Dating is Weird

One of my newly divorced friends recently posted on her Facebook status this simple truth:

Dating is weird.

Ya think? No kidding, it’s weird. I mean really, what other human interaction do you have where you have to make witty conversation with a complete stranger over a steak all the while trying to discern if you ever want to see them naked?

That is like the weirdest thing you can subject yourself to as a human being. I am convinced.

The other part of it that’s so weird is that everyone tells you that in order to be really good at it you should stop trying. “It will happen when you least expect it,” they tell you with pity coated assurance.

What? Like a speeding ticket? Or a plantars wart? I never expected those. Other than a winning lottery ticket most surprises aren’t necessarily positive, people.

And finally, how weird is it that the single most important aspect of our human experience, love, is not to be sought after and pursued but instead, waited for. Everyone encourages you to not put effort into finding it. That is just odd, because everything else in life that’s worth achieving, from losing weight to getting a promotion, requires some effort. You can’t just sit around waiting for the magical hot ass fairy to transform your bumper. It’s called a stair stepper. If you want to do well in your career you aren’t just going to trip over a corner office and a secretary. It’s called hard work.

But apparently when it comes to love that’s more like waiting for a lightening strike and there is nothing you can do about it.

So yep. Dating is weird alright.

It’s an odd ritual usually involving awkward dinner conversation with a complete stranger. On top of that, it’s a thinly veiled activity geared toward a goal that you should not activity seek out but instead sit around and wait for, the odds of which seem to be similar to that of anticipating a rogue meteor crashing into your bathroom while you’re singing a U2 song. In the shower. On a Tuesday morning.

And frankly?

I am not sure.

You can get much weirder than that.

The Dating Land Mail Bag

Every once in a while, I feel it necessary to put my fans in the spotlight. After all, the deluge of emails I get do help to fuel the solitary existence of my writing.

It’s really quite odd to me sometimes to actually comprehend how many people do read this thing. But more than that, it never ceases to amaze me how many people relate to what I write. Ever since the “I caught my boyfriend on a date with another woman at Granite City” story I get a lot of letters from people (men and women) who’ve just gone through a break up of their own. The stories and circumstances are varied, but the heartbreak?

It’s all the same.

Some of the letters I receive epitomize the power of a positive attitude and the ability to move forward and heal, such as this one:

I am thankful for the season of laughter with him and I must move forward. Tonight I am strong. Tomorrow I will be strong. I won't stop looking for love. I am one of God's beautiful daughters. I will be cherished and loved.

(This letter choked me up. What a positive outlook. These words were from a woman whose husband insisted they move across the country for his job, and once they were settled he announced he’d been having an affair for years and was leaving her.)

But some other letters? Well, they take a little different approach:

My ex boyfriend would be less of a sore spot if I were capable of developing feelings for anyone else. I don't know why I can't - I've got a veritable forest of d*ck at my disposal, so it's not like my options are all that limited, I'm just totally, wholeheartedly apathetic. Oh, and closed off.

(Oh trust me, I laughed so hard at the forest analogy I almost choked! But truly, with sarcasm like that as a life preserver? I think she’s going to be just fine!)

And some, well? They’re just brutally honest:

I just got done reading your most recent post on Dating Land, and I want to say, it really got me thinking. It also made me cry a bit because it reminded me of my life. I too, have had guys in my life lately who have made me cry. However, I have been really trying hard to be strong. I've told myself I don't "need a boyfriend" and that I should be strong and independent, etc. But your post reassured me that wanting love in my life is "nothing to be ashamed of." I also love that quote you put in one of your previous posts... "No guy is worth crying over, because the one who is won't make you cry." However, as you put it, I am human, and sometimes the pain just comes out despite my efforts to prevent it. Then I just can't stop the tears. Anyway, I wanted you to know I'm reading your posts, and am definitely getting something out of them, as I can really relate to your situation.

And so . . . thanks for reading, and thanks for writing. I’ll continue to document life’s journey and hopefully the connection that my writing provides makes everyone out there feel a little less alone in their very human experiences.

In truth, I think that anyone currently in their own version of Dating Land is any one of the above depending on the day. Sometimes positive and strong, sometimes apathetic and closed off, and sometimes just surrending to the reality that it can be overwhelming and even sad.

But wherever you are today on the journey, I do still want to perpetuate one perspective and that is this one:

Everyone deserves.

To be cherished.

And loved.

And that includes.

You.

I know, it's Thursday . . .

. . . but I have this thing called "a job" :-) And it's been a GREAT WEEK at said job, but consequently, also extremely busy. I'll have a blog post for you tomorrow, Dating Land Fans.

I will tell you this though . . . this town is just too small. An acquaintance nonchalantly mentioned Nick in conversation yesterday and I had to learn that the girl I caught him on the date with in August: he is still dating.

