Tag Archives: divorce

Tripping with My Ex-Boyfriend’s Daughter

Tripping with my ex-boufriend's daughter

Tripping

Does a stepparent relinquish their title, and the unspoken rights, responsibilities, support, care and concern, (often included in the character description) if the relationship ends in divorce?

And what the hell happens in a Girlfriend Mom situation… I don’t know either.

I no longer wear the sash and crown, but there are certain habits and emotional bonds that were formed during my halcyon days as the reining Girlfriend Mom, that have stayed with me nearly three years after the so-called divorce. The role will forever remain in my heart as the most unexpected, and enlightening that I have had the privaledge of playing. And I played Leper #2 in the musical, Jesus Christ Superstar in theater camp.

It was because of these unique relationships, (that seem to be defined, and then redefined every few months) that I took SN (the daughter) on a road trip last Fall from Portland, Oregon to La Jolla, California for her college graduation gift.

A few family members and friends thought it was strange that I was taking a trip with my ex-boyfriend’s daughter. These were some of the same people who thought that it was weird that I still saw the kids. SN’s mother thought it was a wonderful opportunity for her daughter and thanked me. I didn’t need to be thanked because it was my absolute pleasure and joy.

I wanted to make the trip more than SN. I knew firsthand how life affirming such an experience could be. I made the same excursion when I was her age, after my college graduation. After four years in Manhattan, side-stepping dog poop on the sidewalks on my way to class, knocking into Wall Streeter’s as they hustled to the subway, I  hit the road and drove across the country over the summer.

Ever since I was in high school, I wanted to drive across America. I read Kerouac’s, On The Road, watched both Easy Rider, and Lost in America, and the idea of living moment to moment; no plans or schedule was alluring and sexy.

I imagined driving through towns with populations under a hundred. I fantasized about having to get a waitress job in a honkey tonk (even though I’d never waited tables before) because I ran out of money. Perhaps I’d get hired to wax surf boards in a shop along the California coast, even though I’d never set foot on a board. I romanticized the road because I’d been dodging crack dealers on my way to my dorm. Anything would be better than that.

I’d learn how to ride a motorcycle. I’d pick up hitchhikers bumming for lifts. They’d teach me about the world; sharing their wisdom gleaned from years living according to their chakras and not in the chokehold of societal expectations, norms and conventions. These free spirits would regale me with pearls from the backseat of my car, while chewing tobacco, and using an empty Coke bottle as their spittoon.

To be twenty-two.

I used the money that I’d saved over the years in a giant pink piggy bank that my parent’s had bought me when I was nine years old, to fund my trip.

The bank lived on the bottom shelf of my bookcase in my childhood bedroom. It was so big that I doubted that it would ever be full, but I dropped coins into the slit on its back every chance I got.

My parents told me (although it was couched as a suggestion) to wait until the pig was full before I uncorked its underbelly. They assured me that it would be more exciting and gratifying than if I withdrew money every time I wanted another Bonne Bell 7-Up Lip Smacker, which was often.

What ten-year-old girl is going to understand the concept of saving, patience and restriction? It was friggin’ Bonne Bell. Yes, I dipped into the bank on more than one occasion.

As I got older and more disciplined, it became easier to resist the urge to crack open the swine before she was up to her snout in metal and couldn’t take one more thin dime. She did taunt me, especially when my babysitting jobs dried up in the winter of ’83 but I stayed the course.

By the time I graduated college, the bank had been full for several months. I suspect that my parents dropped a few shekels in while I was away at school.

Soon after graduation, I went into my bedroom, closed the door and pulled the weighty bank off of the shelf. I plucked the stopper, emptied the contents onto my medium pile chocolate brown shag rug, and began the laborious task of rolling the coins into their respective denomination wrappers. This was long before the coin machines in local supermarkets. I rolled until I lost feeling in my fingers.

It was mind-numbing and it required a gross amount of concentration and counting. Anyone who knows me, knows that I find counting mentally exhausting.

