It’s not always easy to come up with ideas for blog posts, so when a holiday like Thanksgiving rolls around, it’s like a freebie from the blogosphere, a no-brainer. You simply write a post about being thankful, even if everyone else is doing the same thing, and even if the holiday was four days ago.

So, while this blog has chronicled the assorted forms of emotional and financial devastation for which I am decidedly not thankful, I am also genuinely grateful for many things in my life.

Here we go:

• I’m thankful that I get to be the mom of two whip-smart, sensitive and stunning girls, and that the three of us are somehow finding our way. So what if the man of the house is now our pet betta fish, Bobby, who can’t even open a jar?

• I’m thankful for an ex who participates in a true 50-50 custody arrangement, something not all women in my position enjoy.
• I’m thankful for the Red Hook Ikea, which opened just when I needed the uplifting feeling that only decorating-on-a-Swedish-shoestring can bring.
• I’m crazy thankful for my devoted, supportive, smart, funny, loving and loyal bunch of friends–and some pretty cool family members as well.
• I’m thankful that, apparently, I am not too jaded to try this love thing again, and that such a creature as S exists.
• I’m thankful for the kick-ass sandwich I made with Thanksgiving leftovers that my ex-in-laws sent home with my kids.
• I’m thankful that, no matter what my future brings, I will never again have to live through the months spanning Fall 2007 through Summer 2009, A.D.

Oh, and one more thing: I’m very thankful that I got over my blog-aversion, read WordPress for Dummies, and created this blog, which I enjoy working on more than almost anything else I do all week. Mostly, I am thankful to you for reading it.

Here is a sentence I never thought I would write: I am in New Jersey sitting on the couch with my boyfriend, who is watching football.

The two words that leap out at me are boyfriend and football. (I was going to make a crack about New Jersey, but that’s so cliche at this point, plus it’s really not that funny. It’s just a place where people live–some of my favorite people, in fact, so I say let them live in peace.)

And I know I’ve already mentioned S-the-boyfriend, so maybe that’s old news. But I still find it kind of a bug-out that a) omg, I have a boyfriend; how did that happen?, and b) I can say it openly, especially given that, technically, I still have a husband.  I have a husband and a boyfriend! Look at how far we’ve come that I can say that on a public forum without fearing that I’m going to be burned at the stake or forced to parade around with a scarlet A on my chest. To add to the excitement, my husband has a girlfriend, whose husband has a girlfriend, etc. We are all so out-of-the-box evolved, aren’t we? Why, it’s just a matter of time before we’re all vacationing together on cruise ships for the amicably divorced.

But I digress–because what’s most remarkable here is the football thing. I know: Guy who watches football describes 97 percent of men in this country–yet I have never had a boyfriend who was into football. Nev. Er. I’ve had boyfriends who wore eye make-up and/or trendy hats, and I had a husband who watched the Superbowl–but he’s of the breed who is in it for the commercials and the snacks.

Not only is S into watching football in the can’t-miss way that some of us watch, oh, Mad Men, but, because he has a Y chromosome, he actually understands what’s going on. He insists that no, it’s not just a bunch of over-sized brutes running into each other and knocking each other down until they become brain-damaged. He talks about it as if it’s a chess game, using words like strategizing and premise and intelligent. Yet, try as I might, I cannot see anything but a bunch of big lugs randomly bumping into each other–and from an informal poll, it seems most women are equally perplexed by the appeal of this sport. Are there women who really get football? If you’re out there, please reveal yourselves. (And, btw, I don’t want to hear about how you like soccer, baseball, basketball or tennis. I’m only interested if you’re a woman who actively enjoys watching football and can explain why.)

Usually this is the point at which I reach a pithy, often touching conclusion, but I don’t have one for this post.  All I can say is that I don’t get football, but I do like sitting on a couch in New Jersey with a certain guy who does.

Being Mrs. Don Draper could turn anyone into a Mad Woman.

I’ve been toying with writing a Mad Men-inspired post for weeks, and now that the season finale has occurred (leaving so many of us questioning if life is worth living until the show resumes next summer), it’s time to get down to it. The show is so chock-full of marital woes that it would be irresponsible for me not to weigh in.

(Oh–here’s the part where I warn you that I will be revealing plot details–aka, “spoilers.” If that matters to you, stop reading, go back to whatever it was you were doing, and come back when you’re caught up.)