That yucky feeling called "rejection" bubbled up and of course thoughts like, "Why wasn't I good enough?" surprisingly surfaced. I think that's just called "being human" so I am not going to worry too much about it.

I think everyone feels like that sometimes so if you have ever felt that too, all I am going to say is:

I understand.


~Audra
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UPDATE: About that Friday post, NOT happening. Be back on Monday folks!

Back to the Future

It isn’t 1989 anymore.

“You know, you used to look like Madonna. Now? You look like Hannah Montana.”

This was my old high school boyfriend’s observation of my aging process when he friended me on Facebook after not seeing my face in over 20 years. (Apparently one set of blonde hair extensions later and I’m Miley Cyrus.)

I squint at the screen, assess his crow’s feet and thinning hair and refrain from typing back, “Yeah, well, you used to look like Rob Lowe. Now? I can’t even make a celebrity comparison.”

I’m not really sure where my youth went or that I ever want it back. For one, every woman who survived high school in the 1980’s looks better now than back when her dry permed disaster of a hairstyle was big enough to have its own zip code. And thanks to Brook Shields, who is the only woman on earth who looks good with bushy eyebrows, the rest of us only ended up looking like Bert without Ernie.

Era of bad fads and fashions aside, I’m also happy it’s not the 80’s anymore because now I’m a grown up. I know things.

At least I like to think I do.

This week I had to fly to Tampa for work and coincidentally, one of my best friends from high school lives in the area. We connected on Facebook (she used to look like a Poison rocker chick. Now? She’s a funky taller version of Reese Witherspoon) and decided to catch up while I was in town.

Her name is Kaylee and I would have died without her my freshman and sophomore years of high school. We lived, literally, in the The Middle of Nowhere, USA. Our only proof there was a world outside of our rural hostage situation was Mtv’s Top Ten Video Countdown, our after school salvation. Oh, and the 1980’s version of American Bandstand: Dance Party USA. Kelly Rippa actually got her start there, back in 1988 when her hair, and ass, were a lot bigger. (Seriously, she was a chubber. Believe it)

Kaylee was a year older than me in high school and I literally hadn’t seen her since she graduated in 1989. So when her shiny sporty car pulled up to my hotel on Sunday, I chuckled to myself as I remembered the numerous times she used to pick me up on a Saturday night back in high school. Once in a while, her sister would even let her drive her maroon Firebird. We’d crank up a little Poison and fly down the country highway to the next town where we’d cruise main for hours and try to lure cute boys into our orbit with our seductive mall bang frizz and come hither uni-brows.

Now, it’s twenty one years later and our reunion is one of hugs, laughter, and a lot better hair.

“I made a cd to commemorate the day!” Kaylee announces. She tosses me the case and I giggle as I read the list of songs: ACDC, Poison, and a little Beastie Boys.

Sunroof open and Brett Michaels blaring, the years between then and now fly into the happy Florida sunshine.

We chat effortless and catch up on each other’s families and careers. She is fascinated by my divorce. I am in awe of her marriage. We gossip about old friends, take pictures in the Gulf Coast surf and drink cocktails in the sunshine.

And all the while, I feel my soul recognize its place next to my old/new friend.

“Remember that Bon Jovi poster you had?”

“Sure do. I kissed it every night to the point my spit started warping his face.”

“Hey, didn't we make up actions to this Beastie Boys song?”

“We did! I completely forgot about that!”

"And guess what? I think I remember them!"

“I can’t believe how boy crazy we were.”

“Hey, I’m still boy crazy.”

“Ya think?!!?"

Time has marched on, shook us up, and spit us out in different places with different lives. But it has not robbed us of our memories of one another.

My afternoon with Kaylee was a trip.

Literally.

Because for one day in the sun?

It was 1989 again.
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Thanks for the time traveling, "Kaylee." Miss you already! Let's not wait another 20 years to see each other. If we do? I'll be pushing 60 . . . and by then? Yeah, well, I can't guarantee that the uni-brow won't make a come back . . .

1985 ~ Bowling for Soup

She’s seen all the classics
She knows every line
Breakfast Club, Pretty in Pink
Even Saint Elmo’s Fire
She rocked out to Wham
Not a big Limp Bizkit fan
Thought she’d get a hand
On a member of Duran Duran

Where’s the mini-skirt made of snake skin
And who’s the other guy that's singing in Van Halen
When did reality become T.V.
Whatever happened to sitcoms, game shows
(on the radio was)

Springsteen, Madonna
Way before Nirvana
There was U2 and Blondie
And music still on MTV
Her two kids in high school
They tell her that she’s uncool
Cause she's still preoccupied
With 19, 19, 1985

She hates time make it stop
When did Motley Crue become classic rock?
And when did Ozzy become an actor?
Please make this stop
Stop!
And bring back

Springsteen, Madonna
Way before Nirvana
There was U2 and Blondie
And music still on MTV
Her two kids in high school
They tell her that she’s uncool
Cause she's still preoccupied
With 1985

Greetings from the Tropics!