As I sat with my legs crossed hunched over mounds of coins (as a Pilates instructor I shudder at the visual) I kept having to remind myself of how many nickels were in a two-dollar wrapper. The whole ordeal made me dizzy.

As the rolls piled high, forming miniature pyramids on my rug, my anticipation increased—How far would the money take me? Would I have to get a job bartending? 

When the wrapping was complete, I went to the bank and cashed out. If memory serves, I had over six hundred dollars in dusty and sticky pennies, nickels, dimes and quarters. I found several half dollars and a handful of silver dollars. I vaguely remember getting those as birthday presents from my grandfather. At the time, I couldn’t get over the fact that a dollar could be a coin.

I also found a peso or two in the mix, which was odd because I hadn’t been to a country where the local currency was a Pesos. Dad?

I had money to make a childhood dream come true and nothing felt sweeter. I was rich!

Once I climbed behind the wheel and was on the road, I tossed my shoes into the backseat of my Honda Accord and crossed over the first of many state lines. I felt as if I’d been infused with a dose of freedom. I hadn’t done a lot of traveling up to that cross country point and I was captivated by the enormity of the country, and awed by the vastness and the quiet. It was eye opening in ways that I had only read about or seen in the movies.

I imagined my foot glued to the gas pedal, never to return to New York. I’d only driven 700 miles from home, but I was convinced that I belonged on the road, and that I would be happy wandering for the rest of my life.

To be twenty-two.

Decades later, I hoped that SN’s experience would be as thrilling as my first time was. I’d play the part of the wise hitchhiker, imparting sage advice, only without the tobacco. I was anxious to see the roads of my youth, and to be seeing them through SN’s youthful eyes.

To be continued…

Revenge Travel

Revenge Travel

PhotoCredit:Kingofwallpapers.com

It was a hard choice to make but I knew that some of my precious literary babies wouldn’t make the final cut and that they would be left out of my upcoming book, THE GIRLFRIEND MOM: KIDS? NO, THANK YOU, I’M NOT HUNGRY. It wasn’t personal, they simply didn’t serve the bigger picture. Don’t be sad for these unfortunate outcasts, as they will live on here in this blog. 

***

The Captain and Tennille, the famous singing duo from the ’70s that were known for their love songs, lied. Their hit “Love Will Keep Us Together” was a sham. Love will not always keep people together; those two are now divorced.

For a while I fantasized that my boyfriend and I would find our way back to each other. I even romanticized the breakup. I thought that once he saw the ass-ness of his ways, he’d make a YouTube-worthy gesture, and we’d live happily ever after. I wouldn’t stop believing that love conquered all and that our relationship could survive the quirky way he disobeyed traffic laws (stop signs were so pesky), or the fact that we didn’t have much in common, or that I had sacrificed a part of who I was to be with him, would all prove inconsequential in the face of the love and passion that we shared.

Experts say that staying busy helps get over a breakup or maybe it was Oprah—hallowed be thy name—who said it. For me, travel had always been a salve. However, if you’re traveling after a breakup, you probably shouldn’t go to a place that you have been with your ex in the past or that he’s been to with his new girlfriend or to a place where the native language is that of your ex (if it’s other than English).

My ex knew that there were few things in life that made me happier then getting a new passport stamp, so it was therefore deplorable, and an act of utter betrayal, when I learned that he had taken his new paramour overseas and stood by her side in customs while she got stamped. It was an act of treason that cut me to the quick. To punish him I would travel without him, and collect so many stamps that I’d run out of pages, and have to request new ones.

Revenge travel was born.

I wanted to be classy in the days and months following the breakup, but I fell short, like way short, like Martin Short, short.

Sorrow cost me a lot of frequent flyer miles. Seven months after we broke up, my ex went to Brazil, and I went to a yoga retreat in Mexico. A retreat had been on my to-do list for a while, and now I had the extra motivation that I needed to book my ticket.