Cripes, could there be a more miserable portrayal of matrimony than the unions depicted on Mad Men? I mean, the writers won’t even pretend that there was such a thing as a happy, fulfilling marriage in the early 1960s. It’s just one smoky, alcohol-soaked, sexist nightmare after the next. Let’s have a look:

• Joan and Greg. Supremely hot, always-aquiver, yet also smart-as-a-whip Joan weds moody, dull, self-centered Greg Harris just because he’s a doctor. Does this guy have any redeeming qualities, anything at all that makes him worthy of her? He rapes her, he’s needy and childish, and still she’s loving and supportive, sweet and sexy, and puts dinner on the table. How could you not think “yes!!” when she casually smashed a vase against her hubby’s head? He survived that, but now he’s joined the army and will most likely be shipped off to ‘Nam pretty soon. Oh well.
• Roger and Jane. Roger is a snake, but he’s grown on me this season. He’s shown some vulnerability, what with the woman who resurfaced from his past, his enduring affection for Joanie, and his public praise of ex-wife Mona at their daughter’s wedding. He’s already done with tipsy trophy-wife Jane, that’s clear–but she’s even ickier than he is and I find myself not caring about her at all. Mona is obviously twice the woman Jane is and Roger knows it. But Jane is younger and prettier, so at least he has his priorities straight.
• Pete and Trudi. Will cheerful, lovable Trudi, silly lampshade hats and all, come to her senses and realize that her husband is a slimy weasel? I doubt it. She’s a loyal wife, oblivious to the fact that Pete fooled around with the neighbor’s au pair and knocked-up Peggy in the first season. He showed a touch of broken-down sweetness in the finale, though, so just maybe there’s hope for them.
• Peggy and Nobody. She’s the smart, ambitious career girl–too savvy for most guys her age and a threat to most men. She’s left to a life hooking up in hotel rooms with creepy guys named Duck–unless, maybe, she can hang in there until the 1970s.
• Sal and Kitty. Poor Kitty doesn’t understand why her little negligees have no effect on her husband. Will someone please just tell her that it’s because he’s gay?
• Don and Betty. Oh, what is there left to say about these two central characters, whose extreme physical beauty refuses to shield them from extreme mental misery? It was high time Betty got fed up with Don’s philandering ways and newly-discovered phony identity. Personally, I think boarding a plane to Reno with Henry Francis for six weeks was a big mistake (and wtf made her take baby Gene with them? There’s no way she’s breastfeeding).I think they’re doomed, but those were different times and she didn’t have many choices. She couldn’t, for example, start a blog about making over her life post-Don. In fact, she couldn’t even say the word blog, because it didn’t yet exist. What a concept.

R and I have been seeing a mediator. Mediation is divorce lite for conflict-averse couples who don’t want to drag each other to court or traumatize their kids with custody battles. It’s for the amicable divorcing, oxymoronic as that sounds.

R and I are the poster pair for mediation. We get along, have the same basic values, try to put the children first, and donate to WNYC when we can.

So if it’s all supposed to be so downright pleasant, why would I rather stick pins in my eyes than endure another hour in that office?

Oh, wait. Here’s why:

• Because when the mediator asked for our wedding date and who officiated, I flashed back to early 1992, when R&I discussed our vows with the Dutch Reformed minister (don’t ask) who ultimately pronounced us husband and wife. I’m pretty sure and we promise to use a mediator when we divorce was not among them.
• Because the financial news is definitely not “all good” when you’re a freelance writer divorcing a magazine editor just as the publishing world is imploding and the country is experiencing the worst economic crisis in recent history. It’s all bad.
• Because, unlike after other traumatic surgical procedures, no one makes sure you have someone to escort you home after two hours of the emotional and financial evisceration that is mediation.
• Because it seems so annoyingly PC to mediate a divorce when it would probably be more exciting, satisfying and just plain fun to kick some ass in a court of law. But for PLUs (People Like Us), that would be like hitting our kids. We just don’t do it even though we secretly want to.

On the other hand, I have been thoroughly enjoying one of the major benefits of my marital disintegration. S currently stands for Strong, Sensitive and Swoon. Oh, and let’s throw in some Shoulders and a Sweetheart.

Yesterday I attended school with my 8th grader; it was “open school day,” the one chance to see what your kids actually do all day.

Parents were asked to sit in the back of the room during the classes. At one point, I noticed an attractive, stylish couple sitting side-by-side. Later, as we were milling about prior to the start of math class, I realized I was about to sit down next to the male half of the attractive, stylish couple. I gestured to his wife, who was seating herself on the other side of me, and asked if she wanted to switch seats with me so that they could sit together.