Well, not really the tropics . . . Tampa, but trust me, by comparison to the Tundra I just left, this is paradise!

On a business trip and I'll have to catch up with the blog a day later. Sorry, readers, but tune in Tuesday instead of Monday this week. I had a little flashback to 1987 today. When Trans Ams with T-Tops were cool, hair was huge, and Music Television played what it promised it would.

Stay Gold, Pony Boy.

I'll be back tomorrow!

Audra

The Little Girl in the Attic

Miep Gies died this week at the age of 99.

She was but a humble secretary in Germany, a very simple woman. A woman who in her 30's went to work every day like many of us do. Whose days may have seemed as mundane as our own filled with tasks and to do lists.

And then life did what life does. It changed unexpectedly. Circumstances that Miep had no control over crashed into her life and altered reality into an unrecognizeable state.

World War II.

And Miep continued on, doing what she had to do every day. Although what that looked like changed significantly when the Jewish man she worked for, Otto Frank, asked her to help him hide his family and four others in the attic of the office building where she worked.

For more than two years, Miep sheltered the Franks.

She did what she had to do.

Today, my dear readers, I know many of you are facing your own struggles and adversity. So my advice to you is to simply remember Miep, and do what you have to do. As the look and feel of your daily tasks change, stay the course. Your simple devotion to the task at hand has the potential to resonate in ways yet to be seen.


A testament to that simple truth are the words of one little girl who changed the world with her innocent honesty and wise truths. She was able to write them, and we are able to read them, because Miep simply did what she had to do. She bought the groceries. Ran the errands. And ultimately, saved those words.

I simply can't build up my hopes on a foundation consiting of confusion, misery and death. I see the world gradually being turned into a wilderness. I hear the ever approaching thunder, which will destroy us too. I can feel the sufferings of millions and yet if I look up into the heavens, I think that it will all come right, that this cruelty too will end. In the meantime, I must uphold my ideals for perhaps the time will come when I shall be able to carry them out!

Anne Frank - July 13, 1944


You did carry those ideals out, Anne.

And we owe it all to Miep and her ability.

To carry on.
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Every once in a while "Dating Land" will deviate from the humorous twists of life, because sometimes....life just isn't funny. This entry today is for some dear friends of mine facing some tough struggles. Stay the course. Buy the groceries. Care for your children. Take care of daily life. Those insignificant things matter more than you will ever realize . . . God bless. And carry on. ~Audra

What's the Name of the Game?

If I’m having a down day, this Green Day/Weezer/Off Spring fan will chuck her alternative/I’m cooler than an arctic glacier playlist out her sunroof and crank up a little ABBA. So if you see a blonde weirdo cruising around town in a black Altima belting the lyrics to “Dancing Queen” or “Take a Chance on Me” behind tinted glass windows? Yeah. That would be me.

Recently, the lyrics to another ABBA tune caught my ear:

What’s the name of the game? Does it mean anything to you?

Interesting. These lyrics were written when I was still in Pampers. Looks like the only thing that’s gone out of style are plaid bell bottoms and avacado appliances. Human nature seems to be still singing the same old confusing song.

Games.

And I am not talking about a good old round of monopoly with Uncle Chuck on Thanksgiving. I’m talking about the kind of games people play in this eternally confusing place that is Dating Land.

There are unwritten rules, codes of conduct, and hidden agendas that are enough to make me want to become an asexual amoeba and just throw in the proverbial towel. I am going on year three of singledom and I am probably more clueless than I was when I first said “I don’t” (got a divorce).

The biggest game that I, personally, just don’t understand is this perpetual need that most men have to string numerous women along at one time. One of my guy friends just confessed to flirting/texting/emailing/coffee-ing and simultaneously canoodling with four women.

Yes, I just said four.

When I asked him if he thought this harem approach to life was normal, he assured me that yes, it absolutely is.

Really?

It sounds more like a part time job.

I wonder if he ever gets them mixed up? Accidentally emails Amy and calls her Angela? Maybe texts Barbara but mistakenly called her Bonnie? Forgot he already told that same funny story to Angela on Tuesday when he meant to tell it to Barbara on Wednesday?

I bet when he was a kid he stood at the candy aisle endlessly trying to decide between a candy bar, lollipop or a pack of gum. Oh wait a second, the taffy looks tempting. What to do . . . what to do. I am sure that little twit stuffed them all in his pocket, snuck into the store bathroom and sampled them all. And then when he still couldn’t decide, he bought them, took them home to his bedroom where he took alternate bites of each one until they were gone. Never really deciding which one he liked best but finishing them all off just the same.