***

Haramara Retreat in Sayulita, Mexico, had no electricity or Internet, and guests were gently, but firmly, asked not to flush their used toilet paper. Instead, you were encouraged to throw it in the wastepaper basket next to the porcelain bowl. I found this curiously fun. It did take me a couple instances of “Oh, crap, I forgot” before I got on a roll. I was afraid that the retreat police were going to knock on my hand-built, environmentally “friendly” cabana door and make me fish it out with my bare hands.

I don’t know why I was surprised that there were three yoga classes a day during the weeklong yoga retreat. It was a goddamn yoga retreat! The sessions were wonderful, but I would be lying if I said that I wasn’t just a wee sick of downward-facing dog and child’s pose. I was a Pilates girl. I went on a yoga retreat to help me get my head out of my ass, and funnily enough, by the end of the week, I was able to put my ass over my head.

All three of the daily meals included fresh, local, organic food and fruit that I had never heard of before nor could pronounce. The wellness center was built into the forest and was surrounded by unpaved trails, a private beach with climbing rocks, and an infinity pool that overlooked the Pacific Ocean. It was not low rent.

Sharing the property with the human inhabitants were scores of gulf crabs that seemed to be suffering from dyslexia. These crustaceans would trek up, or rather side-shimmy up through the lush hillside, and stop when they hit the dirt trail. Unfortunately, they’d shimmied in the wrong direction. They should have headed toward the ocean, but instead they had landed on the footpath, where they would take their final crustacean breaths and expire.

Interesting fact: crabs’ teeth are inside of their stomachs. I would have thought that my stomach had teeth from the gnawing and crushing that I was feeling.

Each night we walked back to our rustic (constructed without machinery) cabanas by flashlight and literally hopscotched over what looked like the remains of a massive crabby suicide pact. It made me think of my ex’s kids and how they would binge watch and quote from SpongeBob SquarePants.

The ocean was rough and loud, which, gratefully, lulled me to sleep each night. I luxuriated in the open-air shower with its unobstructed views of the whitecaps. I was not at all concerned with my hair shedding and clogging the drain, because there was no drain. My strands slid freely off the shower floor into the jungle.

The resort informed us that we were among a mélange of wildlife. I knew that they didn’t mean freewheeling lemurs like in Madagascar, but what specifically was considered the wildlife wasn’t exactly clear. Every bed had a net that hung from the ceiling, and I closed mine every night to protect me from the animals, even though it was hot and humid, and it made it difficult to breathe. There were no actual cabana walls but I convinced myself that the netting would protect me in case of an attack.

I shared a room with my yogi friend, Carla, and one evening I got up to go to the bathroom. It was pitch-black, and I couldn’t see my hands in front of my face. I stumbled into the bathroom half-asleep, and I sat down. It wasn’t until I felt warm liquid dripping down my legs that I realized that I was sitting on top of the toilet seat cover and not on the actual toilet seat. I was peeing myself. “Shit!”

Carla yelled from her bed, “What happened? Are you okay?”

How does one respond with dignity? “Nothing. I’m fine. I just peed myself. Go back to sleep.” I cleaned myself up and laughed because it was funny…and gross. I hopped back into bed, returning to my cocoon, but I couldn’t sleep. “Carla, are you awake?”

“Yeah, are you okay?”

I was trying hard not to let my ache completely envelope my body. “Yeah,” I lied. “I can’t believe I peed myself. Although I can’t say that it was the first time.”

Carla laughed. There is no greater satisfaction for me than making someone laugh. “I can’t stop thinking about the kids. The whole fucking thing is so unfair.”

I could see Carla’s silhouette turn toward me in her bed. “It’s going to take time. For what it’s worth, I think it’s so cool you still want to be in the kids’ lives. They’re lucky to have you.”

“Most people think it’s weird. I don’t understand why. I didn’t break up with the kids.”

“That’s probably because most women wouldn’t be able to handle it.”

I could feel hot and sticky water pool in my eyes. “I’m not sure I can either.”

“But you are. I’d get up and give you a hug, but it’ll take me ten minutes to get out of the netting. Try to get some sleep.”

I thought again about peeing myself and I fell asleep with a grin on my face.

