There's a new billboard on the highway that I drive to work every day. It pictures two pairs of feet: one small pair standing on top of a big pair. The caption reads, "Have you been a dad today?"

This one, simple thing provokes an enormous amount of thoughts and emotions out of me.

I suppose the most obvious situation I think of is my situation, Adrian's situation.

Levi has not been a father today, he wasn't a father yesterday, and I've got a feeling he won't be being a father tomorrow.

This kind of thing, this totally 100% single parenting thing has felt at times, really lonely and incredibly isolating. I've cringed when people have asked about Adrian's father. I've spent countless hours trying to think of the perfect response to that question, yet, there really isn't one.

But today I'm sitting here thinking to myself that if they've got a billboard on the highway asking men if they've been a father today, well then, I must not be as alone as I feel.

I wonder if it's done any good.

I wonder if a man has driven by that and thought to himself, I should be more of a father.

I wonder how Levi would feel if he drove past it.

My guess is that he would be underwhelmed.

We haven't spoken in a while, Levi and I. It's been peaceful that way but also really sad. It's as if I've finally accepted that he won't be Adrian's father, no matter how hard I try.

I guess I'm glad I've accepted it, but there is something about that acceptance that feels really shitty. Really final.

I wonder if they have billboards like these in Los Angeles.

I feel like putting on my feetie pajamas at 5 o'clock. I know this happens every year when it begins getting dark early, but this year I can't take it any more. I am fighting back! Anything not to be on the couch for hours in between hustling back and forth to the refrigerator.

I need to suck up the daylight whenever I can so I have been forcing myself to get out. Mostly I try and make it to the gym because someone shrunk all the clothes in my closet.

To amuse myself I have been taking all the different kinds of classes they offer. Spin, pilates, kickboxing, body conditioning, etc. Monday night was boxing. I didn't notice I was the oldest person there until about half-way through. My chest was heaving and I was wondering if anyone in the gym had medical knowledge. What the heck was I thinking? After jumping rope, doing pushups on a hard wood floor, and completely flattening my manicure inside my boxing gloves on a punching bag, I had no idea if I would ever see darkness again...I was praying I could get back outside to the dark parking lot.

Too proud to flee, and with raccoon mascara eyes, I really hoped I wouldn't become a casualty. What's too much for a woman my age? Is there an age limit on boxing? Anyway, I made it through, high fived the 20 year olds on the way out and will continue to fight (box) getting SAD this year. SAD being Seasonal Affective Disorder. Lack of sunlight causes serious depression in many people. Figure out how to fight back at it if you are one of them. Maybe you should be the gloved one next?

Okay. I haven't written about the boyfriend in a while. Truth be told, I haven't wanted to jinx it. Things have been going so smoothly I sometimes wonder if there's something wrong?

In the past, I've kept my finger on the pulse of my relationships. If the heart wasn't racing so hard one of us was in danger of a heart attack, then the relationship didn't seem real. It was all emergency-room experiences.

Reality was at such a high pitch, such a fevered pace, there wasn't any down time or room for ambiguity.

Maybe it's maturity. Maybe I'm just exhausted post-divorce, but my new boyfriend and I have a rhythm that's positively lethargic. I'm loving it.

Here's the 411: I'm so busy rushing around with kids, job, music and meetings, that when I make a date with Mr. Right these days, I'm finding peaceful relaxation, safety, security, and the warm-fuzzies are what I'm looking for. Not a racing pulse.

First, I never worry where I stand. He thinks I'm wonderful all the time. Second, whenever I ask, "Would you like to go to such and such?" his response is always, "Are you going to be there?"

He continually assures me that the largest measure of his happiness has to do with being near me.

I remember when I was in my 20s, writing about how I needed a wife. That just goes to show how lowly the position was back then, because I was writing about needing someone to do my laundry, scrub my floors, and cook my dinners.

While Mr. Right isn't angling for the wifey position, he isn't above helping me with household chores. And, he does yard work.

Now you're saying that this sounds too good to be true.

Although divorce has damaged me to the extent that I find it hard to think of a romantic future of more than a single day, I can honestly say that, from a new-age perspective, you really can dream your way to reality.

"If you do not wish to be prone to anger, do not feed the habit; give it nothing which may tend to its increase."  —Epictetus (55 A.D.–135 A.D.)

This is the way that I have been trying to live. It seems that out of all of this — the sadness, the despair, the desperation, the lonlieness, the worrying, the anxiety — that the anger has been the one emotion that no matter how hard I try to shake it off, it continues to hang on.

I've written so much about how angry I am at Levi. How I'm angry about what he's done to me, to us, to our son. How I'm angry that this divorce left me bare, stripped of all of my innocent beliefs of true love and Prince Charmings.

But what I haven't written too much about, haven't even really realized on a conscience level myself, is how I am angry with myself.

How could I have been so stupid? is something that often comes to my mind. How could I have not seen the forest through the trees?

I told my therapist that if I met Levi for the first time today, I know that I wouldn't even like him. In fact, when I first met him, I didn't really like him...at all.

It was the idea that — this man loves himself so much there must be something great about him — that kept me coming back for more.

Last night I got home after working for 12 hours, my kid had pink eye, the house was a mess, and my cat had puked all over the floor. It's nights like these that I become angry with myself for ever even believing in Prince Charming and happily-ever-after in the first place.

Except now, as I feel the anger washing over me, I give it nothing, I do not feed it and I feel it fade away faster and faster.

I hope maybe if I keep this up, I will find a way to let go of the anger.

