I'm single again. And I'm just fine with it. After all, I was bringing way more to the party than S ever had and I didn't have time to miss him what with that sailing trip to the British Virgin Islands in May, family reunion on Hilton Head in August, weekend getaway to a fabulous little resort on the Riviera Maya with an old college pal in September. Life has been good, I have to admit.

And that idyllic weekend in Mexico, spent stretched out on white lounges tucked into a thatched cabana, just steps from the water, marked the end of Life As We Know It. While my friend and I were drinking in the views (and more than a few margaritas), catching up on the past five or so years, we were blissfully unaware of the storms roiling to the north. We didn't turn on the television; didn't read a paper. And were caught totally unawares when we returned to the states: Ike. AIG. Lehman Brothers. Bear Sterns.

Kind of killed my bliss (and that of untold others).

And then of course, was all the hoopla leading up to the election. I was riveted, appalled, engaged as never before — then euphoric when I watched Obama's acceptance speech, up on that stage with his beautiful family, once again feeling that little frisson of hope for the future.

But now what? Now that I'm not spending hours pouring over the media that informs my world view: The New York Times, Huffington Post, Media Bistro, The Daily Show, The Colbert Report (most of ‘em, all of ‘em!) obsessing over Sarah Palin and her missing "g"s, I have so much more time on my hands.

And with the weather getting colder, and two of my three girls deep in relationships of their own, I've started to think maybe I'm ready to tip-toe back into the dating pool.

I moved again. Second year without Levi and our second move. Man, I'm getting tired of lugging all of this stuff around.

With each move, comes new discoveries. Papers stuffed into desk drawers, Christmas and Birthday cards from happier times, pictures of Levi and I — our various vacations, our wedding, and several goofy ones.

The last time I looked at these things, I couldn't bring myself to throw them out. Who knows why — I guess there's just nothing like torturing yourself when your massively depressed.

But the somewhat remarkable thing is, that this time, they didn't sting as much as they did before. Actually, some of them didn't even phase me. This time I was able to throw most of them out.

I suppose this is yet another sign that I've almost worked all the way through this.

There is one thing, though, one overwhelming piece of furniture that I am quite sick of: the bed.

This bed is a monstrosity, an enormous king-sized monstrosity. I look at it as a testament to everything that I can't stand about Levi.

The over-indulging. The need to have the "best" of everything or rather, the need to have...everything.

I can't stand the damn thing.

My ex-boyfriend, on the other hand, loves that bed. So much so, that after listening to my complaining about it he offered to trade. He has a brand-new queen-sized bed that he's willing to trade for my king.

Awesome.

It wasn't until it was pointed out to me later that I got the irony of the whole thing: Ex-boyfriend inherits ex-husband's bed.

Crack me up...Alec Greven, a fourth grader from Castle Rock, Colorado, hand-wrote a pamphlet called "How To Talk To Girls" to help out his buddies' love lives.

He was selling it for $3. Now he has a book deal with Harper Collins. Is he giving his buds good advice?

Alec tells them, "Comb your hair and don't wear sweats."

Yes, honey, we girls put in a load of effort to look good for you guys, so this is the least you can do.

Alec tells the boys, "Girls win most of the arguments and have most of the power."

Yes, Alec, we do have the most power but we rarely remember that when we see you with your hair combed and all dressed up.

Alec says, "The best way to approach a girl is to keep it to a simple 'hi,'" adding, if "I say 'hi' and you say 'hi' back, we're probably off to a good start."

Yes, yes, yes, Alec! We prefer you to make the first move, otherwise we may never open our mouths.

Alec warns, "A crush is like a love disease: It can drive you mad."

You're tellin' me, kid! You boys don't own the market on this, Alec. A crush can, has, and will continue to drive us all mad till we exit this planet. No word back on whether this goes on in Heaven.

Alec says, "Make sure you have good friends who don't try to take the girl you like."

