision for what I was sure was to be the first step in an obvious reunion.

Yeah, not so much. Turns out he really was just a fan of my writing abilities. Because twenty minutes into our meeting I had to sit there in my cute new shirt and listen to him tell me all about his cute new girlfriend.

What a waste of my Wet Seal wandering.

(I did keep the shirt though. It really was cute.)

So, here I am. No boyfriend in sight but with a closet full of adorable tops, blouses and sweaters. Maybe I have enough of a collection now that I can break this bad habit, I have plenty of options now, right?

Oh hey, wait a second. I just got a text from Brad Pitt. What the? He’s finally leaving Angelina for moi? He’ll be here in four hours?

Hold on, I have to call Naomi . . .

Okay, Dating Land fans. I gotta run. She’s going to be here in five minutes.

We’re going to the mall.

Because there's a new shirt out there with my name on it.

Mrs. Audra Pitt

Odd Happenings in the Life of Moi

I am going out for dinner tonight and when I do, I am having a beer.

And I don’t even like beer.

But it’s been one of those weeks. The kind where I've actually caught myself giving thanks that I am not pregnant, unemployed, or dealing with a leprosy diagnosis.

When you have to go that dark to cheer yourself up . . . yeah, it's been a rough go.

First off, my ex-husband got engaged. Which is just fine, but odd. It kind of feels like he's doing a remake of our life and I've been recast as a brunette with huge boobs.

Weird.

Secondly, my ex-boyfriend (no one ever mentioned in this blog) who broke up with me because I was 10 years older is now dating an older woman. But she doesn’t have kids. She has a dog.

Lovely.

Thirdly,a guy who I had not only amazing relationship potential with but who I could actually envision becoming my best friend (which is the fairytale everyone is seeking) is MIA and busy snowmobiling. I am trying to forget he exists. That is working about 80% of the time . . . alright, up that stat to 95%. I don't want to make myself sound like a pining woos. (Okay, maybe it's 92.5%...)

Last but not least, I think George Clooney just wrote to me on Match.com. But of course, he's slightly psycho.

Those celebs usually are.

On an up note, I’m making some great progress on my novel and am highly considering developing an allergy to dating until I finish that baby on or around June 1st.

If I do that, I have no idea what will happen to Dating Land.

Maybe I’ll just have to write about Naomi . . . she’s got more material than a fabric store going out of business.

We'll see . . .
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Private Message to Team Anders:
My blog is about relationships. But no relationship is more precious than the love we have for our children. Dating Land's theme is dating . . . but behind the scenes is a real life, with real love, that comes in many many forms.

Endless thoughts and prayers over the years and miles to you and your family my dear friend . . .
~Audra

Just Hanging out in the Sahara

"So, about the blog lately," Naomi announces one day. I sense a topic suggestion coming. With an English degree, and BBF status, Naomi is the default Dating Land editor. And she takes it seriously. (I wonder if she's noticed yet that I don't pay her?)

"And?"

"And . . . call me crazy but I think Dating Land needs to go on a, oh I dunno, date? I'm down with the Santa story and the locked door but let's go, already. You've sat around on your single arse long enough. Dating Land is in a dry spell."

"Arse? Are you Irish?" I sarcastically counter.

"Don't change the subject."

"First of all it's not a dry spell if it's self inflicted. Secondly, you know I wait a month or two before deciding on what material to use. I can't write about what's going on in the present. I'd be psycho writer dating pariah if I typed up my personal life in real time and put it on the internet. Gawd woman. I'm not going to make the guys I date into sacraficial lambs for the sake of my writing."

"What are you talking about? What "guys you date?" You've barely left your house in a month!" A more pathetic truth was never spoken.

"Hey," I protest, "I go to the grocery store. And . . the gym."

"Oh boy. The gym. It'd more exciting if you knew someone named Jim. What about that Johnny Depp guy you met? Mr. Baseball."

