Life Ain't Always Beautiful

A girlfriend of mine said goodbye today.

Not only to a relationship but to a dream. Her relationship with her boyfriend of several years ended after months of unraveling.

It’s over.

They didn’t share an address but after two years together, they didn’t just entwine their hearts but their possessions too. Tonight, she went to his place to gather them up.

And take them home.

I came to her house to help her unload her hopes and dreams.

The night is cold and the deep snow surrounds her driveway like a fortress. We work silently.

The only sound is occasional sniffing.

Clothing and coats. Movies and books. Stemware and silverware. Mundane items that over the course of several months migrated from her house to his. She grabs a bag of shoes. I wrestle with a suitcase of cement.

Bump.

Bump.

Bump.

I pull the weighty cargo up the steps.

Heartbreak is heavy.

When all of it is piled safely in her house in scattered disarray we lean against the kitchen counter and say little. Her nose is red.

“Have a glass of wine. Get some sleep,” I say as I hug the fragile shoulders that sag under the weight of this newly defined reality.

“I will,” she whispers, “I will.”

I hesitantly leave to go back home to my children. I hate to, but I don’t have a choice. "Call me later, honey."

“Thank you, Audra,” she says in a small voice as I start down the stairs to the back door, looking over my shoulder one last time. I try to stay strong but it's too much. My tears betray me.

Because there is my dear, beautiful, funny, and intelligent friend.

Crying in her kitchen.

With bags and boxes of a lost future.

Piled at her feet.
*********************************************************

Life ain't always beautiful
Sometimes it's just plain hard
Life can knock you down, it can break your heart

Life ain't always beautiful
You think you're on your way
And it's just a dead end road at the end of the day

But the struggle makes you stronger
And the changes make you wise
And happiness has it's own way of takin' it sweet time

No,life aint always beautiful
Tears will fall sometimes
Life aint always beautiful
But it's a beautiful ride

What a beautiful ride
~Lyrics by Gary Allan

Love you, my friend . . . ~Audra

Soul Mates and Cereal Aisles

About three weeks ago I had a momentary idiot attack and emailed a guy I dated this fall and asked if him if he would be opposed to having dinner. We honestly have stayed in touch sporadically and I really liked him. I figure . . . what have I got to lose?

After two weeks of nothing but the sound of crickets chirping in my inbox I figure the answer is no. I sigh. Accept the silence and pledge to move on.

But then, lo and behold, what have we here? A two week late totally tardy response.

He says sure, he’ll have dinner but it has to be platonic. Timing just isn’t the best.

For him.

I decide not to pry. And to retract my dinner invitation. I didn’t ask for a friendship dinner and I really don’t feel like auditioning for a part in a sequel when I was cast so easily the first time around. My gut feeling said, “This is a waste of energy.”

So I decide to be diplomatic and write back, “Glad you are doing well. Since I sent this invitation a few weeks ago a lot has changed in my life as well, so the timing isn’t the best for me either.”

I sign off wishing him well and figure I can put a bow on that one and forget it. He emails me back in half a nanosecond. Oh the beauty of a blackberry.

“What’s changed in your life that it isn’t the best timing?”

Ok, now I’m torked.

First off by the fact that he emails me back two seconds after I am suddenly and mysteriously unattainable. Secondly, I wasn’t nosy about his reasons so what gives him the right to ask me about mine?

So I respond with this:

“Oddly enough, I met my soul mate in the cereal aisle of Hornbacher’s last week and we’re eloping next Tuesday. I’m registered at Target. Feel free to send a gift.”

I figure my smart ass attack is justifiable. I am not demanding/inquiring to know what his reasons are for “not the best timing.” He could be in rehab. Have a raging STD. None of my beeswax.

And okay fine.

I confess that I really don’t want to know the name of Miss Not the Best Timing if she exists. Because that’s called rejection. And call me crazy but not one of my top ten favorite feelings to feel.

Unfortunately, he doesn't view my sarcasm as a closed door but an open one. He keeps emailing me back. Tells me I’m funny. That he misses talking to me every day. That no one he dates is as great as me. But again. He reiterates.

It’s just.

Not the best timing.

I feel like standing up and saying, “Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury, the defendant can provide no solid evidence as to why we should not be dating again . . .”

Long story short we have a little word war. But even that sucks me in deeper. I like men who are men, who can challenge me. Stand up for themselves. Match me and march with me in a verbal spar.

But I stay strong and don't agree to the olive branch of friendship over french fries he is offering. Doing so has the potential to make me the star of a a video montage with scenes of my life set to Katie Perry’s “Hot and Cold”.

So.

That’s that.

Our email battle did ultimately evolve into mutual understanding. And? An ending. He never expounded on his reasons and I didn’t ask.

