Well, you know how I feel about the word Cougar — don’t like it. Wrote about it many times on FWW.

But the word and the lifestage it defines are so pervasive now that Saturday Night Live is doing ongoing Cougar skits. They did one again this past Saturday with Cameron Diaz.

We cannot deny that older women are now back on the market in large numbers as a direct result of divorce, and that younger men are a viable romantic option like never before.

I think it’s a good thing that women are busting up the old double standard — and yes, I admit it provides lots of comedy — BUT, Saturday Night Live inspired me to address the stereotype directly to the show. So here goes.

My Dear SNL writers,

The Cougar Den & Cameron Diaz are hysterical.

You have inspired me to do kegels as I write this.

In fact, I am even thinking of turning my spare room into a cougar den thanks to you all.

I just wanted to point out that while you're dreaming up new cougar episodes, you might want to consider that cougars (even though I hate that word) come in all shapes, sizes, and colors. They don't all look like Cameron Diaz.

You might want to broaden your cougar casting options.

The bimbo thing is something you might want to look into, too.

Cougars, because they are older — as you so clearly “coif” them — lean more toward being professional and experienced. Most are not floozies (even though some neighbors might disagree). We're talkin’ educated, been-there-done-that women exploring new options.

What the hell, the dating pool is much shallower later in life and filled with many older men who are leaking testosterone in search of arm candy to validate their masculinity.

There are three guitars strewn around the living room. My band rehearsal ran late and I'm trying to adjust to life at warp speed, because in five minutes the kids will blast through the door.

I play in Housewives on Prozac with four other women. We're all at different stages of relationships, but I'm the only one who's single with four kids. 

Never mind that multi-tasking in my house means every pot in the kitchen is blackened on the bottom.

There's a dangerous pattern developing. Meals keep getting started and end up on fire. Dogs are left outside while the sun goes down. And I'm especially jammed when it comes to any kind of a personal life.

Summer was all about bliss. So this is a good time to ask, Where the heck is the sanity?

I admit it helps to burn off steam by turning things into loud songs. Housewives on Prozac has played PTA fundraisers and large-scale stadium gigs. We did the theme song for the Liberty Girls basketball team at Madison Square Garden.

We've been playing together for 10 years and find tremendous solace and humor in each other. I'm the lead singer, and do most of the song writing.  

Each of the girls brings something unique to the project musically speaking, but, even more, they have been my steadfast friends through all the ups and downs of parenthood, separation, and divorce.

Look at the music from 1997 to 1999, with songs like "BabySlave" and "Rich Man Blues." Then there was a progression in 2000 to "Chemotherapy" and "Two Little Pills." By 2002, we were cultivating our own little cult hits with things like "Eat Your Damn Spaghetti" and "Fuzzy Slippers," and two years ago it was "The Heart Wants What the Heart Wants" and "We're All a Little Crazy."

Obviously my "coolness" factor is on the upswing, as I was invited to the gala premiere movie screening of The Lifetime original movie Coco Chanel — hosted by Lifetime Television, Vidal Sassoon and The Hollywood Reporter Monday night.

I loved it! And highly recommend you tune in if you find your "cute divorced self" sitting on the couch this coming Saturday night.

Shirley MacLaine, who plays Coco in the later years of her life, was in person at the event, and was just fabulous. Barbara Bobulova, who played Coco as a younger woman was incredible.

Why is this all relevant to you?

Well, Coco Chanel's story is an incredible inspiration to any woman who has had to "make it on her own." She never married, and had regrets about that. She loved deeply, but suffered many instances of great loss. Her work became her drug of choice to cope.

Many of us know that drill.

According to Shirley MacLaine, Coco was a name borrowed from a dog in a bar. Coco's real name was Gabrielle, and her real last name was Chaznel. Coco's character had a couple of lines in the movie that really resonated; I typed the words I wanted to remember to tell you on the keypad of my silent iPhone, in the dark, during the movie without reading glasses.

When I checked back today to clarify the quote, it read "channel cinnabons."

I went to a barbecue at my boyfriend's mother's house last weekend. I had already met her a couple of times before, but this time, I was bringing my son. There was supposed to be a crowd of friends and family, along with his sister (whom I know and like), so I wasn't sweating it too much. 

I much prefer functions like those. Where you can sort of find one person to chat with and get lost in the shuffle. I like big families. Levi's family was way too small.

I was having a really fantastic time when I looked over and saw his mother holding a present wrapped in paper that said "Grandma" all over it. This woman doesn't have any grandchildren.

