It was just about one year ago that I wrote my first gratitude journal. I must admit, it was not easy to feel grateful about a whore-mongering husband or a best friend who decided to set her beady, near-sighted eyes on my philandering spouse. But I remember thinking even at the time that it was important for me to take the high road. (Plus I had recently read in People that stress ages you, which was so not an acceptable option.) In any event, I remember sitting at my dining room table (which seemed so much larger once I kicked Jeffrey out) and trying to say the phrase, “Thank-you.” I kind of stuttered over the syllables, like suddenly English was a foreign language, and I remember my tongue felt like cotton in my mouth. (That might also have been the lobster I consumed in celebration of my newfound freedom. It seems that liberation gives me hives.)

However, even in my drunken stupor (of course, there was Chardonnay involved) I recognized my need to move beyond the petty stages of anger and frustration (I am at times, highly intuitive) and to embrace the new life that I knew was about to be mine. That said, there are many things that I am thankful for this year. So, in honor of Thanksgiving and new beginnings and cheating ex-husbands who give us all a new lease on life without even knowing it, I am going to share a few. If you would like to share back, please feel free. I am feeling the love this year.

So again, in no particular order (if you were here last time, you know the drill) here goes:

In general, I like to talk about sex way more than I like to talk about politics. I always feel more satisfied after a good girl gab that has to do with our sex lives (or lack thereof) than one of those boring meetings about who is running for city council. So when Annabelle said she was getting a bunch of us together for Chinese I got very excited. First of all, we all find Chinese kind of an aphrodisiac. (Annabelle says it’s the Five Spice Powder but my vote goes to the MSG.) Second, the delivery guy from California Wok has killer abs and wears skintight T-shirts that say things like, “Soy Boy” and “Stir Fry Guy.” Last but not least, I love Chinese food. I love the flavors, I love the way it fills me up fast and I love the way an hour or so later it leaves you wanting more. The way I see it, Chinese food is like sex, only better because you can get it any time you want. (Actually, if you are Jeffrey you can pick up the phone and call for sex and have it delivered just like Chinese food. But you sure can’t trust the egg rolls, if you know what I mean.)

I’ve never been that big on anniversaries. Well, let me put it another way. Jeffrey was never that big on anniversaries and so I guess I picked that little bad habit up from him. He said he didn’t want us to be like everybody else. That holidays of any kind were a Hallmark construct and that he sure as hell wasn’t buying in. He refused to get me flowers on Valentine’s day and when my birthday rolled around, if I wasn’t buying myself a piece of bling you could be damn sure no one else was either. As far as our wedding anniversary — well, it goes without saying.

So — imagine my surprise when I woke up this morning and realized that it was more or less one year ago that I found the “Bat Phone.” You remember don’t you? Innocent me, opening Jeffrey’s sock drawer, only to find the red iPhone with the Concubine’s number programmed in? (Lesson number one. Don’t get in the habit of putting away your husband’s clean socks and underwear. It can only lead to trouble.) Anyhoo, this morning I realized that through no fault of my own I was celebrating an anniversary. In fact, it was almost one year ago today that I started down the slippery slope to singledom. In honor of this momentous occasion, I stopped at Starbucks for a double soy milk no foam, grande latte, programmed my divorce attorney into my speed dial and drove Mr. Handsome up to school.

I am not one to hold a grudge. Okay, I am one to hold a grudge (see Jeffrey, see Jeffrey fucks Super Fan in my very own living room) but in honor of the Jewish Holidays, I had made a plan to get over that. Not to get over the Super Fan fucking, necessarily, but the holding a grudge part. Holding a grudge is not good for the mind or the body or the spirit (I read this somewhere, or perhaps I heard it on Oprah) but with that in mind I set out to embrace the New Year.

Now, as I may have mentioned, I am half Jewish. The Jewish half is actually my father, which technically doesn’t make me Jewish I suppose, but I was raised a nominal Jew (going to temple twice a year, eating borscht) and that was enough for me to pass it on to my children. Jeffrey is Jewish too, and despite my misgivings we joined one of those temples that have too many agents and managers and lawyers who go there to do business (kind of like choosing the right pre-school, choosing the right temple in Los Angeles is serious work) and we would go there pretty much never except for Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. I’m not saying I’m proud of how we did things, but I’m not un-proud of it either, it’s just the way it was.

As I may have implied, it’s been a long, not so hot summer. And though I won’t get into it now, I needed a bit of cheering up recently which had less to do with Jeffrey and his exploits (more on that later) than it did with me and my not so sordid past. Taking this into consideration, Annabelle, she of the George Hamilton tan and the Eres bikini (thank you rich boyfriend with a house on St. Barts) came by on Saturday night, scooped me out of my Waterworks bathrobe (a fine investment if you want to spend the day in bed with a supersize bag of Fritos) and insisted I accompany her to a party.

Now I may or may not have mentioned that in my tender youth I aspired to be a groupie. I sucked at it actually, because aside from sticking out my thumb to hitchhike now and again, and taking an occasional puff off someone else’s joint, I was pretty tame in my approach to living. I aspired to be the girl who followed the band, and I once did sleep outside the New Haven Coliseum to get tickets to see Bruce Springsteen, but my first concert ever was John Denver and for a hideously long time that set the tone for my entire way of being. By the way, who is “Annie” and why did she get her own song? My guess is she gave Mr. Denver his first Rocky Mountain high.