But I do feel better. It wasn’t the answer I was looking for but it was an answer.

He’s just not that into me.

And I can live with that.

I just hope he can live with that STD and stint in rehab.

Poor guy.
******************************************
Hey Bobby . .. if you read this, I hope you laughed. Enjoy the Etch a Sketch. If you ever need someone talented enough to draw a heart on it . . . you know who to call.
~Audra

Bad Roads and a Blue Bra

My ex-husband got married this weekend. On Sunday. Valentine’s Day.

I had it all planned out.

I’d sing at church, then come back home and get my daughter’s all ready for the wedding, curl their hair, iron their clothes, and then send them off with their dad. Pretty, primped, and in good spirits for this next odd mismatched chapter in our family’s story.

Then my mom would come for a visit. She doesn’t live that far away but far enough in this tundra that she doesn’t like to brave the three hour drive on a regular basis from November to March. But she would come that afternoon. We’d go shopping. I’d be distracted for the six hours my daughters would be away and just enjoy some mother daughter bonding.

It was the perfect plan.

“I’m not coming,” she announces in my ear just twenty minutes before my ex-husband is due to arrive. I drop the curling iron in my hand onto the sink to free my other hand as I arrange the final curls in my little girl’s hair. “The roads are terrible and I’m not risking my life. I’m sorry.”

“But the sun is shining here,” I protest in a desperate attempt to get her to change her mind and salvage my sanity.

The answer is no. She isn’t coming.

Sigh.

My ex-husband arrives. I tell him that although I hope he lives happily ever after, just in case he doesn’t, that someday, someday . . .

If he ends up alone on Valentine’s Day you know what I’m going to do? I’m going to get married. In fact, even if I’m already married, I’m going to get married again.

He just smiles. He’s used to my sarcasm.

I tell him congratulations. And give him a hug.

And then send my girls out the door with him.

Deep breath.

Well? Even though my mom isn’t here I decide to stick to my shopping plan. I am well aware that all my friends are busy so I just go it alone. Twenty minutes later I’m milling around Vicky’s Secret debating between an innocent lacy little number or a leopard print unmentionable. I wander around some more and then I realize the irony.

My first Valentine’s Day without a Valentine since 1998. My ex-husband is getting married.

And I’m standing in a store with hearts everywhere and the word “Love” on half the articles of clothing.

Gawd.

This is like sending an alcoholic to Wine country for the weekend.

What.

Am.

I doing here?

Eventually, I end up back home. With a new blue bra in a bright pink bag.

And have a good cry in my recliner. Then I blow my nose. Get out of the chair. And decide to use my remaining time home alone to be as productive as possible.

So I vacuum my stairs. (There’s something incredibly therapeutic about the methodical and measurable sucking up of lint and cat hair.)

And eventually? My girls come back home. Full of wedding cake and stories of how gross it was when Dad and his new wife kissed during the ceremony.

“It was long and yucky,” they report.

I smile and listen to their retelling. Divorce with children is like that. Little innocent messengers that go back and forth between two worlds, blending the fragments of the family they once had.

And with that.

Valentine’s Day 2010.

Came to a freshly vaccuumed stairs/new blue bra/yucky kissing.

End.

Happy Valentine's Day

People will judge you.

People will misunderstand you.

People will never have lived one day in your shoes but they will be self proclaimed experts on the road you have walked.

People will hurt you.

People will call you names.

People will get a glimpse of you in one chapter of your life and claim to know the whole story.

Only God can judge you.

Only God will understand you.

Only God will walk right beside you.

Only God will heal you.

Only God knows your name.

Only God knows your story.

People will say they love you.

But only God.

Will never leave you.

***********************************
Today was a hard day and there is no way I would have made it through without my faith . . . God bless you all on your journey.
Love,
Audra

A Spit Swapping Situation

It's time to kiss and tell.

Well, maybe just the telling part. Because there wasn't any kissing. But there was a lot of spit swapped.

Here’s the scooparama:

About a month or so ago I ran into a girlfriend of a girlfriend of a girlfriend. I think this is just a couple levels above complete stranger but nevertheless I do recognize her face, know her name, and that she is divorced. Like me.

The fact that we both have ovaries and the same marital status puts us in the club, a place where that’s enough shared background for it to be acceptable to start with the mutual grilling of the love life status sixty seconds into the conversation.

We inquire with hushed whispers, “So, are you seeing anyone?”

She answers yes and tells me about her great boyfriend.

Of course, I answer with my standard, “Are you kidding me?”

She does what everyone does when I confess that the epitome of Saturday night excitement for me is getting all my laundry done.

“What? Why? You’re so fun and so pretty!”

Spoken like someone who hasn't seen me sans mascara or the Saturday before my period. “Yeah, and so not dating,” I tack on emphatically.