“No. We’re divorced,” she replied.

I found it funny that a) she would offer that information at all, b) she seemed blatantly relieved not to have to sit next to her ex and, c) she assumed it’s a given that divorced couples don’t sit together.

And then she asked me: “Are you married or divorced?” Just like that.

I found her directness curious. Typically, when you’re thrown together with the parents of your child’s classmates, one of the first things you say is “Whose mother are you?” or “Hi, my name is Cassandra. I’m Sam’s mom.”

After a few beats, I answered “I’m in-between. I’m separated.”

For one terrifying moment, I thought this bold woman was going to try to fix me up with her ex, but then math class began and suddenly everything became a blur. Algebra? Calculus? Why was the teacher writing random letters and numbers on the board and then, like a lunatic, adding parentheses and brackets? I wanted to stand up and say “Excuse me, kids, but you do not need to learn this. Sure, try to get a good grade in math so you’ll get into a decent college, but, really, don’t sweat it because there are no real-life situations in which you are required to write {} a, x , y and 5 in the same line. None.”

I wanted to share this insight with my kooky, blunt new divorced friend, but since there were 32 minutes left to class, I decided to look around and think interesting thoughts instead.

Needless to say, what I saw was a room full of 13- year-olds. Oh, the horror.

I flashed back to my own 8th grade year–the all-important Frye boots, Stan Smith sneakers, Huk-A-Poo shirts and Shetland sweaters. My size 27AAA “bra” and the stupid boys who made stupider jokes about ironing their shirts on my chest.

The whole dating/sex/relationship thing was a complete mystery to me at that point. I could not imagine how on earth I would get a boy to like me or ask me on a date. And to think that one might kiss me? Forget it. That stuff happened to other girls, usually the ones with real bra sizes. (Still, I kept my Dr.Pepper-flavored Bonne Bell Lip Smacker handy just in case.)

I looked at my lovely daughter, in the throes of thirteen-ness herself, and got a little lump in my throat, followed by a feeling of certainty that no guy will ever be good enough for her because she’s exceptional in every way (ahem–now’s when you politely say “the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, Christina.”) But maybe I was being a bit harsh, given that the pool of men available to her at this juncture are a bunch of doofy 13-year old boys and nothing like the fine assortment of gentlemen who will pursue her when she grows up and gets to join match.com.

I awoke from my reverie to the sound of math textbooks gleefully slamming shut. I guess a lot has happened in the 33 years since I was in 8th grade (wait, did I just write thirty-three years?? Dear god.) At some point, I got a boy to kiss me. I imagine my daughter will figure that one out too, though I doubt she spends much time picturing her separated self sitting in the back of her daughter’s classroom chatting with a stylish, blunt divorced woman. I mean, she still lives in a world where it’s important to learn algebra (or was it trigonometry?)

This week has been all about my new relationship with driving and the ways in which my car forces me to face, unflinchingly, my single-female status. It used to be the car or our car and now, for better or for worse, it is just plain my car–my Sob (nee Saab). I am grateful for the smooth ride it offers, its pretty swirly wood dashboard and very cool cup holder. But being the single mom of a sometimes-surly Swedish station wagon has also been trying. A sampler:

• I got axle grease  (is that what they call the black stuff?) on my dainty little hands while filling the car’s needy tires with air at the Hess station. I was acutely aware of my pale-blue skirt with sequins on it and wondering if the men watching me were thinking why is that light-blue-skirted lady touching something as filthy-dirty as a tire? Doesn’t she have a man around, for goodness sake? Has the world gone mad? Is chivalry completely dead? (It’s possible I was projecting a bit.) Another part of me thinks: Wow, I’m a cool chick who touches tires, pumps gas, and wields power tools. Men? Who needs ‘em?!

