Our D-I-V-O-R-C-E becomes final today
Me and little J-O-E will be goin' away
I love you both and it will be pure H-E double L for me
Oh, I wish that we could stop this D-I-V-O-R-C-E.
~Tammy Wynette

Divorce is ugly. In the south it’s so bad, some people can’t even say the word. They have to spell it.

The husband/wife relationship in Dixie is unique. Down here, marriage is still considered a sacred thing. In the Bible Belt, scripture says it is the woman’s place to keep the family together. If a divorce happens, it is always going to be blamed on the woman. After all, it’s up to her to hold the marriage together, to do enough to keep him interested and to always fight for him. Loretta Lynn can handle this one:

You say you're gonna take him
But I don't believe you can
Cause you ain't woman enough to take my man

Down south, a divorcee is considered a fallen woman who must have done something wrong. Or perhaps she didn’t do something right. In either case, she drove him away. A divorced man, however, is considered a good prospect.

“Before my friend divorced her husband for infidelity, his mistress she caught him with, sat up in bed and said if you were satisfying your man, he wouldn’t have to go looking for it someplace else,” said Tahira Hensley, a home loan specialist.

“The woman is the bad guy, every time.”

Gina, a home stager, says “My family was so upset when I told them that Bill had walked out on me and our boys that they actually called him to try to patch things up for us. Talk about humiliating! It’s not bad enough he left us to find himself, my family took his side!”

My daughter's best friend's mother (got that?) is getting remarried. The young lady, we'll call her Molly, is quite unhappy about it and has spoken to me about it seeking support and comfort. This is tricky.

I've told Molly that though she disapproves of her mother's choice, the man does make her mother happy and her mother does deserve love. Molly does not disagree with me about this but tells me that the man is inappropriate with her mother when she is around, touching and fondling her mother, she says.

The groom-to-be has five children from his previous marriage(s), and though his children are with their mother(s) most of the time, summer vacations and holidays and every other weekend, this will be quite a blended household.

She is concerned because they will eventually sell their home, and she and her sixteen year old sister will be moving into another man's house and will be constantly interacting and living with five other children.

Wow. What can I say to this?

Blended families are kind of like mixing different recipes together. The result will not be one or the other but some kind of new creation. Whether or not this new creation turns into something that everyone can learn to live and hopefully be happy with is the responsibility of both of the adults.

Unfortunately, in this case, the man is feeling a bit threatened by the step-family's attitude, and he doesn't seem to want to do anything to encourage faith and trust for Molly and her sister. The bride to be is feeling protective of her marital choice and defensive when it comes to her family's feelings about her upcoming nuptials.

Consequently, no one is doing anything to make this better. If I knew the woman and man better, I would recommend family counseling, but I'm pretty sure that my advice would not be welcome.

Ah, the bad behavioral patterns that we developed from the time we were a child that followed us into early adulthood, our marriages and our mothering. If you're not careful you will find yourself slipping. And when you're in the moving beyond phase of your divorce, you have to be on the look out for the ghosts of bad behavior from your past.

At 51 I think it's a little late to blame who I am and what I've done, at least in the last decade of two, on my parents. They tried. They did their best. But, it simply wasn't enough. If you're somewhere in my age bracket, then you were raised by the children of the Great Depression. Hell, my mother was born in 1930! Our parents felt that if they clothed, fed and sheltered us, we were good to go. They had no way of knowing how introspective we would all eventually end up becoming.

It's Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs — there are six levels with number one being the most basic, food, clothing and shelter. Six is Self Actualization. Our parents did not have time to consider the meaning of anything outside of paying the mortgage, cooking, working, cleaning. But today, in the throws of the Information Age, we are all searching. Self-help books and DVD sales are at all-time highs.

But, the bottom line is this: We want to love and be loved. However, the exact process to find this Nirvana has eluded us. We're divorcees. Give me a break. Our marriage failed us. We failed our marriage. We walked away for lack of emotional or financial support. We left because of infidelity. We scrambled out barely with our lives in tact.

However, the last thing we need to do is to repeat wrong behavior. If we had become a door mat for our husbands, a "yes" woman, a punching bag — either verbally or physically (me), we need to make sure we're not sliding back into that. Ever.

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.