***

By day three, I was as relaxed as I was ever going to be or wanted to be. I tried to keep my mind still, being on a yoga retreat and all, but my thoughts continued to drift. I’d swing back and forth from despair to anger. Was I being a fool to think that I could maintain my relationships with the kids without cracking up in the process?

I strolled down to the ocean (unlike the crabs) and sat on a large, jagged, and uneven rock (ow). As I teetered off-balance, which was an obvious metaphor for my current state, I watched the waves; beautifully balletic, as they washed onto the shoreline and then flowed back out. I tried to breathe in time with the sea.

I was in a pristine and tranquil environment: healthy, fortunate, and surrounded by like-minded people. I had to change the tape that played on a loop in my head. I refused to piss away my time with negativity and the past. I didn’t want “breakup stink” to penetrate the remaining days of my retreat. Obsessing over my relationships with the kids, while perched on a craggy rock, that was dangerously close to sticking me where the Mexican sun didn’t shine, was not productive.

Before I left New York, I dreamed that Mexico would provide me with answers, signs, or something to tell me why the caged bird sang. Praised be that sweet, sweet Jesus when the owners of Haramara said that they were offering their guests the opportunity to take part in a temazcal ritual, or sweat lodge. I was the first to sign up. The sweat lodge is also known as a house of heat and is used in Mexico and Central America for spiritual and health reasons.

I would surely be released from my emotional shackles and purified, thus emerging anew. Perhaps I’d stop using phrases like emotional shackles as well. Carla and I joined forces with a few women from San Diego who were on their own retreat, and we got our spiritual on.

There were thirty of us gathered in front of an igloo-like structure, which symbolized Mother Earth’s womb. The female shaman told us the history of the temazcal. I was only partially listening because I was imagining how claustrophobic it might be in the womb, and then I started to panic thinking about the heat. Was it going to be like Bikram yoga hot? How hot exactly?

When the shaman finished her introduction, she assured us of our safety (which had the opposite effect) and said that if at any time during the ceremony anyone needed to leave for any reason, they could simply get up and do so. She instructed us to drop down to our knees and kiss the ground before entering Momma Earth’s womb—out of respect, like knocking before entering a room…or womb.

Actual volcanic stones were heated outside of the igloo in a fire pit by a fire man (I forget what his actual title was) who then carried them into the womb one by one, which made me sweat just watching him.

The stones were placed in a shallow pit in the center of the igloo. When the last stone was lowered down, the shaman had us yell in unison, “La puerta.” Fire man stayed outside, closed the makeshift door, and then covered it and the hole in the ceiling with thick Mexican blankets.

We were now in the darkened, moist, and steamy womb. Huh, just like I remembered it. The shaman talked about respecting the earth as she poured water onto the hot stones, which instantly became steam and turned up the heat. It was like Bikram yoga on steroids. Okay, that’s enough water, shaman lady. I get it. It’s hot. 

Every crease, orifice, and nail cuticle was sweating. I wanted to release as much shit as I possibly could, but I couldn’t catch my breath, and I could have sworn that my eyebrows had been singed off.

I took deep and deliberate breaths while telling myself that I could leave at any time. We sang, we introduced ourselves, and we shared our reasons for coming back into the womb. I told the group that I wanted to move forward. Some confessed that they were stuck either in their personal lives or in their careers, while others talked about family struggles. Again, I stopped listening. I was too hot to focus on their babbling.

After what felt like an hour, but was probably more like fifteen minutes, the shaman instructed us once again to yell “La puerta!” and the door magically opened.

We crawled out of the womb one at a time and drank in the fresh air as fast as we could. There were three more rounds of this, and I didn’t think that I could head back in. I heard others declaring the same.

Carla and I smiled at each other because we knew that, although it was extreme, that we would go back in. After a second drink of water and a little time, we slithered back into the womb. This time, I put my head down on Mother Earth’s lap, which was a lot cooler and less disorienting.