Girls need to get the same advice, sweetie.

Alec says, "Girls always like the smartest boys."

Big smooch to you, Alec, from all the mothers of America needing a lure to improve homework skills.

Alec says, "Class clowns never make a good love story with a girl, if you catch my drift."

Must be an age thing, kid...guys who make us laugh are the smartest ones and get the most dates.

My family is crazy. When I think of all the things I've survived, I not only feel lucky, I feel amazingly blessed. I decided a long time ago to take it one day at a time, and I do!

After gliding through the New Hampshire holiday with extended family, kids, and new boyfriend, I got online today and booked Christmas and February break, too. I am not afraid.

Sure, there was drama over Thanksgiving, but what would a family vacation be without some swearing, reminiscing, and rehashing?

My family and I took stabs at each other between the hugs, tears, and promises to always stay in touch. Then we said our goodbyes as if this was our last week on earth. The stock market is going to hell in a hand basket, but I continue to breathe deeply and say to myself over and over, this too shall pass. I reassure myself that I'm still here and body/mind are functioning well, so what the hey?

This time last year, I was embarking on a singles journey north to Maine to begin a dating frenzy. Make a note gals: Maine and Alaska are desperate for attractive, half way intelligent females and, if you are really eager to make a lasting partnership, I recommend you jump right in. You can be a star!

Even though I didn't meet Mr. Right during that trip, I did fortify my mission to be self-reliant and open to whatever the future might hold.

Fast forward to the future and here we are. I stand before you as an eight-year kidney transplant survivor. (Yesterday, December 30th was my transplant anniversary and also, ironically enough, what would have been my 23rd wedding anniversary, if I hadn't been divorced for the last five years.)

Ever wonder about things like that? What are the chances a kidney transplant and a wedding anniversary would end up being on the same day?

Well, I celebrate in style. I celebrate everything in style. The first year after my divorce became final, I toasted with a glass of champagne every night for 365 days.

Adrian will be two in just a few weeks. It's hard to believe that it's been two whole years already. Sometimes it feels like it was just yesterday that I was that frightened, mess of a woman about to embark on what seemed to be this hopeless, depressing journey of single mom-hood.

Sometimes still, if I'm not careful, it's easy to revert back to that woman — let my fears get the best of me. But for today, I must say, that I am no longer her. 

This journey has transformed me, made me stronger, made me realize that I have potential far beyond what I could have ever imagined. And for that, I am thankful.

However, some of the transformative effects are not so great. This journey has rendered me guarded, cautious, and at times very cynical. Most of the time I am certain that I could never trust a man with my heart ever again. Other times, I have the clarity to know that I want to.

I suppose it's all part of the process of healing — working through the hurt — and when it's done, when I'm fully healed, I'll know and hopefully drop some of the cynicism.

For now, I need it.

Levi's mother emailed to ask what we were doing for Adrian's birthday, and if she could see him again. I told her that I'm taking him to the Dora show in Manhattan, and invited her to come along.

I must admit that it hurts to see her again. Opens the floodgates and all of the memories: hopes, dreams, fantasies of my perfect life with my son and Levi — my perfect family — rush back in. The reality that things are not what they were intended to be can feel like a smack in the face.

But I am trying to have faith, trying to be optimistic that although my life certainly has not gone as planned, it is good. We have a good life, and a wonderful family structure even sans Levi.

Steps forward in real life tend to make the imp that lives in my brain backpedal frantically. "Run, run!" he yips, waving his arms about, Kermit-like. "It's too much! Ruuuun!"

I've gotten much, much better at shutting him up. He shrills away, but I've learned, mostly, not to pay attention. But when it's a hard week, when I'm feeling overwhelmed, when I'm sad — that's when his voice gets harder to ignore.

This moving thing, for example. It's big. Sure, I was thinking about moving anyway. Sure, it's not all about the boy. But part of it is. Taking this step says we think we're actually going to make it. On my bad days, this is what I worry about: What if we're not? What if the magic and wonderfulness and perfection of what this actually hinges on is the fact that it's long distance?