Do you believe in "signs"? This is not a rhetorical question. Do you? Remember in Sleepless in Seattle when Meg Ryan said she didn't believe and then the vintage dress tore in the attic with her mother, and she said, "It's a sign."

I believe in them. And isn't that really why most of ask these type questions — so we can tell you what we think and then give you an example? (Smile)

My mother died in October of 2000. It's easy to remember the chain of events that happened the fall before and the fall after. On September 29, 1999, I was driving my Isuzu Trooper into the city of Anchorage, Alaska, for the very first time in my life. And the fall after my mother died, 9/11 happened.

About a month after she'd passed and in early November of 2000, I was sitting in my house in Alaska feeling alone, cold, and depressed. Stinky was spending most of his time up on the North Slope working in the oil industry, and that particular afternoon, the children were sleeping. I put in an old VHS (ah, remember those?) of the movie Ghost.

What's important here is that my mother went to the movie theater twice in her lifetime: once to see The Way We Were and second to see ET (I took her). She was not a movie or television fan. She read books, and lots of them. However, she'd bought this movie for me for some reason. She came home with it and gave it to me as a gift. She said, "I thought you'd like this." Odd.

That afternoon in Alaska, I decided that I needed to watch this movie, so I pulled out a big comforter and hit play.

At one point in the movie, Demi Moore sees Patrick Swayze for the first time since he was murdered, and at that very moment, in my own "life's" movie, my door flew wide open and a rush of leaves blew in. It was simply magical.

Here's a question: Should a mother take her daughter to see Sex and the City? Should I even be asking this question?

I loved the series, but I'm 51 years old. Is it proper for a 13 year old to see this movie?

I don't think so, though my daughter is begging me to let her go. She's seen the softened version of SATC on TBS, and she's in love with the characters. She wants to know what happens to them in the end or more specifically if Big and Carrie get married.

Every little girl's dream — a beautiful wedding complete with gown, flowers, an orchestra, an unblemished face — you know the perfect day. We all had it once.

In the third grade, I was set on marrying a preacher. Don't know why other than as a form of rebellion against my older brother and sister who were best buds and were always leaving me out in the cold. Marrying a preacher seemed to be a way to "get them back" for some reason. Using God as my weapon. Hmmmm.

I did marry, but I was six weeks pregnant and nearly 38 years old. I wore an India style outfit I bought at Pier One Imports (when they used to sell clothes) and I felt like crap. We went to the Justice of the Peace. I had to throw up in the middle of the very brief and non-frilly ceremony, but managed to hold it in until we got home.

I was so sick; I barely made it to the bathroom, removing my clothes as I went for fear of getting them stained. It was awful.

Later, and in sweats, I treated myself to Velveeta Cheese & Macaroni (about all I could stomach) while our few guests had Mexican dishes that made my stomach churn. Yeah, it was a great wedding day and a great experience. Some fairy tale.

Now, back to SATC. I've heard, though I do not know, that the movie is not all peaches and cream and that there is a dark ending. "Dark" meaning what, exactly? Don't know.

I was inside a building that blew up. Yep. KaBam! Boom! Pow!

When the explosion ended almost in a matter of one single second, I found myself blown out of my office chair and on my hands and knees under my desk.

What had just happened? I asked myself, completely unaware of the second and third degree burns that covered my feet, ankles, hands and face.
I immediately scrambled to stand and rushed to get out of the building, as I was quite certain another explosion was to come. I still had no idea what had happened.

That was 25 years ago, but the same emotional shock and confusion and even physical pain would come again when my divorce was final. What had just happened? Yesterday I was married. Today, I'm a single parent raising two young children on my own.

Divorce wreaks your life. So, if you're considering it, please make sure you know that there simply is no other way to survive, literally. If you can find a way to make it work, find that way and make it work.

Divorce is the last resort. It should not be used as an excuse to remove yourself from a situation that has become a little hard, challenging and less fulfilling than it once was. It should not be an excuse to go shopping again for something that you think might bring happiness to you.

Divorce is not an escape valve. It's serious business, and it breaks hearts each and every time.

I am in the "moving beyond" for FWW. That is who I am and what I am doing. It comes with its own set of challenges each day. It comes with its own unfulfillment, it's own lack luster. It's own boredom, strife, heartbreak.