She saw me looking at her — and I'm sure I had that "What the %&^*" look on my face — so I blurted (who hasn't done that?), "Does that say 'Grandma' on it?" She nodded at me. Then her friend, who had given her the gift, jumped in and said, "Oh, anything for a laugh, you know?"

I was sitting there thinking — but this time not saying — no, I don't know. What the hell?

I feel like I've been dealing with this kind of bullshit forever now. When my boyfriend and I first met he was inundated with people telling him to "WATCH OUT" or, "She's on the lookout for a father for her child," etc. etc. etc. The implication made me so angry; as if I'm willing to allow just any man to be a father to my child. Give me a break.

Yes, I am a single mother, and I love my son, but he is not what defines me. I define me. My decisions define me, like the decision to keep my child. My intelligence defines me. 

OK — it's the dreaded last week of summer...and we all hang on to it like a dog to the pant leg of a postman. This might be a good thing since everyone I know has gained weight since it began.

What's up with that?

Bloated single moms everywhere are racing around getting their kids ready for school. Booting up for back to school is "tums"-ultuous when you're a single mom. It's a frenzy of exhausting checklists, kids need everything, and you are a human money pit.

Going away, if you can swing it or a few more rule-free days, is a good thing...staying home and puttering around is also a good thing.

There's nobody to do business with...or make an impression upon.

Nobody cares...well almost nobody.

If people owe you money, you cant get a hold of them.

If you owe people money, they're away and you buy a few days.

The mythical end of summer will confuse you next week because you pull back the curtain and it will still look and feel exactly like summer, only you are not supposed to be having fun anymore.

So — whatever is going on with you this week, make sure you try to maximize any and every last window of opportunity of guilt-free summer pleasure for yourself.

You know you deserve it, and goodness knows next week is going to feel a lot different...even if it looks the same.

Imagine? YOU could take The Gold every time!

Inspired by the Olympics and delusional that I somehow can still get my body to look like those women's volleyball contenders, I was thinking...

There are so many things a divorced gal becomes proficient at by necessity — by herself — that there should be some way to get credit for it. Just maybe there should be some kind of Divorced Women's Olympics.

There would be global contenders.

Here are some divisions in which any one of you could take a medal:

Grocery Power Lifting

The Financial Balance Beam

She-Man Provider Competition

Single Mom Relay

Solo Wrestling With Yourself

Set the Table Tennis

Laundry Volleyball

Extreme Soul Searching

My favorite? The Divorce Decathalon!

"Heptathlon" actually is the proper word for the female version of this track and field competition, made up of these seven events: 100 meter hurdles, high jump, shot put, 200 meter sprint, long jump, javelin throw, and the 800 meter run.

As we all know, this sounds like a typical day BEFORE lunch.

The final event would be the "Late Life Luge"...jump on, hang on, close your eyes, say a prayer, take the ride of your life and hope you make it to the finish line in one piece.

The last one might take some extra practice but since you've got nothing to lose — you might as well Go For The Gold!

In my ongoing quest to spend a month happily living solo, I decided to spring for some fresh, fanciful fare.

I've just finished reading French Women Don't Get Fat. It seems the French drink a lot of champagne and that, somehow, ingesting quality ingredients keeps their women from over eating.

I scored beautiful local goat cheese at the Hastings Farmers Market and picked up a lovely pink Brut for under $40.

I don't usually drink alcohol while I'm alone, but I'm in survival mode and the kids don't get back until after Labor Day.

Popping the cork and pouring the Brut into a pink marabou martini glass, purchased at the TJ Maxx bargain rack, life seems sort of okay for the moment.

This was not a reward for spending a month in isolation. I don't need a reward, because I know that a workshop or trip to the Omega Institute is coming up.

However, I'm convinced that every night I spend alone is going to help me be a stronger person.

Admittedly, as I'm having these thoughts, there is a strong craving for a Valium or something else that will make me feel numb.

I used to feel desperate if I didn't have a man in my life. I still feel desperate, but when I compare the relative peace of my little blue house in Hastings to my married life in the mansion, with my over-the-top, angry ex-spouse, I'm satisfied with my decision.

But when I think of the things I gave up to be a hermit, I want to cry. Family and friends from the last 20 years are gathering on Fire Island this month to swim, laugh, and sail together.

Flirting with single guys, and sometimes even the husbands of my friends, chatting with the hunky lifeguards, and making the rounds to Saltaire, Fair Harbor, and Kismet were all part of my married life.

Feeling popular, rich, and loved seemed ingredients for a perfect life. But they're not.