• Last weekend, the girls and I flew to visit relatives in Rochester. I decided to drive to the airport and leave the car in long-term parking so we could save money on a car service.  In an attempt to make things as pre-planned and painless as possible, I reserved a spot online at the reassuringly named Smart Park long-term lot near JFK. Unfortunately, despite my excellent planning, at 7:49 am the next morning (the flight was at 9:15), I couldn’t find Smart Park, which apparently is not quite smart enough to provide a street address for me to enter in my GPS. I have become totally dependent on the GPS (yep, if it told me to drive off the Empire State Building, I probably would.) In these situations, I try not to let on to my daughters that things have gone awry. It usually doesn’t work.
  Daughter: “Great, mom, now we’re LOST!”
  Me: “We are not lost. We just haven’t found the parking lot yet. There’s a difference.”
  Daughter, bursting into tears: “We’re going to miss the plane! Our whole weekend is ruined!!” Then, the withering zinger: “You’re our mother. You’re supposed to know where you’re going.”
  While all I wanted to do at that point was to get out of the car, leave it in the McDonald’s parking lot and hitch a ride to JFK, I knew it was another one of those you have to live through this moments with no escape–like when I threw myself out of the tree. And so the creaky little gps in my brain took a brave breath and became the little gps that could. I whipped the car around, said to hell with Smart Park and followed signs to the generic JFK brand of long-term parking. From there, it was only about a mile walk in the searing heat to the AirTrain, which miraculously dropped us at the JetBlue terminal about five minutes before our flight began boarding. I figure when all was said and done, deciding to drive to the airport cost only about twice as much as a car service would have.

• Shortly after our return from Rochester, I took the girls to Target to buy school supplies (a stressful event in its own right because they didn’t have the right size post-its.)  On the way home, the Sob had a tantrum and shut down completely–i.e., died–about 10 blocks from our home. My first impulse was, again, to grab the girls and our Target purchases, walk home, and let the car think about its behavior and figure out how to fix itself. Then I called R and begged him to don his Superman cape and rescue us from the meanie vehicle (he was willing to call the mechanic to give him a heads-up.) I called Triple A, found out my membership had lapsed, renewed it with the help of a “membership counselor” and arranged to have the car towed to the car-fixing place. The next day a guy who called me “ma’am” delivered the bad news: The Sob needed a new drive belt and an alternator (of course I know exactly what those things are) and would I authorize the roughly $600 worth of work?

Like, do I have a choice?

(photo credit: The Brain Toad)

On Saturday, my friend L and I spent the day walking around the breathtakingly beautiful Ft. Tryon Park, which is right near The Cloisters, a branch of the MET museum that is built to resemble a convent and houses their medieval art collection.

Strolling with L — one of those forever friends who feels like a sister–was so peaceful. So, so, so peaceful, in a high-class psychiatric-institute sort of way, especially when we stopped yakking about our tedious worldly problems and just took in the surroundings.

I know. Most women make a crack about joining a convent at some point in their lives. I hate being so predictable.

But, um, is it too late for me to join a convent? It would offer the freedom from shopping and the outside world that I so enjoyed while at camp in Maine. Mirrors are probably not plentiful and so I could age without having to notice it constantly (plus, those habits offer exceptional coverage of bodily decline–better, even, than a maxi dress.) Money wouldn’t be necessary, so I could abandon my fruitless job search. And I assume dating would be forbidden, making that a no-brainer.

Plus, I have a great aunt who was a nun, so I should be a shoo-in.

I’m the perfect candidate for a nunnery, except for a few minor issues. There’s my agnosticism, which might not sit well with the sisters. It would be tricky to pull off my half of the parenting responsibilities, and most convents don’t serve Sauvignon Blanc with dinner (or even bad Chardonnay, I’m guessing.) And–shoot--I bet they don’t have wireless.

So, yeah, scratch that idea. Maybe instead I’ll buy a membership to The Cloisters, which will allow me to wander and contemplate at my leisure and get me a discount off medieval-style goodies at the gift shop.

If you’ve sensed that I’m feeling a little negative these days, you sensed correctly. I know that negativity doesn’t help one overcome adversity–and I’m not proud of my currently cranky attitude. But it feels good to be honest and I have faith that you can take it. Plus, it’s therapeutic for me to vent and this is all about me. Hopefully, getting it out will allow some positivity back in.

Here is why I’m fed up:

1. Because it’s really hard to find a job during a recession and applying via those huge job boards has gotten me nowhere so far (Check out WNYC’s recent Brian Lehrer segment on job boards to learn why.)
2. Because I want a wonderful boyfriend, but I am sick of trying to find one online (and no, I don’t know anyone who knows someone, as far as I know.)

Let me expand on number two, which offers more opportunities for me to shoot the snark.

You might recall that my online-dating site subscription expired in late June. Well, apparently I get six additional months free as a reward for not having snagged “someone special” during the paid 6 months. So my membership extends through the end of December. Because that feels like more of a punishment than a perk, I recently clicked on “visibility settings” and made my profile invisible. Given my super-bad attitude, I think it’s for the best.

I’ve become like the characters on Seinfeld, who dismissed members of the opposite sex for being low-talkers or close-talkers, for having a big nose, an annoying laugh, “man-hands,” or any other human flaw imaginable.