I’m a Hershey bar.

I freaking knew it.

Well this is one game I am not signing up for. First of all, when it comes to dating I do not have ADD and I think that is a good thing. If I spend a couple weeks talking to a guy and getting to know him then he can trust that I am not perpetuating the same level of dialogue or attention with four other dudes.

I look at it this way.

Some day. I am going to meet “the one.” And when I do, I want it to be a good story. I want to be interviewed on my 50th wedding anniversary and say, “When Bobby and I met, we were crazy about each other.”

I don’t want to say, “Well, when Bobby came along I had hard time juggling my time with him as I was also seeing Tom, Dick and Harry.”

You know what the grandkids would say to that?

Yeah, one guess.

Grandma was a whore.

That’s what they’d say to that.

So, okay, Bobby, wherever you are. When we do find each other? I can promise you one thing.

My only rule is that we give each other our full attention and just see where it goes.

Because I’ll promise you one thing. Any grandchildren we may have someday are going to be awfully proud of their Grandma. Because the only game she’s going to be really good at?

Is Monopoly on Thanksgiving with Uncle Chuck.

Because Granny's got a hotel on Park Place, baby.

Pay up.

I got nothin'

Okay, I do have something but it's not done yet! I'm skipping today, tune in on Monday.

(Shut up, Naomi!)

;-)

Audra

Strippers and Cinderella Stories

Artists, of all kinds, are truly tortured souls. We feel not only a sense of obligation to all humanity to use our gift to document our journey, but also experience a drive to create that is so intense it is practically involuntary.

Like breathing.

The purpose of my blog is multi-faceted. Yes, I write because I feel compelled to do so, and yes I blog because it’s somewhere that I can experience instant self-publication gratification. But it’s also a writing career necessity.

Take this story for example:

Diablo Cody was actually working as a stripper in Minneapolis and blogging about the vulgar and ridiculous adventures this “it pays the bills” stint created. Her humorous writing style caught the eye of a movie producer who happened to be, ah hem, surfing porn one cold and lonely internet night. He stumbled upon Cody’s blog and was so engaged by her wit and literary voice that he emailed her and asked her if she had anything else.

Her answer?

Yes. She'd actually just spent the winter sitting in the corner of a Starbucks at a Target store down the street from her apartment hammering out a story on her unreliable laptop.

The producer loved it and the rest is Academy Award history.

Cody's story won an Oscar for best original screenplay in 2007:

Juno

A fairy tale ending made possible because of one writer's determination to "put it out there."

To blog.

To write.

To breathe.

Does that mean I have a gold statue in my future? Who knows, but you can’t live it if you don’t dream it first.

So, here’s an excerpt from my novel, Dating Land fans. I am slowly chiseling away at it chapter by chapter. The blog is taking somewhat of a hit because of it, I completely confess, so instead of making excuses about how pathetic my dating life is and whining about my dry spell, I’ll give you a glimpse into something that I’ve actually been putting a lot of energy into.

(As always, thanks for reading . . . and yes, if someday Reese Witherspoon is up there getting a little gold bald man statue for playing a character based on moi, you are all SO invited to the after party!)

~Audra

Dating Land; The Novel

I have been divorced for all of two years so I am just now starting to figure out how to navigate this eternally confusing social scene. There are rules and guidelines and a whole butt load of things that I know nothing about, considering the last time I dated Kurt Cobain was still alive. Computers existed but they didn’t fit on anyone’s lap, at least not comfortably. Now, technology plays such a vital role in dating that I am oftentimes more lost than an Eskimo at the beach. For example, it took me a few go rounds before I realized that if I texted a guy and he didn’t text back immediately that that doesn’t warrant a panic attack, it may mean he just got a phone call from his aunt Debra. Now, twenty four hours later and still no reply? That’s code for “go away I do not like you and do not have the balls to actually tell you that in person. Read my silence.”

Honestly, there should be some kind of re-introductory program for people like me looking to date again after being married for so many years: “Dating Rules for the Desperate and Divorced.” Perhaps something modeled after the program inmates use when completing a significant jail term. Instead of, “So, Bobby Joe, since you went into the slammer in 1970 a lot has changed. This is a microwave and this is a dvd player,” my version would be “So, Audra Kutz, since you quit the single scene you no longer need to be home to take a phone call but you also need to learn how to text witty, charming, and “sexy without being slutty” messages in 160 characters or less while operating a motor vehicle, which is technically not safe but sometimes vital in certain dating scenarios.”

Sigh.

It’s enough to make me want to switch places with a reformed criminal. I mean really, how intimidating can a microwave be?