Certain men's colognes drive women wild. I remember the first one that intoxicated me — English Leather.

I used to put it on my pillowcase and dream about Tom, Dick Harry — whoever. They all wore it. That and Brut, and all the fathers in the world wore Old Spice.

Then as time went on I had longer term relationships and longer relationships with a specific cologne. In fact, cologne became a relationship in itself. Now every time I smell a brand that a certain man wore, it causes a rush of memories of HIM.

It's confusing for me when a new man wears an ex's smell.

Some familiar colognes make me want to slap a guy I don't even know.

Because of this I recently I had a terrible break up with Paco Rabanne.

So the question is... Can you date a guy who smells like your ex?

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!

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.

On Sunday, I apparently bribed the 11-year-old daughter of my long-lost, now divorced, male friend from college. You may remember that I recently ran into him in Grand Central Station in New York.

The bribe: Presents to make the kid like me!

It didn't start out seeming like a bribe to like me ... it just turned out that way. This was a great friend I’d lost touch with for 17 years. We were at each other’s weddings; he held my daughter when she was born, but I had never met his two daughters.

Last week he and I went out for an eight-hour, belly-laughing, catch-up dinner. This weekend was his weekend with his girls, and we had very loose tentative plans so that I might meet his daughter. On Sunday, around 5, I was on the endless check-out line at HomeGoods when he called.

He and his younger daughter were nearby. Did I want to join them for a bite?

Absolutely!

If you've ever been to a HomeGoods, you know they ambush you with impulse items while they have you held captive on the checkout line. I decided to buy the little girl a gift. A cute little, hard-cover notepad tied with ribbon.

Perfect!

But wait — maybe she would enjoy some origami to keep her busy at her Dad's house.

Perfect!

But wait — they just played tennis for 15 hours, and the colorful little ped socks with the different designs will probably come in handy, because no divorced Dad has a pair of cute matching ped socks for their little girls handy when they need them.

Perfect!

I couldn't decide so I bought all three. And how cute – I'll buy these manly, cool peds for my friend, so he doesn't feel left out.

When I got to the restaurant, I spotted them sitting together and weaved my way through the tables toward them. I felt a rush of compassion for this lovely, divorced father intently doing his best by his daughter on his weekend with her.

Will somebody please help me?

I hate the word "cougar"!

We need to come up with a better word to describe a woman who chooses to play/date/carouse/befriend a younger man!

Don't misunderstand me — it's not that I am not a fan of this new sport. Seriously, if some young handsome guy thinks I'm hot and fabulous who am I to deter him?

Besides, divorced women in search of relationships often find that there are just more younger men swimming in the available love pool and in better swim trunks.

And quite frankly, the older guys who are chasing after centerfolds leave us no choice.

The word "cougar" just makes it sound like older women are pouncing on innocent young men, when truthfully we are "treating them" to the experience of wisdom and an occasional expensive dinner. Neither side in this romantic pairing initially embarks innocently and without agenda. Both find it curious.

Often it really does work.

Twice recently I was called a cougar — after being spotted amusing myself with a specimen a decade behind me. In both instances, to the surprise of the two people who thought they were giving me a compliment, I reacted with my usual, "I hate that word."

Personally I think the word is obnoxious, derogatory, and sounds almost sleezy. It makes me feel almost as uncomfortable as when I hear the word used for female private parts.

Could the same "naming" idiot be responsible?

Help me here. I'm all ears for a new word.

The new word is.....?????

I decided to go out to dinner in Bridgehampton (LI) last night. I had asked around for suggestions about where a woman might go alone that would have “a little commotion,” and the answer came back: Bobby Van’s.

It had been a weekend whirlwind of social and business events, and I’d been sharing my rental house/car/social life with my divorced male business partner. At least I now know I have someone I can count on to tie a bow on the back of my cocktail dress to camouflage a too-tight zipper.

Anyway, I had spent most of the night anxiously searching for some place with a wireless signal. Exhausting.

My sweet partner had invited me to his cousin’s house for dinner. They are a beautiful couple, but I wanted some solo down time.

Watching TV was not an option. I had accidentally hit a wrong button on the remote and blew it up. (OK, not literally, but no matter what I did, I couldn’t get the picture back.)

Besides, the rental is in the woods and it is really dark there at night. And, after all, this is high season in the Hamptons, and it’s a gorgeous summer night and, darn it, I am going out.

I sit way to the right end of the bar at Bobby Van’s and have a perfect view of the bar and restaurant.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror to my right. I had gained weight on the drive over.

Bummer.

I'm feeling less fabulous than when I left the house, and I can’t see the menu without my reading glasses. But what the hell. If there's no one interesting to talk to, I still have “The New York Post.”