I haven’t even had the chance to be hyper-critical of anyone in person, because I’ve been ruling out guys after an email or two. I’ve avoided getting back to some of them to stop myself from responding with:

• You signed your email “Barry,” which means that is probably your name and I hate that name, so forget it.
• You seemed appealing until I clicked through your photos and found one of you wearing a Speedo. It’s rarely OK to wear a Speedo and it is never OK to post a photo of yourself in one. If you don’t know that, I’m not your girl.
• You wrote that you never drink alcohol, which makes me worry that you’re either an alcoholic or no fun–and I’m truly sorry, but I can’t deal with either.
• You signed off with “be well” and that expression bugs me. I fear that if we meet, you might say something like “it’s all about the journey,” and then I’d have to end it for sure.
• Yes, yes, I wrote in my profile that I like lakes. But you’ve now sent me three emails asking me how much I do or don’t like oceans and rivers in comparison and it’s making me think that bodies of water are weirdly important to you.

See what I mean? I wouldn’t want to date me at the moment, so I’m going to give the male population a break until I can be a nicer, more accepting person.

(Did I just hear you snicker “good luck with that?”)

So now I’m really gettin’ bloggy wit’ it, referencing studies and trying to seem cool and opinionated and stuff. Today, a press release landed right smack in my in-box and I couldn’t resist. Did you know that middle-aged-and-older men who don’t ditch their wives for younger women are actually exhibiting suicidal behavior?

A study released last month found that men who marry women between 15 and 17 years younger than they are lower their chances of dying early by a whopping 20 percent. Men decrease the risk of premature death by 11 percent if their wives are seven to nine years younger. The certifiably insane guys who opt for older women have an 11 percent higher chance of dying earlier.

Assuming that “early” in this case doesn’t mean in the morning as opposed to in the afternoon, this information really puts my mind at rest. My own separation did not involve cradle robbery, so I have no personal axe to grind. But just this past weekend I was at a Big Chill-esque dinner party. A group of us who went to college together gathered to reconnect with one another–and also to bolster the spirits of a friend whose husband recently left her for a significantly younger woman after three decades and several children.

No one said it out loud, but I suspect many of us were thinking that this woman’s husband was just one more dumb-ass middle-age cliche.

How wrong we were! I mean, this new research proves that the guy went the younger-babe route purely for health reasons, just as one might suddenly start taking fish oil or a multi-vitamin. Instead of dissing him and jumping to conclusions, we should be grateful that he didn’t have a death wish.

(The research only applied to men in Denmark, but I think it’s safe to extrapolate, don’t you?)

For the past 10 days, I’ve been sequestered at an artsy all-girls sleepaway camp in Maine, where I’m running the creative-writing program. My daughters are here with me, living as the other campers do, and I gotta say that the experience is making me seriously question the whole mom-dad-kids nuclear family construct.

Here, all of our meals are planned, cooked and served to us (which makes up for the fact that they are not especially tasty.) My daughters engage in wholesome, mostly technology-free activities run by delightful, nurturing counselors, who later make them brush their teeth and go to bed. Wait–it gets even better: I see the girls several times a day and we usually hug and kiss each other. I haven’t noticed them whining or bickering, nor have I had to shop for groceries. Sadly, our camp session ends in a few days, so we’ll be packing up and leaving–but I’m planning to get off at the first exit that leads to a decent commune. It does take a village, dammit!

Another notable aspect of life here is that, except for the cook, the maintenance guy and a handful of others, this is a completely man-less zone. I am trying so hard not to become one of those droopy, unlucky-in-love types who has concluded that all men are creeps and losers. And I am not a member of the gay-and-gray generation chronicled in the recent More magazine article entitled “Over 40 and Over Men.”
(Though if you could switch teams, why wouldn’t you? No, really: Why wouldn’t you?)

Still, it’s surprisingly relaxing to take a break from Y chromosomes. It’s not so much that men are flawed, but that women behave differently in their presence. For example, since I’ve become single again, my mind goes into immediate assessment mode when men my age are around (Is he married? If not, why not? Should I care–and if I should care, do I look OK?)

Obviously, living in an all-female society comes with its own set of pressures and dynamics (remember the hell that was junior high school?), and I suppose it would be a drag if we all renounced men and our species became extinct. But in my case, this simultaneous vacation from the co-ed universe and the drudgery of daily life has been rejuvenating. In fact, I’m psyched for the day when I get to join an assisted living community.