What wonderful changes can you expect when you move beyond divorce? Hmmm, let's see. Depends, really. Some women who become depressed stop eating altogether. Some eat constantly. Some drink. Some go searching for random acts of sexual contact. I did a bit of drinking the first year, and that coupled with fast food, as I was sad and unwilling to cook (which I think is a happy act) allowed my body to find new mass.

Lovely. Weight gain. My favorite thing. Yours, too, I just bet.  

But rather than dwelling on the negative right off the bat, let's start, instead, with the positive. As a 50-year-old woman, a little extra fat in the face makes Botox something completely unnecessary. So, think of it as a free face lift compliments of Ritz crackers, squirt cheese and Tabasco olives, French fries, and sweet tea by the gallons. 

A larger bust - maybe depending on your body type. More breast, I don't need. Hell, I paid $12,000 to have them reduced after Joseph was weaned. But, for some, a little extra might be welcome. 

OK, that's about it for the positive. 

The negative? Ah, where to begin. My skirts hug my waist so tightly that the hug should really be considered a choke hold. My tops "pop" a little if they have buttons in the front. And, for the first time in my life, I have this roll beneath my breasts. And that roll, that roll, is so large it should have an address! 

My neck. OK, where exactly did my whole neck go? I mean it's still there if I push my head out away from my body. I can almost succeed in hiding the extra flesh in pictures with this little move.

Family. That is what holidays have traditionally been about. Father helps children celebrate Mother's Day by purchasing a card or two, flowers, a gift.

Maybe he helps your son and daughter prepare a breakfast complete with your favorite French toast, bacon, and eggs.

Today, moving beyond divorce, holidays have changed. This Mother's Day begins with getting out of bed and feeding the cat and the six little kittens now crying for their kitty food, walking the dog, making my bed, starting another load of endless laundry, and watching the weather channel. I watch the weather channel the way some people listen to the news or radio.

I turn the oven on to broil and I grab some Lenders bagels out of the fridge and split them with my fingers. I place them on my mother's 50-year-old pizza pan and slide the pan into the oven. I wait.

I open the fridge to look for my caffeine fix of sweet tea, and the pitcher is empty of anything except a single swallow. I grab my second choice, the kids' Pepsi. I turn and kick the door shut with my right foot. I pull the bagels out of the oven. I yell, "Breakfast!"

Happy Mother's Day to me.

There is no answer. I yell again, "Breakfast!"

I hear shuffling and laughter.

"Mom!"

"What?" I say. "Breakfast!" My frustration and self pity increasing.

My daughter calls me to her room. I stomp back to the hall muttering to myself about ungrateful children and my life without a spouse and no support, and then I open the bedroom door.

Her eyes wide and sparkling. My son stands beside her barely able to contain his laughter.

They pull their hands out from behind their back. She extends a large pink construction paper creation in front of me with pink paper roses glued to it. She has made a card. It is beautiful. My son has made me three Lego puppies.

Since the divorce (two and a half years ago) and in the last year, I have discovered something quite wonderful. It is that each and everything that we do is important. So, consequently, I am no longer in a rush. Seems I spent 12 years rushing, rushing, rushing to please, to prepare, to arrive on time, to make sure "they" were on time, to get things done. And it nearly killed me.

Today, I take pleasure in the smallest of things. I simply look at the job at hand and begin. I cut linings for my friend's drawers today. I did not over think it. I did not look at all the drawers and think, "Oh, my God, there are so many of them."

She gave me the assignment, and I poured myself into it. I sat in the sun at my "work" station, which was a bench on her deck. I sat on a cooler with wheels, and I had a razor blade and a block of wood, an ink pen and a tape measure to complete my work.

I sat and drank a Smirnoff lemonade thing and began the task at hand. I did not care if there were rolls and rolls of this shelf liner that needed to be measured and cut and that the dimensions had to be 19 ¼ for some and 8 ¾ for others. I spread the material and measured and marked and cut using a quarter round to hold down the liner. I ran my blade as close to the quarter round as I could, paying attention to the fact that I wanted the edges to be smooth and not ragged.

I accomplished my task.

When the kids spill Pepsi or milk. When my dog gets sick and throws upon my floor or when the kitchen pipe under the sink leaks and I have to stop my current task or effort to relax and must stoop, bend, twist, unscrew, wipe, I do it willingly and almost happily.

I am a grateful Samurai, today. A soldier with Krud Kutter and Lysol as my weapons.