Here's a question — if you were given the chance to marry the same person that you had married ten, fifteen, twenty-five years ago, would you? Would you be willing to re-live all that shit to end up where you are now? You would imagine that the obvious answer for someone like me would be "No." You would think that after prostitutes and porn (and pot and plagiarism — that's another story) that the answer would be clear. You would think that plain old infidelity would have put the toe tag on that corpse once and for all. But I have come to learn that there are no clear answers and that even when you think a corpse is good and dead, a body can be resurrected. And this is why.

It's the Botox. Seriously. Annabelle called me in a panic the other day saying she had just read how Botox can leak into your brain and she is going to need a lobotomy or at the very least some electroshock therapy to deal with the problem. I assured her she was over-reacting but then I heard someone on the Today Show talking about how Botox can move from the injection site into your central nervous system and I started to wonder. I know they say the stuff can take years off your age by paralyzing your facial muscles, but I started to think, if it can do that, what else can it do? Is it possible that Botox injected into a corpse can bring it back to life again? Dr. Frankenstein harnessed a lightening bolt to reanimate the dead. Can a plastic surgeon with a hypodermic be just as effective?

So here's where I come clean. (If I told the truth about Jeffrey to the Concubine, I can tell the truth about me, to you.) I tried it once. The Botox. I know I said I would never do such a thing and I'm pretty sure I never will again. (Although I know enough about life never to say never any more.) I tried it, and the injections hurt like hell and my nose started to bleed (kind of like the one time that I tried cocaine) and those crescent craters running from my nose to the corners of my mouth did not disappear like the literature promised they would. (Instead, my crescent craters puffed up like crescent rolls. That may be okay for the Pillsbury Dough Boy, but not moi.)

Anyhoo, I was at one of those Botox parties that Annabelle was frequenting (this, before she went into a tizzy over her central nervous system — a part of her body, I might add, that I'm positive up until recently, she never knew she had.) Once my nose started misbehaving I was politely asked by the "practitioner" to leave, and after wiping my bloody hand on the Shabby Chic couch of the horrified hostess (someone Annabelle had met at the gym) I beat a hasty adieu.

I bring this up because while I am sure the Botox did nothing for my gravity-stricken face, I am not unconvinced that it may have had some other, more life-affirming effect. Because it was not long after the bloody nose incident that the HBPD (Hot Birthday Party Dad, remember?) gave me that egg from his pet chicken, which was followed soon after by an invite to his house out on Broad Beach, in Malibu.

I should point out here that I myself, felt paralyzed for a while. It is difficult to admit sometimes, because I try to find the humor in all of this as much as I can. Still, it is hard not to feel lobotomized after your husband's proclivity for prostitutes (among other nonsense) slams you full frontal into a wall. But then I had that smidge of Botox, and although it's probably unrelated, the feelings of paralysis passed.

The next thing you know I'm driving down PCH (Pacific Coast Highway, for you non-Californians) with the top down. (I exaggerate. Had I owned a convertible, I would have had the top down but I drive a hybrid Lexus mommy-mobile so instead I cracked open the sun roof.) I might also point out that this was pretty damn daring on my part since I am essentially one of those delicate flowers (that's what Jeffrey used to call me, and it was not said with kindness) that is overly sensitive to any kind of sun. (This too, is something that developed after I met my ex-husband. Most likely, it was a corollary to my allergic reaction to him.)

Did I ever mention that my ob-gyn told me I was "allergic" to Jeffrey's sperm? They had to be "washed" before we were even able to get pregnant, because my body killed them off at the exact moment they were assaulting my horrified eggs. (I didn't even know sperm could be washed. Hell, I would have paid extra for a whole makeover of Jeffrey's little soldiers, had I known.)

Anyhoo, the HBPD had given me very clear directions and after a lovely forty minutes or so with the breeze blowing through my hair, watching the wildflowers on the side of the highway and the para-gliders in the sky (don't worry, I was also watching the road) I arrived at the Trancas Market and found my left turn. I should point out that the boys were in the car with me — it was a Sunday afternoon they were supposed to be spending with their father, don't get me started on that one — but the HBPD said the more the merrier, and switched with his ex so his own kids could be out there too.

I was admittedly a little nervous about bringing the boys to see him now that we were no longer just acquaintances but had yet to become much of anything more. I mean, I had been thinking about when he might kiss me, and was pretty sure it wouldn't be when my children were with me and of course, I was also aware of how god awful inappropriate that would be. (Well, if they saw it happen, I mean. It's not like I was closing any doors.)

When we got there the day couldn't have been any more beautiful. The waves were lapping the shore, the clouds were white and fluffy in the sky and the kids took off running towards the water as soon as their bare feet touched the sand. The HBPD was wearing a baggy surfer-type bathing suit and t-shirt that said, "The Clash," (his favorite band) and he looked like he belonged in a place like this, the kind of place, coming from where I did on the East Coast (another story for another time) I never thought I would be.

"Did you bring the egg?" he asked, smiling, and I must have looked kind of horrified, like I had just made a terrible faux pas by not even considering that option because he patted me on the arm and said, "Just kidding, come inside." There was a huge jet ski on the lawn of the house, which stretched out towards the sand dunes and then there was the beach and the water and I thought that maybe I was in heaven, or at least, the Left Coast equivalent thereof.