"Him? Must we bring that lunch meeting up?" Leave it to Naomi, the woman with a boyfriend, to categorize a rebound moment as a real date. "I treated that whole thing like a business meeting." I roll my eyes to no one but myself. "I am sure he thinks I am a weirdo the way I rambled on and on and interviewed him so coldly. Argh," I sigh in frustration, "that was just humiliating quite honestly. I wasn't over you know who. I should not have even gone."

"Yeah, well, you are a weirdo but in a good way, usually. As for that decision, little Miss Sabotage, rebounds usually result in casual sex. I'm not sure what you were doing that day. I don't know if qualifies as rebounding, because you certainly didn't get laid."

"Really? You can tie lunch to sex? Really?"

"I'm talented."

"You're ridiculous."

"I'm ridiculous? I'm not the one who blew the date with Mr. Baseball who lookes like a celebrity. Didn't you say he cooks?"

"Yep."

"Damn. Looks like People magazine's Sexiest man alive and a chef? Wow. You should get a medal for messing that one up."

"You know, we didn't have much in common. He doesn't read. Well, he can read, he just doesn't read. I can't date someone who doesn't read."

"Are you looking for companionship or starting a book club?"

"Bite me."

"Okay, forget I suggested this. Your dating life is deader than your grandma's libido," she finally surrenders.

"Ew, if my grandma has a libido I don't want to know. Besides," I counter in defense, "part of being single is NOT dating. Sometimes it's the healthier choice to just spend some time alone."

"True. But if you keep this up, you're going to have to change the name of your blog to Creeply Old Cat Lady Land. You do realize.

"Hey, I like my cats."

"My point. Exactly."

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

Merry Christmas everyone! My plans for the holidays include overdosing on snowman shaped frosted cookies, pretzels dipped in sugar, and sitting in a recliner at my parents' farm watching waaaaaaaaaaay too much Pay Per View. It does NOT, and I repeat NOT, include anything that remotely resembles dating.

Hmmmm. . . . maybe I should start saving up for cat litter now . . .?

~Audra

Alright. Who Locked This Door?!?!?!

“Mom, I can’t open the bathroom door,” my teen daughter nonchalantly informs me late one night.

“Oh for cripe’s sake.” I march to the door wondering at what point I turned into my own crabby mother. I once made the mistake of disciplining one of my children while standing in front of a mirror. There was my own mom, harping away. Wait a second. That’s me. Oh my gawd.

It’s true what they say, our children are our parents revenge. In fact, right after giving birth to my first child I called my mother not only to announce the news I’d just turned her into a grandma before she’d hit menopause but to apologize for the torturous experience of my own birth. She appreciated the sentiments, even if it was twenty one years after that hot July day in 1972 when I started screaming the moment only my head was delivered. She had to listen to my yelling for another twenty minutes while she labored to get the rest of me out of her.

(Sorry, Mom. What can I say? I’ve been emotional from the first second my lungs sucked air. Some things never change.)

I push on the bathroom door. Hmmm. I push harder. Throw a little shoulder into it this time. Nada. What the? What happened? Why the flip is this door locked? From the inside?

I interrogate my offspring. Of course, no one knows anything. I consider Chinese water torture but just surrender to the fact my kids may end up CIA agents someday the way they guard interrogating information. Gremlins apparently slunk their way into our neighborhood with the sole purpose of sabotaging our morning showers.

Fine. Whatever.

I live in an older character home and this particular door has a deadbolt that must be turned with some effort in order to secure the lock. How the hell the deadbolt ended up bolted is slightly mysterious. Hmmm, poltergeist? Who should I call? Locksmith or priest?

It’s pretty late by the time the mysterious bathroom ghost has pulled this prank so I decide not to call anyone and just tackle this baby myself before certifying my damsel in distress status. How hard can this be?

I find my toolbox in the basement, and yes, I own a toolbox. I assess the situation and settle on a needle nosed pliers. I can clearly see the back of the deadbolt through a small hole in the door. That’s gotta be it. One hour of grunting, groaning, slipping and sliding later, I am no further. (And yes, normally activities of this nature would fall into the fun things to do after midnight category, but not in this case.)

In this time all I’ve succeeded in doing so far is to remove the doorknob. That did nothing. Yes, I realize. But in a moment of desperation I decided to unscrew every screw I saw. Which was, I know, completely pointless.