It didn't help that our cohabitation experiment wasn't a success. That I handled it badly. That he's backtracked since then.

Then there's this month: finalizing the legal documentation of my inability to make a relationship work. Just when I think that I am past this, that I've come to terms, it rears its head and reminds me that I don't have a great track record. 

"What about this?" crows the imp, waving legal papers at me. "Why would you think anything ever works out?"

Normally, I know, deep down, that my fears are largely unjustified. That I'm worrying about something that is so "might be, maybe," that I really shouldn't worry at all. This, though, this feels more real. It feels immediate, and it feels scary, and it's hard to talk myself down.

There's nothing to do, I suppose, but do — imp or no — and see what happens.

OMG...even my hair follicles are swollen. I am typing this while eating left over sweet potatoes because I just read they can debloat you. I'll get to that in a moment.

First, I just want to announce that the only thing I will strangely be grateful for these next few days is early darkness.

Darkness makes bloated people look more attractive.

Allow me to point out there is a marked post-holiday difference between swollen divorced women and swollen married women.

That being, that married women usually have a matching swollen spouse.

Single divorced women feel swollen alone and have little desire to attempt to get dressed attractively and socialize with the opposite sex.

Bloating for us is a lonely sport.

Post-holiday emotional and physical exhaustion when you wing a holiday without a wingman usually leads at some point to thumbing lazily through women's magazines you've been meaning to read searching for tips to lose weight.

On page 23 of the December issue of First Magazine I found the sweet potato flat-belly connection.

It said, "Each of these tasty tubers contains 950 mg of potassium — nearly twice the amount in a banana.

This electrolyte enhances the kidneys ability to eliminate retained fluids, banishing bloat in as little as 24 hours.

Plus sweet potatoes' betaine clears fatty deposits from the liver, accelerating the organs breakdown of belly fat for fuel."

Okay, if they say so.

I must not have eaten enough of them during Thanksgiving dinner to offset the other 20 dishes.

The ones I am eating now still have baby marshmallows attached.

I am not sure if that's a deal breaker. I'll let you know if I am still unable to get dressed in 24 hours.

Attitude Is Everything!
Debbie

To check in with Debbie or suggest a blog topic, email: dnigro@firstwivesworld.com

A funny thing happened on this journey from dutiful wife and devoted mom back to myself. Of course, I'll always be a devoted mom — but what surprised me, is what a dutiful ex-wife I've become.

The feelings of anger (on his part) and abandonment (on mine) have finally receded into a distant memory. The sense of competition between households (he with the most toys wins vs Ms Rules and Routines) have dissipated as the girls are now old enough to navigate back and forth: my house during the school week for regular balanced meals and so as not to be tempted by aforementioned toys; his place more on weekends and school breaks. 

We seem to have reached a comfortable détente. I took the girls to visit their older sister at college; he took care of our pets, sitting at my kitchen table, drinking a beer, picking ticks off the dog. Internet access in the house was achingly slow on the girls' wireless computers (nonexistent on my dinosaur Mac); so Ex the techno wizard came over, diagnosed the situation, and fixed it (no charge!). 

Conversely, when Ex explained some of his business woes, in this time of ever growing anxiety, I heard myself saying that I would cover more of the costs-that we could settle up accounts after the economy stabilized. That conversation wouldn't have been possible a year ago. 

Moving beyond simmering resentments is hard (breathe in, breathe out, let go for heaven's sakes), but makes life a whole lot nicer for everyone involved. Even Ex's Next, who had not spoken to me since that little unpleasantness regarding their nuptials, made an unprecedented move. A few weeks ago, she was coming down the driveway while I was picking my daughter up from her dad's house. Usually, she would just slink inside, averting her eyes. But this time, she walked over to say hello, as if nothing had happened.