A 44-year-old guy in a blue blazer on my left starts a conversation. Turns out he’s never been married. Imagine that. I am not attracted to him but since I talk to everybody, this is fine until he asks what I do.

At the newspaper stand at rush hour in Grand Central station last night, I bumped into a very special male friend of mine from college. I hadn't seen him since he held my daughter in his arms, and I was living at my first apartment.

It was an instant reaction. I threw my arms around him.

There is nothing like the warm familiarity of an eternal friendship. A timeless hug. We shared a knowing belly laugh.

He asked about my ex-husband.

He told me he had seen me on TV along the way, and had meant to call me after my brother's death.

But he was rushing to make the next train and, in a flustered and pained moment, explained that he too had gotten divorced.

His now ex-wife apparently had something to do with his not keeping up his friendships over the years.

He was off to pick up one of his daughters, and he explained that things with his other daughter were challenging.

He had moved to an apartment.

He was clearly distraught and overwhelmed by his new, divorced lifestyle.

He said men really need help with this.

I said I know.

I told him that I could help.

We are going to talk again.

So I'm having my coffee, typing away, and rushing to leave in time for the early exercise class, when my workout buddy Vi, a fellow single mom, calls and says we have an emergency.

She asks anxiously, "Do you know how to tie a tie?"

"Of course." I mean, I think of course.

Her son, who just graduated from college, had his first real interview in an hour, and her live-in boyfriend had left for work.

"No problem, I'm on the way."

I always say "No problem" even if it is a problem.

I have lived with men most of my life and, rushing over to her house, I was reviewing "Tie 101" in my head.

But, when I got there, before I experimented on her son, I felt I needed to tie one on myself first.

Let's see: skinny part in the left hand, then wrap the thicker side with the right hand around twice, and come back up though the collar loop, and stuff it down under this wraparound part, and out the other side and pull.

Voila!

But I'm choking, and the tie is up to my breasts.

I try again — and again — and again.

How could I forget this?

Apparently living solo with a daughter and not watching men get dressed up anymore has taken it's toll.

I decide to try it around his neck the next four attempts: too short, too square,
too tight, too too.

This handsome young man was being very patient. I could not let him down.

So I grabbed the tie off his neck and tried it on myself one more time -- I know this thing should just slide on and off.

Aha! I have made a classic tie.

I slip it off my neck and onto his and it was perfect!

I wanted to follow him to the interview, just to see if anyone noticed or commented about how crisp his tie looked.

I am relieved.

However, just to be sure I keep my skills fresh, I've decided to start inviting more men over to watch them "get dressed."

(Wink)

Dating after divorce can be a wonderful new beginning, but everyone approaches it differently. Below is a list I came up with to describe various divorced gals dating styles I've observed over the years.

Ladies, you will find that you may fit in to more than one category. Some of you will even transition back and forth between categories at any given time. Let me know if I've missed any. Gentlemen, which of these gals have you dated?

Hopefully this will help you understand better who might be sitting across from you the next time, too.

Damaged Daters You don't trust anyone anymore with your heart. You've been burned. You are not so quick to jump back into another relationship, but you go anyway because you think you are supposed to at least try. Your cynical vibes smell defensive and stink up the room. Wear extra perfume.

I Don't Care Daters You are not interested. You're energy is focused elsewhere. You need time to to find out who you are. You go just because someone's very nice but you really don't care, but you don't let him know you don't care. He doesn't pick up you don't care so he calls you again and you go again..even though you don't care.

I Just Want To Sleep With You and Not Really Talk to You Daters Your hormones are swinging and you're going to try and act the way you think some men act, and just use someone for sex. You want this person to treat you like they care about you, even though you don't really care about them. You are loving the fact that you never expect a call, and call them when they least expect it. Woo Hoo!
Sneaky Daters -You don't really want anyone to know who you are dating or where you are going. You go out of your way to find "out of the way" meeting locations and rely heavily on GPS. You are shady with family and friends who suspect you are 'seeing someone" but have no idea who. This can go on for years.

Yesterday in NYC I was walking briskly along with a businessgal buddy when the oddest thing happened. I hooked a man — literally.

I was carrying a suit bag filled filled with clothes on hangers over my left arm as we yapped our way down the street.

An older gentleman and his wife were walking past us in the opposite direction. They obviously passed too close and somehow my hangars hooked on the husband, and yanked me backwards after him.

I was trying to unhook myself from him but his wife thought I was intentionally molesting him and was pulling him away from me yelling, "He's mine!"

She obviously didn't see the hanger.

Strangely, the same thing had happened just three minutes before with a construction guy as I was crossing the street. That one almost cost me a two by four to the head.

So here's what I discovered: You can literally hook a man on the street.

Now I just have to work on my aim.