I should point out that when I mentioned to Raoul that I was going out to Malibu he kind of snorted and said something derogatory about kids who grew up in the "'bu" (Raoul is from the Valley, which was a veritable asthma-inducing smog pit when he was a kid) but I think in truth he was just jealous. I'm not sure if it was because he would have rather been out there on a Sunday instead of scraping paint off my walls, or because he didn't like me hanging around the HBPD (when he had returned from his three week "vacation" and I told him about my date, he said something like, "That'll never last," which I thought was pretty small-minded on his part.) But then, he's never struck me as having the most expansive mind. (Don't tell him I said that.)

Anyway, with the kids down on the beach, we took a minute and went inside. This house has been in the HBPD's family for decades (they bought it when you could get beach property out there for spit and some change) and there were lots of old family pictures and carpet that smelled like it had been there since he was a kid, soaking up sweat and sand. He showed me this one photo of him and his brother with someone who appeared to be a young Ronald Reagan (on closer inspection, that is indeed who it was) and he said that the actor used to be on the beach all the time then and the HBPD's Dad had made him and his brother go pretend like they knew him one day and that's how they got the photo.

Just when he was telling me this story, there was a lot of noise. Someone was doing something with the jet ski, and I saw suddenly, there were kids everywhere, really good looking, athletic kids who were running up and down the dunes, doing cartwheels, throwing basketballs, flying kites — like whatever else in their lives that they were meant to do, these kids were born to move. This guy came toward us, fly-away hair, kind of grease covered and said, "Sorry, I'm trying to fix the thing," (that would be the jet ski, I presumed) "It was recalled for some part or another and we really want to take it out."

The HBPD introduces me to the guy and tells me it's his second or third cousin (I can't remember) and these kids everywhere are all his cousin's kids. They all look kind of familiar, but I can't place them until the HBPD tells me that their last name is Kennedy and then I get the full picture. "Kennedy as in Kennedy?" I ask him, curious, because where I come from (back in the liberal, academic East) that means something and he says, "Yep, we're like once-removed," and I think that I am once-removed from a lot of things but not from any Kennedys which in many ways is a shame.

They are truly athletic beings, these Kennedys and my boys take to them like ducks to water (at this point they might as well be water birds, the way they are splashing around) and the HBPD starts the grill as the sun starts to lower in the sky.

Then he looks out over the ocean. The children are all frolicking in the waves. "Would it be inappropriate if I took my shirt off in front of your kids and went swimming?" he asks me. (You can imagine my response to that one.) "Um...no. I think not," I manage to stammer. "You "think not" to the shirt removal or you "think not" too alarming?" he laughs. I say, "The latter," which is all I can get out at the moment. Someone has built a fire on the beach and the embers are heating up. Admittedly, I am too. The HBPD touches my hand.

"Come here, " he says, and leads me behind a dune. "You want to go swimming, too?" he asks me. "Uh...didn't bring a suit, " I get out. "Thought would be too cold." I am shivering at this point, so it's not like I'm telling any kind of lie. "Yeah, well, I don't want to scare anyone with my forty-five year-old body," he says, and kind of chuckles. "Looks okay to me," I mumble, but he doesn't hear me (thank God.) He pokes at his shirt, and I can see something sticking out, right around the faded "Clash" that is etched into the fabric.

"What's that?" I say. "A bone?" "A rib," he laughs. "Since the ex took off I'll admit, I haven't really been eating." "Maybe I should cook you a steak," I say and he looks me in the eyes and says, "I like them rare."

Okay, maybe this was hokey. But we're in our forties, remember, and suddenly, it's like we're teenagers again. I mean, we're on the beach, there's a bonfire, the waves are pounding (admittedly, our children are running up and down the sand yelling, but that's just a small variable in the equation) and I have to say, just like that, whatever was left of the corpse in me is gone. Maybe it was the Botox, or maybe it was the fresh sea air, or maybe it was the HBPD and the way he was looking in my eyes but that was when I realized that if everything that had happened in my life had been for nothing else but to lead me to this point, then that was all okay.

So maybe I know the answer to my question. Jeffrey was a certifiable shit in many ways, I'll admit that, and no one should have to live through what he did to me. Still, his washed-up sperm did give me my most amazing children. And I suppose there were moments that were good before it all went bad. So if I had to marry him again, knowing what I know now, would I still do it? I think, just possibly, the answer would be "Yes," if it meant that I would someday get to be here, on this beach, with this man, where I am right now.

I look at the HBPD really closely. He's pulling off his shirt (forty-five or not, he's hot, need I remind you) but then seems to think better of it. He turns around and looks me in the eye. "Hey," he says. "I'm feeling kind of giddy." In the background I can hear all kinds of Kennedys screaming with joyful abandon. Someone has got the motor running on the jet ski and a bunch of them are trying to maneuver it across the sand. They are having a hell of a good time, those Kennedys. I am almost jealous, until I realize, I'm having a really good time too. "What's the giddy about?" I say, feeling a little off-kilter myself.

"It's about this," he says. And then he leans in and kisses me. And I kiss him back. It's a really good kiss, like a hot fudge sundae, sweet and not too gooey, the kind that makes you want to come back for more. And the Kennedys are cheering and I think it's for us and then I realize the jet ski is in the water and I think to myself, who knows where this is going and frankly, who the hell cares? I'm on the beach in Malibu and I just kissed a Kennedy (once or twice removed.) Maybe this is where the part of me that Jeffrey killed (you know which part I mean) comes back to life again.