I'm sitting in the backyard the other night and it's late, past midnight, the house is dark and the full moon is one bright spot in the clouds. Crickets chirping and quiet all around them. The little white garden shed my girls have claimed as their one-room school house for playing "Mary and Laura" complete with bonnets and petticoats — lots of Little House going on at my house these days — and it hits me, I'm okay.

I'm okay.

More than that. I love my little house and my beautiful yard and I'm comfortable being here as a family of four again.

I keep searching for the reasons I shouldn't be. I don't know if the reasons I seek are for me or for everyone else. Not that anyone wants me to be miserable.

The thing is, I'm always feeling a little guilty about rebuilding my marriage, like somehow I betrayed everyone who stood by me while I pulled myself together and ripped my life apart a couple years ago.

My girlfriends heard the details, moment by excruciating moment, for three years before I left and they pooled their resources to help me when I finally arrived at that place where leaving is the only option.

They got me out. There was no leaving, would have been no leaving, without them.

So here I am again, back in. My friends are supportive and I am mostly happy.       

But, even now while Sam and I are in good grove and our biggest issues are temporarily dormant, I can't quit looking for what should be wrong.

After all these years, I'm not sure I know how to be okay with being okay.

I'm a Democrat and my husband is a Republican. It's never been that big of a deal because we're both pretty moderate in our beliefs and we aren't really the kind of people to sit around debating for hours about the issues, so it was more of a cute thing we bragged about in our early years.

"I'm a Democrat," I would say and then look at my husband, "and he's a Republican." Then we'd snuggle and everyone would laugh about how two people could have a bipartisan relationship in peace but the Senate can't stop arguing. It was like a cool parlor trick.

My husband and I talked about who we will be voting for this year a little, but for the first time ever there was some tension in our conservation. I would say it actually bordered on a debate. He hinted that he might be open to voting for either candidate. 

I said we should watch the debates together and talk about the issues and all the other stuff people do when trying to decide on a candidate. I wound up watching the debates alone and then when my husband recently sent in an absentee ballot he announced he voted with his party.

I made a comment — jokingly — about how I was glad he voted for Palin to become president, and he exploded. "Just wait until you make your vote," he snapped, "and see what I say about your candidate."

Apparently we no longer joke about politics together. I wish I had received the memo warning me of such.

I'll be glad when the election is over. 

My birthday is Sunday.  Although I won't say how old I'm going to be, I will say that I'm not quite 30, but it's getting pretty damn close. I know it may sound silly, but the 30 mark is really freaking me out. I want to have accomplished something great by the time I reach that milestone.

Some of you may remember that for my birthday last year, I got to go to family court. What a joy.

The year before that, I had to practically beg my husband to celebrate with me. I recall him saying that he had a lot of work to do, and wasn't sure he could be home. I remember watching him outside, from our kitchen window, pace back and forth on the porch, talking on the phone. I remember when he came back inside and told me that he had "worked it out" so that he could stay with me.

Apparently, "stay with me" meant make me dinner and then leave.

It wasn't until months later that I found out the truth. There was no work, there was no working anything out. Levi was seeing another woman. Levi went to be with another woman...on my birthday.

So, the last bunch of birthdays have been pretty crappy.

I'd almost like to just let this one pass by quietly. Stay home, snuggle in and watch Desperate Housewives. My friends don't want to let that happen.

And the truth is, I don't really want that to happen either.

So, here's to a new year of Faith, literally and figuratively. Here's to better birthdays. Now that I think of it, I really do have a lot to celebrate!

Jake had a thing about giving me jewelry. In his head, this is What Husbands Did. If one had a Wife, one got her Nice Things.

No matter that the wife in questions said, "I don't really like jewelry." No matter that she said, "I don't like to wear jewelry." No matter that she said, "At the very least, please don't ever get me anything gold."

"Happy anniversary," he'd say. "I know you don't like gold. I know you never wear jewelry. But I got this for you anyway."

So, I have this jewelry box, and it's filled with things. Gold things, mostly. Expensive things. Things I never wear. Things I didn't want in the first place. Things I have no use for.

And yet — two years later — I still have them.

Why? Is it because dealing with the process of appraisal and sale will take some effort? Is it because just the idea of yet another errand dealing with this divorce exhausts me?

Or is it that the idea of losing those presents is hard? Because — even though they speak so much to Jake's lack of understanding of me, lack of interest in what I liked and cared about — they were still given out of love.

So much pain is left when a marriage ends that it's hard to look back at what was good and happy without those memories being tainted, somehow, by all the hurt.

This could be grad school tuition, here in this box. This could be a vacation, or a couple of the cross-country plane tickets I'm burning through these days.

What will it take to open it up and take some action?

I may have doubts about my marriage, or the relevance of the institution for me, but I do not doubt its importance to countless millions. I've not yet discussed here that I'm an active supporter of same-sex marriage rights.

My community of friends considers it one of the major civil rights issues of our times. My sister is devoting her career to the protection of same-sex marriage in Massachusetts, and in Rob's and my circle of close friends we have two sets of married women, one of which is raising an adopted daughter.