By round four, I was certain that my brain had lost mass, and I didn’t have any to spare. The shaman asked us to go around the womb and, with one word, express our wishes for humanity or some such esoteric sentiment. We began, and the words started to fly.

“Love.” “Peace.” “Kindness.” “Animals.”

After six or seven people had gone, one word turned into paragraphs, prayer recitations, and postgraduate theses. Did they not hear the shaman’s directive? I wanted to scream, “One word, people! The sooner we do this, the sooner we get out. Step off the soapbox, and let’s wrap this shit up.”

If this sweaty lot of people were truly spiritual and solicitous, they would have been less preoccupied with the shrinking polar ice caps and the extinction of the Iberian lynx, and more preoccupied with the fainting bodies beside them.

Unfortunately I didn’t leave the retreat any more centered, grounded or forgiving, as when I had first arrived. I did, however, work on my tan. Even in such a peaceful and meditative environment I couldn’t shake my rage and disappointment. I knew that I had to stop clinging to the past as if it was my lifeline, but the thought of letting go, and moving into the unknown, was downright frightening. I wasn’t entirely convinced that I had the energy, fortitude, or cojonas.

I had no regrets going on the retreat and shedding five pounds of water weight in that igloo, but I came home less enthusiastic about traveling. That was, until my birthday rolled around four months later. It was my first birthday post breakup, and I didn’t want to be in New York alone, knowing that my ex was in Spain with his girlfriend—as if packing my bags and leaving my apartment would somehow make me forget.

Revenge travel continues next week.

A Brief and Meaningful Visit

A Meaningful and Brief VisitHim: its going well how about u 

Me: Working. Finished writing a book. You know! I look forward to seeing you. Miss you. xo

Him: How was it and i look foward to seeing you too Miss you 

Me: how was writing a 230 page book? arduous, emotional and immensely gratifying. xo

Him: I cant even write a one page essay hahaha

Me: Yes you can. It takes practice just like everything else in life. Let me know if you ever need help. You’re funny, and I bet you could write funny if you wanted to. See you Saturday. xo

***

I finished writing my book, and a week later, I texted my ex’s son to make plans to see him. It had been a couple of months and the two events had beautifully converged.

It stills make my heart skip a beat when he inquires about me; what I’m doing, how I’m doing. Friends who have kids tell me that it’s rare that their teenagers answers their texts, let alone engage them in a dialogue.

It would be too easy for me to doubt, mistrust or excuse his words away as something that he says just to be nice. Then again, what if it is? It wouldn’t change a thing for me or how I feel about him.

After I spent the day with his sister, we drove to the outdoor cafe where he works. She and I stood off to the side, waiting for him to look up and notice us. We didn’t want to flail our arms around in the hopes of getting his attention, causing a scene or getting him into trouble.

After several minutes, he looked up; his long, wavy brown hair, held back by a headband that boys his age are wearing these days. His face immedialtely lit up and he smiled. I smiled back.

Sure I noticed his reaction, but I took it in stride and kept my giddiness to myself. Over the years, I’ve learned not to attach too much meaning (or any meaning) to the acts, words and feelings that go on in our relationship because as it evolves and morphs, I’m constantly redefining it.

I was only too happy to see him and to give him an embarrassingly long hug, especially since he was on the clock and there were many people around. It always surprises me when he confidently, and without embarrassment, allows me to physically show him my love. Oh, how far I’ve come.

The exchange was brief yet long enough for me to cup his stubbly teenage-acne face in my hands and tell him that I loved him. He responded, “I love you too,” before going back to work. My heart skipped its beat.

As his sister and I walked to the car, she apologized for the brief visit. She went on to explain that her brother only wants to spend time with his friends these days but that it would change once he got older. Who was the adult/mother-ish/parental-like figure here?

I told her that it was okay and that her brother should be spending his time with his friends. I certainly didn’t take it personally. “I didn’t want to hang out with my parents when I was his age. It’s how it goes.”

We got in the car, and she turned to me. “Yes, but did you see how his face lit up when he saw you. He got so happy.”