OK, it's a weekend...and my "Guilt-O-Meter" will begin to rise from LIGHTLY GUILTY on Friday night to HOLY MOTHER OF GUILT by Sunday night.

Here how's it works:

Friday:

It all starts mid-Friday for this single mom, with thoughts of weekend "possibilities". It's a running battle of Guilt vs. Pleasure, and it's played out like a really sadistic game show.

Beginning about midday, thoughts of the approaching night swirl through my head... Friends? Romance? Exercise? Romance? Family? Romance?

If I wait too long to make a decision it gets dark out, and I get pooped out.

But Friday night is supposed to be the start of a breather and, with a little extra caffeine, I can gear up for pleasure. Unless it happens to storm, my hair’s too dirty, or I'm too fat...all of which even I can mostly get past these days with my new free wheeling thinking.

If I miss the caffeine, I land on the couch.

If I make it out, I am usually already guilty when I wake up on Saturday.

Saturday:

The GUILT-O-METER starts at "PARTLY GUILTY" the minute I open my eyes and steadily rises. As I zoom around doing errands , thoughts of Needs vs Desires thrash around in my head.

The Needs: things like a car wash, household fixits, food shopping, laundry, manicure, etc., etc., etc. are all pitted directly against…

The Desires: laying at a pool, going on a boat, buddy time with my daughter, and lust. No time for sitting down here. Whichever I choose, I start feeling guilty about not doing the other.

Saturday Night:

The GUILT-O-METER holds steady at "MOSTLY GUILTY" because there's no way I completed everything on the Needs list earlier, and I am either out thinking screw it or I am home on the couch passed out.

Busy people, who surround themselves with four kids, a husband, a wide social circle, a dog, two cats, and countless gerbils, do it because they don't like to be alone. I am one of those people.

My girlfriends, therefore, called me crazy when I told them I was going to go without a date for the next month.

I had no idea it was going to be so hard. Unplugging the phone and suspending the match.com account has not been without ramifications. The first night was horrible.

It reminded me of the first weeks of being separated.

The first thing I did Friday night after work was turn the lights down and turn the radio up. With the scent of candles wafting through the house, I ran a bath and decided to concentrate on "me" time.

Normally the kids would be watching TV in the living room, asking for second helpings of dinner. On nights when the kids are with their Dad, I'd be out for drinks with friends.

Weekends post-divorce, I'd usually be juggling a man, or two.

But not this month. This is solo month and I'm determined to find out what makes me tick.

There is no choice but to succeed. If I can't wrestle some quiet time into my hectic life, then nothing is going to change from the days when I was married.

By 8 o'clock I'd downed two glasses of wine and was feeling weepy. Wine churning around in an empty stomach, and the silence of a childless house, were enough to make me run screaming from the suburbs.

When the divorce was first under way, I'd thought about getting an apartment in the city. My ex told me that he'd make life with the children impossible if I did that, so I'd reneged, a good choice for the kids, but a tough sacrifice for a middle-age woman alone in a house in the middle of August, with nothing but the crickets chirping outside.

It might as well have been Stephen King's Maine.

If you were married to one very particular type of person, say, the deer head on the wall, lifetime NRA member redneck type, then it would stand to reason that you just might want to step outside of your regular pool of male types and go for something exotic.

Perhaps an African-American instead. Yep. That was sort of my mind set when I finally decided to have sex again after being divorced and removed from Stinky for a year and a half. And younger. Yeah, that's the ticket. Let's see I am 49, so what about someone, say, 23 years younger than me. Yep, again. That might just work.

Well, my dear FWW'ers. It didn't. In fact it was quite the disappointing fiasco. Naturally, we'll keep the names out to protect the innocent. Or is it the guilty? Ah, well.

God love him, he was so young and inexperienced, but very drawn to me, and, naturally, I was loving the hell out of that. He pursued me, and let's just say that I didn't resist. I mean, he was a living doll, and he was young and virile, or so I thought.

It was Jan. 1, and I'd heard that whatever you do the first day of the New Year is what you'll do the most of for the rest of the year, and it damn sure was not going to be laundry! So, I took the plunge. Of course, I did have to drink a couple of glasses of wine to get my courage up, then I just showed up and we had sex.

It wasn't horrible, but it needed much improvement. Unfortunately, the second time was twice as bad, and I just decided to throw in the towel, dress and go.

He wanted me to help him, and he said I could be his teacher. Well, women, I have to tell you that being a young man's teacher just doesn't have the same appeal at 50 that it did at 40. No, really. It doesn't.

I'm right back at that place where I want somebody else to "knock my socks off." I've been working for years at pleasing others, and now, now it's my turn.