Now my locked door has no doorknob. Yay.

At 1:00am I admit defeat and go to bed.

I have nightmares about having to spend the rest of my life showering at the truck stop down the road.

In the morning I make the damn call to the locksmith. He shows up. Takes one look at the door. Grabs MY tool and proceeds to do precisely what I’d spent hours the night before doing.

Four nanoseconds later he turns the bolt and unlocks the door.

Are you flipping kidding me?

I could have fixed this on my own? All I was missing was testosterone?

Fifty five dollars later I’m back in my bathroom and just irritated that I needed to call a man to do this. I was smart enough to figure out what needed to be done and how to do it. But in the end the only thing that inhibited my success was brute strength? Argh.

Well, that experience was a metaphor for a lot of things. There is something within all of us that tells us that if we can’t do something alone then we’re weak. Independence epitomizes success. That if we need help, we’ve failed.

I’ve had three friends call me this week because relationships have ended, and not all women either. One was a guy. But the feelings were all the same.

Hopefully, my shoulder and advice was helpful. I think it was, for they all thanked me for listening and sharing my wisdom.

I guess I just kind of hope that for them, I was their locksmith. I didn’t bring any special tools or new ideas. I just brought a little strength that I’ve picked up along the way.

And hopefully? Well, I hope my words were just the keys they needed.

To unlock a few doors of their own.
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No offense, Mom...you had your crabby moments but overall you were pretty fun! :-)

Why Drunk Dialing is Always a Bad Idea or "Sure. If you want to be a psycho, go right ahead."

“Don’t call him.”

“I’m not going to!”

“Don’t text him.”

“I do not plan on it.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I!”

Two days later . . .

“I called him.”

“I knew it.”

The preceding exchange is one that has played out several times in my life. Although I’ve been on both sides of the dialogue. I’ve been the one harping my girlfriend NOT to call that jerk again. And, I’ve been the one being coached into silent power post-heartbreak.

Like warriors in battle, we hold each other up and cheer each other on.

I honestly have to say, I am pretty good at the letting go. I’m forever the romantic so the writer in me has a pretty consistent pattern that includes at least one obligatory and well written “woe is me email” a day or two after a breakup. But after that, I can pretty much put that puppy to bed and get on with my life, self-respect intact. Besides, I’ve tried the “pining and “groveling” hats on and they just aren’t flattering. I look much better in “independent” and “good bye loser.”

Some of my other friends? Yeah, they wrote the book on drunk dialing your dignity away. And I am talking about women pushing fifty. Seriously.

But the need to be loved is eternal and doesn’t expire when menopause hits.

Just this past weekend a good friend ended a long term relationship. And then. She proceeded to get.

What else? Completely smashed.

“Sharon,” one of the women in our post-break up platoon ordered her at the end of the night, “Now don’t call Brad. If you do . . . I am going to cut off . . . your left labia.”

After I finally quit laughing hysterically, I soberly underscore, “Now that is a pretty serious threat, Sharon.” And point out the logical consequence, “because what is your next boyfriend going to say?”

I deepen my voice and clear my throat. “So Sharon. I see you’re missing your left labia?”

“Ah yes,” I raise my voice a couple octaves and do my best Sharon impression, “the result of an unfortunate drunk dial late last year.”

Awkward.

My friends and I collapse into girlish giggles, but the point is that silence is serious. It’s no laughing matter.

When a guy is being a terd, I don’t care how terrific he was last Tuesday or how wonderful he was last week. The now is what matters. And if now he is more absent than a classroom of second graders with the swine flu then just let him be. Good gawd.

Don’t call him.

Don’t text him.

Don’t send him a smoke signal.

Silence is power.

Breaking it.

Is psycho.

Because you know what? If his idiot attack is temporary?

Then he’ll come back on his own terms.

And if he does.

Do you really want to have to explain . . .

. . . how you lost your left labia?

I didn’t think so.

All I Want for Christmas

I took my little girl to see Santa last weekend. And as the line of parents and toddlers snaked its way toward the jolly old elf, it struck me that this may very well be the last time I make this obligatory parental Christmas trek to the mall.