She proceeds to insist that I should date her boss. First of all, this town is smaller than a Lady GaGa leotard, I know her boss. He’s about 8 years older than me and our social circles do overlap. That is, when I feel like being social.

I laugh. “Please,” I explain, “I’ve talked to him several times; I don’t think he’s interested.”

She guffaws. And insists that I’m so, so wrong.

Four days later this self-appointed cubicle cupid works her magic because I get a text message from said boss asking me to meet him for a drink. Well, whatdayaknow, Idaho.

I agree and so we do, two days later. We have a fairly decent conversation and he must have thought so too because afterward he asks me to dinner that weekend and I figure why not.

And so Saturday night I put on some of my glittery overpriced eye shadow I reserve for emergency dating situations and head out for a steak. Another pretty good discussion ensues but the whole time I feel like I am trying too hard. I am only two dates in and I’m already exhausted by the effort and distracted by the fact that I have neglected laundry at home.

This is not a good sign.

Before the date ends we decide to stop for a drink.

We end up seated at the bar with a couple acquaintances of mine, one of whom I just learned the day before had dated this guy briefly last year. I wonder if this will be awkward?

Well, depends on who you ask because before you can say martini on the rocks I find myself being slowly wedged out of the conversation. Is this a Harry Potter flick? Did someone throw an invisibility cloak over my melon? Because my date and his old flame are soon leaning into one another giggling away over some inside joke about a dart board. Fine by me that I’m not in on the punch line, the only thing bothering me at this point is that I am sitting smack dab in the middle and all their mutual chuckling is launching spit into my eyeballs.

I excuse myself to no one in particular, escape the saliva shower, and head to the lady’s room where I can laugh out loud in the handicapped stall at this entire situation.

Only me.

Only me . . .

The good news is that was my last date with the girlfriend of my girlfriend’s girlfriend’s boss. And the gooder news is that after my acquaintance saw him with me that night they have since rekindled their flame. I’m sure right now those two are playing some hot and naughty game of darts somewhere across town and covering each other with their spitty little infatuation giggles.

More power to them. I am glad I could be of help.

Now I can go back to focusing on the much more important matter of my unmentionables.

My laundry.

Beckons.
***************************************
Truly, I am thrilled that those two are reconnecting. She is a sweeatheart and he is really an incredibly nice, nice guy. I am genuinely impressed by how God works and honored that I may have played a part in the rekindling of something special. If those two end up happily ever after, I am requesting two pieces of wedding cake at the reception for my role in this sweet fairy tale!
~Audra

"Dating Land" Retitled

I've been mulling this for a while and after a lot of thought I’ve decided to rebrand my blog.

Those of you who have followed me online for the past few years started with my first blog, Divorce Land. When I began blogging again I decided to continue the concept and rechristen my new blogging adventure: Dating Land.

Honestly?

That’s a great idea. In theory.

The truth is . . . I started Dating Land with a writing experiment. I used the blog as a place to write about a relationship that had just ended. Because I already knew the plot/conflict/characters I wanted to write the story in a “chapter” format. I basically wanted to see if I could compose a novella type story online and be successful since I had previously written self contained essays, not an ongoing story. Would I be able to attract readers? Retain them?

The resounding answer was yes.

People swarmed to “Dating Land” to read the story about Nick the firefighter. I was overwhelmed by the comments and emails I received and buoyed by the fact that I could write in a way that would hold people’s interest week after week and connect with readers chapter after chapter.

I have now transferred that energy to the novel I am working on and subsequently have been tossing around ideas about what to do with “Dating Land.”

Of course, everyone wants to be Carrie Bradshaw, but that isn’t realistic. Number one, my dating life just isn’t that interesting. Number two, if it were I certainly wouldn’t put it on the internet in real time. That would be, well, completely psycho. At least not without an alias (for myself).

I want to continue to blog because it is a great format that forces me to write on a regular basis. Plus, it showcases my writing style to potential editors. (Any editors out there wanna throw me a book deal the answer is YES!)

However, I no longer want the word “dating” in the title. Quite honestly, I am taking a conscious and decisive break from dating. Not only has it been a disappointing experience but it’s time consuming. And right now? I have two children who need me and a new job that I am extremely devoted to. Putting on mascara and leaving my house to eat a steak with a complete stranger doesn’t sound appealing at this precise moment in time.

And, I’ll also be quite vulnerable and honest on this topic as long as I am here:

The guy I dated after Nick this November was amazing and I fell hard. It didn’t work out but I miss him a lot. But I don’t want to put all those details on the internet. I want to be more respectful of myself and of him too. Plus, if I do start dating again, I am getting sick of that awkward confession that, “So, I am a writer and I have a blog on . . . um . . . dating.” thing. It’s just too hard to explain how that angle exists to attract readers and that I'm really not just throwing every little tidbit about my personal life on the internet when I meet someone new. It freaks men out and I don't blame them.