Still, Annabelle was well aware that for many years I was madly in love with this musician/guitar player who did session work with Dan Fogelberg (yes, I was that predictable) and when I met Jeffrey I have to admit that the fact that he played the drums totally turned me on. (In retrospect, all that incessant banging should have been a clue.) Regardless, I still really dig musicians. Which for anyone under the age of eighteen who is reading right now, is not necessarily to be recommended.

Helloooo!! I’m back! Miss me?

Well, I sure have missed you and from what I’ve heard (yes, yes, I do read email, I just have an eency problemo answering it) some of you have noticed my summertime hiatus and wondered about my imminent return. Well summer is over and I am here to tell you many things have transpired (including the fact that yet again I managed to get a nasty rash from self tanner instead of a sexy, man-luring tan) but most importantly, I AM HOME.

Now, the definition of home is a complicated one for some people, but not for me. Home is where Mr. Handsome and Roo go to bed before midnight. Home is where the bed sheets aren’t always crunchy with sand (well, not usually.) Home is where I don’t wear the same white T-shirt seven days in a row. (In fact, home is where I don’t ever wear white if I can help it.) Home is where I go back on my diet, where gelato isn’t on the top of the food pyramid and where bathing suits (especially anything ending in “ini”) STAY IN A DRAWER. But mostly, home is where right now the suitcases and their sweaty, dirt-encrusted contents are splayed all over the living room floor. (Home is also where I need to clean the house with that new, eco-friendly green stuff that I have been threatening to use. Because at this very moment, home has been boarded up for weeks and well, you know how it is— home kind of smells.)

But smells are fine. Smells are cool when they are your own smells and not necessarily the smells of people who believe deodorant is a luxury item. So when we walk in the front door for the first time in weeks and Roo sticks his little nose in the air and sniffing says, “This place smells bene!” (That’s “good,” in Italian) I totally understand. (Mr. Handsome could care less about the smell. He goes straight for the television to see if the Sponge Bob Square Pants Movie was TIVO recorded. He has his priorities.)

Dear Hot Flashes Fans,

Have you been asking, "Where in the world is Esme"?

We were wondering the same thing until we received a postcard last week — or what was once a postcard. Under a fine schmear of sticky goo (tastes like margarita mix), tiny bits of ground rock (sand and crystallized salt), and chocolatey fingerprints (which forensics matched up to Roo), we were able to surmise that Esme and her boys are enjoying the last days of summer somewhere warm and quite possibly tropical.

Not to worry, Esme assures us she will come back in time to share those back-to-school daze and to relay all her summer adventures. For now, they are just enjoying each other's company.

We look forward to hearing from them soon.

The First Wives World Team

Every so often something happens to remind you time is passing. The bagels that you bought two weeks ago turn moldy; the cable company sends a bill marked, “urgent”; the cute teenage boy at the supermarket check-out calls you “Ma’am.” (For any woman over the age of thirty-five, an especially rough one.) And then, to add insult to injury, if you’re a parent, particularly in touchy feely Southern California, there’s “Move Over Day” at school.

A few weeks ago I read this article about a pair of Buddhist teachers who live as a couple and have taken a vow never to be more than fifteen feet apart. This is apparently more than a little controversial in the world of Buddhist scholarship because among other things, the relationship is being presented as a celibate but intimate partnership between an older man and a young woman who some in the community refer to as a “blonde bombshell.” Now, though your definition of a “bombshell” might differ from someone who has spent twenty years in a monastery, the point is, no one thinks this set up can actually work. The vow applies to their hearts and minds but in particular to their bodies, which means they are literally together all the time.

This Buddhist couple got me to thinking. I mean, the premise sounded horrible and interesting at the same time. The idea of never being able to be more than fifteen feet away from your partner sounds intriguingly atrocious. They even go to the bathroom together (apparently if they’re in an airport one will stand outside the bathroom door to spare the general public) but I stopped peeing in front of guys when Mr. Handsome was three years old and he asked me why I had “wire hair.” (Raoul — the handyman — was in the house when he said this. I was mortified and my handyman couldn’t stop laughing.)

It all starts when I make up with La Annabelle. It's Friday night and the "Sex and the City" movie has just opened and my doorbell rings. Jeffrey has the boys for three days, because, I kid you not, he's supposed to spend a week at some ashram in the Blue Ridge Mountains and he wants some "quality time" with his offspring before he goes. This ashram nonsense is his Father's Day gift from the Concubine, who God bless her stupid little heart, insists on staying with him, at least through the summer. (This may have something to do with the tacky mansion he always rents on the beach in Santa Barbara every August, or it might just be his money.)

Anyhoo, I open the door and there's La Annabelle, with Cody the vegan teetering next to her. They're all glammed up, wearing Manolos, and oddly (or not so oddly) there are Cosmos in their hands. (Actually, Cody's shoes are that cruelty free brand that Natalie Portman, also a vegan, has designed. Even for the most anticipated chick flick of the century, Cody won't cross to the dark side.) "Are you my Miranda or my Charlotte?" Annabelle says, then reaches into her Balenciaga (the same one she flounced out of my house with when we had that nasty fight) and pulls out a bedazzled thermos. "I'm your fucking Samantha," I tell her, and kind of thrust out my boobs. Then Annabelle tells me to get the hell out of my ratty jeans and t-shirt because we're going to the movies. "Move your cute ass," she adds, "We have to stop somewhere first." "Stop where?" I ask her and she just shakes her head mysteriously while Cody wobbles in her meatless shoes and does her best not to give anything away. "What's the J-ster doing for Father's Day?" Annabelle asks me and when I tell her he's having dinner at home with the C-word and the kids she says something that sounds like, "Last Supper," which in the moment, I don't really understand.