She’ll be nine next Christmas.

And so, the idea of Santa Claus, at least the innocent belief that he truly does exist in the capacity I’ve taught her that he does, is something she will more than likely outgrow by the time the calendar reads December 25th again. This milestone strikes me out of the blue as I’m standing in line and realize that my child is a lot taller than many of the other children here to see St. Nicolas.

I embrace this precious moment before it melts like the fleeting snow and kneel down so I can enthusiastically whisper with her about what she is going to ask Santa Claus for this year. Her eyes and goofy little personality (where’d she inherit that from?) are shiny with anticipation as she lists out the toys and items she has on her Christmas list this year: a purse, Jonas Brothers boots, an American Girl doll, and maybe . . . a convertible?

“I think we can probably scratch the convertible, kiddo.” I tickle her tummy and she laughs at her own little joke.

My normally impatient child is the epitome of serene as the line slowly inches toward the elf on his throne. We watch enthralled as wide-eyed little girls and boys in their Christmas best are deposited on Santa’s lap and artfully tricked by the photographer to transform their awe, or terror, into smiles.

Soon, it’s her turn. She jumps onto Santa’s knee and all of her wishes spill out as she twists her hands and dutifully recites her Christmas list. I stand to the side and try not to be sad mommy mourning a milestone and instead just enjoy the sweet innocence of the moment, for the present is where life resides.

And right now. Its adorable.

When she finishes, we snap a photo too. Her wide smile needs no prompting.

As we say our farewells to Santa, she stops and announces, “Oh, Mommy, I forgot to ask Santa for something really important!” She rushes back and proclaims for all to hear, “Santa! One more thing. Can you please, please, please bring my mom a nice boyfriend? The ones she finds always make her cry.”

I laugh awkwardly. I know her intentions are so loving but I am embarrassed by all the other parents who just heard what she said. I feel like white trash single dating mom all the sudden. I make great efforts to insulate my children from my dating life but I am just human. And sometimes? Well, they have seen my pain.

I try to brush off the comment and gracefully usher her to the exit as I smile awkwardly and mumble meagerly in an effort to retain some level of dignity in front of all these strangers, “Oh, that’s not necessary. Mommy doesn’t need a boyfriend, she’s just fine, come on, sweetie . . .”

But before I can take more than one step, the kindly old man in the deep red velvet Santa suit gently takes me by the elbow and smiles warmly. His eyes shine as he pulls me close enough to see that yes, his beard is real, his voice a hushed whisper, “Its okay to ask for love for Christmas you know. It is actually my favorite gift to give.”

He looks up at my speechless expression, releases my arm, and promises with a wink and a grin, “I will see about the boyfriend.”

And I know it's so weird because this is just some old man at the mall in a rented red suit but I feel a warmth come over me that is just plain comforting. Like I just got a hug from my Grandpa.

I am no longer embarrassed.

"Thanks ..." I whisper back.

As my daughter and I leave the crowded mall hand in hand I think about that crazy old guy and what just happened and smile to myself.

For I realize. Well, Santa may not be real.

But love is.

And he was right. Looking for it.

Is not anything to be ashamed of.
*********************************************

But if you do bring me a boyfriend on Christmas, Santa? Please make sure he’s wearing more than just a bow. As much as I would enjoy that . . .

I do have children to consider.

Life

No mistakes . . . just lessons.

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Two girlfriends had break ups today . . . so I made break up brownies, and break up tacos, and we drank break up wine.

Check back on Monday, Dating Land fans . . . because I do have a story.

Muah!
Love,
Audra

P.S. Nick was spotted with a woman at the mall buying a whip. Yes. A whip. Excuse me while I hurl . . .

Dear Marilyn . . . I get it.

The truth is I've never fooled anyone. I've let people fool themselves. They didn't bother to find out who and what I was. Instead they would invent a character for me. I wouldn't argue with them. They were obviously loving somebody I wasn't.

~ Marilyn Monroe

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A new story starts on Monday, readers.

Thanks for reading!

~Audra