So . . . here's the deal: I’ll continue to write my funny little stories right here as always. But I’m going to explore numerous facets of life and it is not going to be solely about my dating ventures (or lack of). I’ve already been doing that if you’ve been reading regularly . . . I’ve written about a locked bathroom door, my visit with Santa, and even a great reunion with an old girlfriend. And I plan to continue that format. If I want to make the occasional commentary on love and dating, I absolutely will. But I’m not going to try to continue with a blog title that infers I write exclusively about dating topics, when I don't.

And so, my dear readers, I would be honored if you would continue to support my writing endeavors as I unveil my blog new title:

Chronicles of a Girl

Life will continue to be an adventure, I have no doubt. And I’ll continue to document those dynamic, insightful, truly hilarious, or sometimes just random moments.

Right here. As always.

Thanks for reading . Hope to see you back here every Monday and Thursday!

~Audra

Debauchery and Drunken Escapades

The email started so innocently.

“I know we hardly know each other but I really feel compelled to write.”

And then? It was all downhill from there.

The author wanted to know why I was such a hypocrite. How I could be so active in my church but at the same time write a blog about nothing but debauchery and drunken escapades.

I splatter my keyboard with the coffee I’d been drinking as I read this, wasting a perfectly good mouthful of Starbucks raspberry latte in the process.

Debauchery? Drunken escapades? Dude. What blog are you reading?

He went on to basically tell me that I need to have my soul saved. Of course, my initial reaction is to type back and tell him, “Oh yeah? Well you’re a weirdo and you look like Charles Manson.”

So of course I do.

(Restraint and discretion are so over rated.)

After that tit for tat attack I break down and Google debauchery. Because honestly? I don’t even know what it means. If I’m guilty of it I should probably know what it is.

Turns out it’s a whole lot of sex. With a whole lot of people.

What?!?!?!

The closest I’ve ever gotten to a ménage a toi was walking in on my college roommate and her boyfriend. I screamed. She screamed. Her boyfriend laughed. And then I ran to the bathroom to scrub my eye sockets out because her boyfriend looked like Shrek with his clothes on. You don't want to know what he looked like with them off.

I still have nightmares.

I scan my memory for any writing I could have done that could be construed into debauchery and I am seriously perplexed. My blog reads more like Celibate on the Farm than Sex in the City.

Unless I have repressed some vague memory of a weekend stripping in Las Vegas I am pretty darn sure I’ve never experienced anything close to debauchery. The only conclusion that I can come to is that in this conservative pocket of the country single is synonymous with scandalous. If you aren’t married, well, then you must be out every weekend in hot pursuit of as much debauchery as possible.

And in my case, putting said escapades on the internet.

Well, Charles Manson’s evil weirdo twin.

I got news for ya.

The blog is called Dating Land. I’m single. And on occasion? I go on a date. And on said date I may indulge in a glass of, gasp!, wine.

And unless that date turns into a full blown relationship, no one ends up naked at the end of the night. I go home to my boring house and my boring life and sit down at my boring laptop and write about what it’s like to be alone and how hopeful I am that maybe someday? I’ll find that one person to spend the rest of my life with.

And the last time I checked?

That’s not a sin.

But judging others.

Sure as hell is.

That Sparky Spark

I am now going to just write something so pathetically honest that everyone will outwardly gasp and exclaim, “How shallow!” while inwardly nodding in absolute agreement.

It’s okay. That’s what I always do too when people say this.

So here’s the deal.

When it comes to dating I’m really only looking for one thing.

That sparky spark.

That electrifying feeling that makes you feel like you just woke up from a long slumber, that life didn’t truly began until you discovered this person’s existence. Saw their face. Heard their voice. Someone you never get sick of talking to or hearing from, who even though you just met feels more familiar than your childhood home.

I know the technical term for what I just described is infatuation, but even finding that is not as easy as it sounds. And I should know. I’ve been single for three years. And I think I’ve been infatuated twice. Twice in three years? I catch a cold more often.

Trust me, I realize infatuation is not sustainable. It is merely the magic that love takes root inside of. Its as fragile as a bubble. Oftentimes, many relationships do not last long once it is crushed beneath the unromantic realities of life.

But it’s still important. It has the potential to be the start of something substantial. It can be that first chapter in a story that lasts the rest of your life.

So if I’m not “feeling it” with someone?

I call it off.

Call me shallow if you want to. I fully realize life is not all about butterflies and breathlessness. But you have to start somewhere.

And all I want?

Is to find that fire.

That starts.

With a spark.