Yes, I did. And I’m going to trust it.

 

Leo DiCaprio and I Are Both Revenants

Leonardo Dicaprio Revenant

PhotoCredit:showbiz411.com

If you would have told me that a week before Christmas, I’d be imbibing with my ex-boyfriend’s ex-wife, while sitting on the edge of her bathtub in a bathroom in her townhouse in suburban New Jersey, while watching her apply make-up and do up her hair before meeting her boyfriend, I would have said that there was a better chance of finding out that I was adopted and that my biological parents were Gladys Knight and any one of the Pips.

I sat on the edge of the tub and we chatted about hair products, and the kids. I laughed quietly to myself because I felt like I was eight years old, watching my mom ready herself for a night on the town. I used to hang out with her mainly because I was avoiding going downstairs, knowing that my brother was walking around with his underwear on his head trying to shock the babysitter.

Drinking Pinot Grigio while talking to the ex-wife’s reflection in the mirror was just another surreal moment in a scroll length list of surreal moments that had occurred over the last two years since her ex-husband and I broke up.

Most people can’t get their heads around the fact that I’ve continued to nurture my relationships with the Girlfriend Mom kids but then when I tell them that I’ve rock climbed, and broken bread with their mother, the ex-wife, they’re positively flummoxed and judgy.

I was hesitant reaching out to her years ago. Some of it was out of loyalty to my ex, and some of it was fear. I never had an ex-wife in my life and I wasn’t exactly sure how that dance went; or what to wear.  

Then it slowly occurred to me that I didn’t owe anybody anything, loyalty or otherwise, and I had to do what was right for me and my quest for keeping those that I loved in my life, no matter what the cost, or how scared I was.

This quest was a bit like the one Leo DiCaprio takes in his recent movie, Revenant. Stay with me here.

Leo plays a fur trapper, and when he’s attacked by a bear, he’s left to die by his own hunting team. While I’m no fur trapper (nor was I attacked by a bear and left to rot) a part of me died after my break-up, leaving me alone to find a way to maintain my relationship with my team member’s kids. Leo and I were both explorers as we discovered new land. I was a friggin’ pioneer on my expedition.

Along our journey, Leo and I both found ourselves navigating uncharted territory under harsh conditions. My conditions were more of the emotional variety, while his included swimming in icy rivers and eating raw bison liver. You say tomato, I say tomahto.

He had to cauterize his wounds, which I’m sure was awfully painful. However, my unimaginable grief, and betrayal was no less painful. Thankfully no burning of flesh was necessary.

What kept me going (like Leo) was sheer will. In my case, I also had the love of two kids. It was a question of survival for both Leo and myself, and our determination to thrive. I can’t speak for him, as I haven’t seen the movie, but I sure as hell have thrived.

One of the definitions of a revenant is that of a sentient being returning from the dead with the goal of terrorizing the living. An ex-wife and an ex-girlfriend are talking in a bathroom. That could be terrorizing to some, no? Muahahaha buahahaha.

MISS PIGGY and KERMIT CALL IT QUITS

Liam and MissPiggy

Liam and Miss Piggy

In case you’ve been living under a rock for the past month, or obsessing over the possibility of a President Trump, or the rollercoaster ride the stock market is taking us all on, I must inform you that Miss Piggy and Kermit have called it quits.

I know, I was just as upset. Sure they had their problems, but what passionate couple doesn’t? Sure he’s an Amphibian and she’s a mammal. Yes, he’s tailless, and she’s what the Jewish people might call, dirty, and non-kosher. But they were fun to watch, and they had that Je ne sais quoi.

It seems that every other day a celebrity couple’s relationship goes into the crapper, or someone you know; a friend, or family member, is divorcing, but the Muppets? Why? Now where are my role models going to come from? Are my parents, whose 52 years and counting, (Happy Anniversary by the way) are all that’s left?! Who’s next, Bert and Ernie?

I suppose we’re all the same; muppets and humans alike. The  muppets are simply mirroring us mortals, and this could not have been truer when the entertainment rags reported that Kermit had already found a new pig; a pig with auburn hair.