Sickeningly, thirty-seven states define marriage in such a way to prohibit the marriage of same-sex couples. Vermont reversed this trend when in 2000 it enacted civil union legislation for gay and lesbian couples and rejected constitutional amendments limiting marriage.

California followed through on comprehensive domestic partner legislation in 2003, the same year in which Massachusetts legalized gay marriage when its courts ruled it would be discriminatory to not allow same-sex couples to marry. California has now joined Massachusetts in allowing full marriage rights, and Connecticut's Supreme Court ruled in favor of same-sex marriage just last week.

But as with the hetero population, some marriages will end in divorce (same-sex marriage has been legal for such a short time, divorce rates have not yet been established). In Massachusetts, Gay and Lesbian Advocates and Defenders (GLAD), the same organization that fought to gain marriage for all, must now help couples divorce.

Debra Messing and Debra Nigro. Isn't it fun when someone has your same name and spells it the same way, too?

Debra Messing will be 'posing' as a divorced wife in the new weekly TV series The Starter Wife. I, on the other hand, will continue posing as myself — the real life divorcee.

If Messing were a real divorcee, she'd have known better than to put her show on Friday nights. Divorcees want to go out on Friday nights and mess around, or something like that.

Friday nights pose a dilemma for divorced women everywhere. Somehow you just feel you are "supposed" to go out.

Friday nights have always seemed like the night all the other singles are out — somewhere. Saturday is still "hypothetically" date night. So given a choice, divorced women will pick Friday as their night out on the town.

Therefore, I assume, in doing their research about when to air The Starter Wife, they must not have had a lot of divorcees in on the decision.

Maybe I should call the producer and at the very least have Debra Messing's character on the series, Molly, join Firstwivesworld.com. This way we can be assured her character will make wiser decisions going forward.

I'm single, I'm writing this on Friday, I am awake, it's a beautiful night and my jeans aren't choking me to death...so forgive me, I'm going out to mess around somewhere. Debra Messing — I love you, but I will see you on Tivo.

Then we can compare notes to see who had more fun!

Until then...I will rely on the First Wives World Social Network "Starter Wife Group" — who did not find qualified babysitters — to keep me updated.

The other day I received an email from an old friend whose been reading my FWW posts. We were college pals who hadn't been in touch at all in the 15 years since I graduated from Ohio State and pull up stakes from Columbus, until I found her via the all-powerful Internet.

Most of what she's knows about my life today is what she reads here.

She said a couple things about a recent post that I've been thinking on since.

First, she's never known anyone doing what I'm doing, returning to a marriage I left two years ago. Also, she said I seem ambivalent about it.

Funny how when you get a new car, you suddenly see them everywhere. I know a few other people who've been down this road. My eyes are keen to these situations these days. I have a couple of friends who were in and out of their marriages for shorter periods and another who was separated for two years, just like me.

She also wanted to know if I was in it for good now. Two years ago I would have said "No way." Actually, I would have said it was still "open ended," but what I way thinking was, "No. No. No going back."

Then time comes along and does it's thing, and here I am. It ain't easy, that's for sure. But I take it the same way I'm learning to take everything these days, as it comes and with a good bit of openness.

With remembering how suicidally bleak it felt to be hopeless in that marriage with no obvious way out. Heavy in my body. Shipwrecked.

That's the ambivalence. I know where I've been. The truth is, had we not been bound together by kids, I would have left without looking back. And yet, I did not reconcile "for the kids."

The last time I wrote, I was trying to be brave. But I was really scared that I might not find a new home for myself and my six pets. To keep from panicking, I reminded myself that even though I had just three days to find a place to rent, I only needed one place.

Just one house with one fenced yard. Just one landlord amenable to six pets.

On the second morning of my search, I set out to see a house. My map indicated I could go south, then east to a major road that would lead to my destination, or so I thought. Turned out that while the roads cross on the map, one is an overpass, and I ended up on an interstate highway headed out of town.

Annoyed, I exited at the first familiar road. As I was finding my way back, I spotted a "For Rent" sign, and turned to see what was available.

It was . . . shall we call it a cottage? A very modest house with a fenced yard. The neighborhood seemed quiet and nice. Quickly I called to ask if it would be available to someone with pets. How many pets, the landlord wanted to know.

Some people I love and respect had advised me to lie about that. But AA teaches honesty in all things, and I soon realized that the stress and distress of having to explain or hide some furry person or persons would put me in jeopardy of drinking.

I took a deep breath and told the truth, all set to drive on.

"Hmmm," said the landlord. "That's a lot. I'd have to meet you, and we'd have to talk about it. Where are you now?"

Within minutes he was showing me the house. I scarcely looked at it: Did it have floors? Yes. A roof? Check, and ceilings too. Oh, and how much was the rent? I was thrilled to learn I could afford it.

I went back to see the place twice more that day, and the next day I said I would rent it. As we shook hands, I sighed in relief.

"Feeling better?" asked my new landlord. "Much," I replied.