Welcome to my recipe for disaster. On Thanksgiving Day this year my daughter will be 21. I am trying to combine a milestone birthday, a holiday, the umpteenth anniversary of my father's death and a tentacled divorce. I can't even tell you the half of it because doing so here would compromise the privacy of people close to me. I'm leaning toward Jet Blue. I will focus instead on stuffing.

My favorite stuffing story was the year I decided to make the bird at my house and transport it to my late brother Stephen's home. People were not relaxed. I was never known as the turkey girl and I that year I was going to show them! 

Everyone at the table watched in awe as my mother pulled a plastic bag of innards out of the stuffing cavity. I can still hear my brother's hysteria. This year I'm at it again...shoot me.

For decades it was my mother's Italian egg stuffing recipe. A combination of, roughly, a dozen large eggs, a handful of grated Locatelli cheese, a handful of chopped fresh Italian parsley, enough plain bread crumbs to thicken the mix till it drips off a spoon and a little salt and pepper. This then blows up inside the turkey and is absolutely delicious.

My sister-in-law Susie started going with her sausage & chestnut stuffing and my stuffing allegiance is now challenged. Actually, I am open to stuffing suggestions. Got any?

The family joke is that if I had stopped at two children, I'd be the most insufferable mother who ever lived. My two oldest daughters have never given me moment's pause — well maybe a few moments — but I saw none of the screaming, slammed doors, sullen withdrawals or general obnoxious teenaged behavior I've heard about (or exhibited myself as a self-absorbed young lass). Never had to set curfews, never had to mete out punishments for missing said curfews. How clueless I was.

But daughter number three — bless her little heart — has given me a run for the money from the very start. Didn't want to be born; we had to induce. Once born, she didn't want to leave my arms — or the house. Where most babies are lulled to sleep in their car seats, K would scream bloody murder the entire time. I remember one wretched ride where I compulsively kept reaching for the radio knob, as if that could turn her volume down.

Now it's just the opposite. At 15 with her first beau, it's all about The Boy, and she can't wait to get into his car. She doesn't want to spend any time with me — and certainly not with my beau and His Boy, four years younger. And I understand her need to be with her guy, her first love, so it's a delicate dance between her legitimate needs and ours.

So I thought she was being particularly magnanimous, when S and his son came over one Saturday afternoon and she agreed to go iceskating with us at a nearby rink. Afterwards, we came home, baked cookies together. When she said she'd like to skip going out to dinner with all of us to meet her guy, I thought it was a reasonable request. But S got a little pissy, which annoyed me, so I sweet talked her into it. We had a lovely dinner, then she went off with The Boy, S and I retreated up to my room for a movie, his son settled with video games downstairs.

I awoke at 3 am with a start. I was sure K was home by now, but something made me check.

Not in her room.

Tomorrow is my second unmarried birthday.

I hate my birthday. It's been a bad day for years — a day to be disappointed. A day of promises that your partner will come home, only he won't. Or he'll forget. Or he'll blow the whole thing off as not a big deal, anyway.

Plus that whole Husband Moving Out the Day After thing — that will kind of taint your birthday — well, forever.

What was I thinking? How was this in any way a good idea? For the rest of my life, no matter how happy I am, no matter how good a place I'm in, November 14th will always be the anniversary of this, so far, hardest day. My birthday will always be the anniversary of the day before: the Day Before the Hardest Day. The Last Day.

That first birthday alone — it wasn't bad. It really wasn't.  But boy, did I work for that. The effort that went into not making it a big deal, making sure there were no expectations, making sure it was just any other day — it was a lot.

This year, I just can't muster the energy. I'm tired. The last couple of weeks have been hard. The effort involved in being that nonchalant, of steeling and girding and getting myself together so Thursday won't be crushing — the very thought exhausts me. To the point where I'm thinking one day of suck might be better than the week of prep.

The thing is, I used to really like my birthday. Not that anything big or important would ever happen, and not that I wanted that. But it was a nice day, and usually nice things would happen. Now, though, it just leaves me lonely and sad and wondering why no one will ever love me as much as my cat does.

I wonder what it's going to take to make that go away. I guess if something really amazing and magical happened on my birthday, that might knock the other associations into second place. Like, I don't know, Josh Groban showing up in my kitchen to make me pancakes. But I'm not holding my breath.

According to domaintools.com there are 78 million registered dot-coms on the Internet. That's one way for companies and people to stake their claims. Others have Facebook or MySpace.

How else do people stake claims? During the settling of the West, they could claim large pieces of land by:

● Arriving in Oregon in the 1840s, where a married couple could get 640 acres of land, at no charge, as long as they settled there and improved it.

● Settling on and improving 160 acres in places like Minnesota, North and South Dakota, Nebraska, and Kansas under the Homestead Act of 1862.

● Scrambling from a starting line to claim a piece of farmland or town lots during the Oklahoma Land Rush of 1889.

Staking a claim, whether virtual or real, is part of our human nature. During divorce, the rush to get a property settlement and a distribution of assets is a painful negotiation. I suppose on some gross level, even children may be treated like part of the distribution of assets.

The push really comes to shove on things like holidays and vacations. Which parent will get the child or children on any given holiday? That decisions has lasting implications.

During my marriage we traveled a lot. We spent summers on Fire Island, sometimes for a month or more. Christmas was always in Jamaica - again sometimes for several weeks.

After we separated, negotiations between me and my ex were hourly, daily, weekly, but especially celebration specific. These haggling sessions were volatile and frustrating. Every hour I spent away from my kids felt like part of me was being ripped out.

But, over time, things have smoothed out. Both of us have established new traditions, values and ways of paying for things. It helps that most of the specifics were spelled out in our divorce agreement, but areas of interpretation are bound to arise.