Oh, Kermit, why so soon? Miss Piggy’s snout wasn’t even warm, and you’ve leap frogged onto another. Miss Piggy had barely left the barn, and Kermit had started dating Denise, a younger, 25, and thinner pig. Kermit is 60 years old, and Missy Piggy is only 41. I suppose 20 years just wasn’t young enough.

When Kermit sang, “It’s Not Easy Being Green,” I fell in love with his vulnerability and sensitivity. I thought that he and Miss Piggy would be forever. What a hard lesson to learn.

I still have hope, however, because a life without it, isn’t a life worth living. Miss Piggy and Kermit have broken up before, so perhaps they’ll find each other again.

Lest anyone think that Miss Piggy is curled up in a fetal position on the kitchen floor of her sty, she’s not. She’s been spotted out with, non other than hunky hunk, Liam Hemsworth. Croak on that Kermit.

Post Divorce: Where’s My Bubble Bath For Three?

Post Divorce

PhotoCredit:galleryhip.com

Bravo is premiering it’s first scripted show in December called, The Girlfriend’s Guide to Divorce, based off the books by Vicki Iovine. It promises to shed light on the bright sight of being single.

I have not seen the show in it’s entirety, nor have I read the book. My opinions are based solely on the show’s trailer. But from what I saw in the preview, “Damn, divorce looks sexy, fun and au courant.”

Shit, I want to get married again, just so I can get divorced. Who wouldn’t when you see the main character in the show, living in a beautiful house with a pool in the Hollywood Hills, with a 360 degree view of the city of angels, with all of it’s sparkling lights and broken dreams.

Of course, this is where sexy fun lives, so of course divorce, (and being single) looks fabulous. Our lead is a famous author, with a series of published books, a literary agent, book signings and money.

One of her quirky funny best friend is played by Janeane Garofalo. That has to help with the depression and sadness that, from the looks of it, only lasted a week, because Janeane will bring the comedy and lift her best friend’s spirits.

Her other best friend tells her that, since she’s now single, (although she’s seen with a father from her kid’s school), she should have a threesome. So easy, and breezy, that it looks as if one simply has to open their front door, and poof, bubblebath for three! I wish it were that easy. What?

This recently divorced playground portrayed in the show is insulting to those of us who have been divorced, or have had a break-up from a longterm relationship (or both) because the fallout from these intense events looked nothing like this impeccably dressed and fit author’s life.

The show is like one big ass cliche.

This recently divorced woman is now free, and did what we all did when we found ourselves single again; we went to a dance club, and hoofed it up to ear bleeding thumping and pumping dance beats, screaming, “Yeah, I’m free!” Then we picked up a random young guy and made out with them outside of the women’s bathroom. It’s uncanny how this show mirrors my own life. How did Bravo know?

Our lead character is shown swapping saliva with a complete stranger. Ew! Double ew! What is this, Studio 54, circa 1982? Helloooo, Ebola? Is anyone watching the news?

If the gals in Sex and The City got divorced, that’s what this show looks like. I never watched SATC when it first came out, but I’ve seen the reruns, and it’s depiction of single life in New York is just a wee bit far fetched, or rather, identifies only a teeny tiny faction of the population.

So it is the same with The Girlfriends Guide to Divorce. Yes, it’s television. Yes, it’s eye candy. Yes, it’s fantasy, but I wonder if divorced women watching, might not feel worse than they already do, because their post-divorce, or break-up, lives (for the most part) and I’m only guessing, looks nothing like the ones in this show.

Do these women watching now wonder, “Where are my champagne wishes and caviar dreams, with the hot bartender at the cocktail party, hosted by my famous friends in their Malibu beach house?

One of the tag lines is, “Sometimes you have to start over in order to find yourself.” I have done nothing but start over again, and again and again, throughout my life; men, marriage, jobs, locations. Starting over is exhausting. Besides, wouldn’t it be romantic if you could find yourself while in the company of someone else?