I get to take a little break from my life today and go out on the road with a couple of my girlfriends. An actual road trip with no small people in the back seat asking how much further and chanting "I want out of this car right now!"

Yay!

It's only for two days and it's almost all of it driving, but the truth is I wouldn't care if we didn't stop at all. I love to watch the world through an open window, the way movement makes my mind turn faster and how my spirit feels freer and all my songs come louder to the rhythm of road.

It's a five-hour drive down into Southern Oregon where we are going, down through the northern most tip of the Redwoods and to the coast, and what I remember is how the trees grow more and more impossibly big around the bottom the closer you get to the water.

How I can tilt my head back, look straight up the trunk and everything in my periphery, both directions, is the bark. Up in the canopy is a world that goes on its way oblivious to us, and the smallness it brings in me is perfect. Forty percent of all the world's animals live up the treetops, a hundred feet above the ground.

We're always down here trying to negotiate with the little bits of information we can gather in our limited view. And everything we're in feels so enormous. The weight of tangled personal drama that we can't get high enough above to see where the edges blur out.

I want to climb to the tips of the trees, one branch higher and one branch higher, to where I can see how the pieces all fit together and everything makes sense. Breathe in and understand what it is to be small in the world and the universe and let go of the ways our crippled little vision keeps us trapped in the illusion that our confusion is desperate.

Mama's time has come. From the hills of Hollywood to the halls of the White House, there are mamas in the limelight. Instead of simply acknowledging the fact that any accolades Mom receives are long overdue, why not join the growing boom of females who insist on everything from paid maternity leave to rock festivals that feature female entertainment?

I refuse to believe the current movement is a response to the 1950s stereotype that kept June Cleaver in the kitchen with her lipstick on. And I keep hoping the momentum is bigger than an angry backlash of feminists who refuse to make room for softer, gentler versions of themselves. 

Most of all, I pray that while the idea of "family values" is of great concern to many of us, those values are not determined by a right-wing government.

We want different things. The point is, for the first time in many years, we are mobilizing to want something. The common thread between us is that we are reaching out to redefine what it is to be a modern mother.

For the first time in (her)story, we are single mothers, rocker mothers, soccer mothers, alpha moms, hot moms, and intellectuals, all taking on new work, new life definitions.

I am totally psyched to see a dialogue begin and, the sensationalistic Mommy wars aside, the truth is that we can all get along.

I started out as a mother and a wife replicating what I had witnessed growing up in middle-America. When my children were born in New York City from 1989 to 1994, there was a dawning of a new consciousness: a network of midwife-assisted births, natural parenting magazines, and higher consciousness baby groups.

I noticed Sarah McLachlan's song about divorce made the First Wives World news blog, so I thought I'd give a shout out to pop singer Pink. Not that she needs it. Her single "So What," in which she sings about her divorce from her husband, motocross racer Cary Hart, has reached No. 1.

I don't know much about Pink, but clearly she has, um, balls. I'm not referring to her bad-ass styling and punky sound. I'm talking about how she not only exposed her raw and unsettled feelings about her ex-husband to the world through song, but she put her ex in the video!

But while the lyrics belie her need for a bit more closure ("So what...I don't need you...And now that we're done, I'm gonna show you tonight") in the video it's clear, these ex-spouses have moved beyond anger to place where they can deal with each other, as friends.

In fact, it's rather sweet. Even as she sings: "You weren't there, You never were, You want it all, But that's not fair, I gave you life, I gave my all, You weren't there, You let me fall," Pink and Hart go from play-acting, to playful, to a bittersweet caress. Check it out here.

Aww.

According to People.com, Pink wrote on her website that her divorce was "‘not about cheating, anger, or fighting" and that she still considers her ex a ‘good man.'"

Well, you know how I feel about the word Cougar — don’t like it. Wrote about it many times on FWW.

But the word and the lifestage it defines are so pervasive now that Saturday Night Live is doing ongoing Cougar skits. They did one again this past Saturday with Cameron Diaz.

We cannot deny that older women are now back on the market in large numbers as a direct result of divorce, and that younger men are a viable romantic option like never before.

I think it’s a good thing that women are busting up the old double standard — and yes, I admit it provides lots of comedy — BUT, Saturday Night Live inspired me to address the stereotype directly to the show. So here goes.

My Dear SNL writers,

The Cougar Den & Cameron Diaz are hysterical.

You have inspired me to do kegels as I write this.

In fact, I am even thinking of turning my spare room into a cougar den thanks to you all.

I just wanted to point out that while you're dreaming up new cougar episodes, you might want to consider that cougars (even though I hate that word) come in all shapes, sizes, and colors. They don't all look like Cameron Diaz.

You might want to broaden your cougar casting options.

The bimbo thing is something you might want to look into, too.

Cougars, because they are older — as you so clearly “coif” them — lean more toward being professional and experienced. Most are not floozies (even though some neighbors might disagree). We're talkin’ educated, been-there-done-that women exploring new options.

What the hell, the dating pool is much shallower later in life and filled with many older men who are leaking testosterone in search of arm candy to validate their masculinity.

There are three guitars strewn around the living room. My band rehearsal ran late and I'm trying to adjust to life at warp speed, because in five minutes the kids will blast through the door.

I play in Housewives on Prozac with four other women. We're all at different stages of relationships, but I'm the only one who's single with four kids. 

Never mind that multi-tasking in my house means every pot in the kitchen is blackened on the bottom.

There's a dangerous pattern developing. Meals keep getting started and end up on fire. Dogs are left outside while the sun goes down. And I'm especially jammed when it comes to any kind of a personal life.

Summer was all about bliss. So this is a good time to ask, Where the heck is the sanity?

I admit it helps to burn off steam by turning things into loud songs. Housewives on Prozac has played PTA fundraisers and large-scale stadium gigs. We did the theme song for the Liberty Girls basketball team at Madison Square Garden.

We've been playing together for 10 years and find tremendous solace and humor in each other. I'm the lead singer, and do most of the song writing.  

Each of the girls brings something unique to the project musically speaking, but, even more, they have been my steadfast friends through all the ups and downs of parenthood, separation, and divorce.

Look at the music from 1997 to 1999, with songs like "BabySlave" and "Rich Man Blues." Then there was a progression in 2000 to "Chemotherapy" and "Two Little Pills." By 2002, we were cultivating our own little cult hits with things like "Eat Your Damn Spaghetti" and "Fuzzy Slippers," and two years ago it was "The Heart Wants What the Heart Wants" and "We're All a Little Crazy."

As you may recall, this summer marked a relationship milestone: Going On Vacation Together.

I had planned to use this post, and perhaps the next two or three, to recap the trip and examine and analyze the various relationship stumbling blocks that occurred, but, as it turns out, there's nothing to write about. It was a lovely two weeks in which Mike and I did nothing but have a good time and not get tired of each other.

Instead, I will share some thoughts on packing.

Being the kind of girl who does not overpack, the kind of girl who does not bring five bags and expect her boyfriend to carry them while she traipses along in wholly unsuitable shoes is, I think, a good thing. Jake absolutely did not appreciate the joy and the wonder that is Alice's Impressive Packing Ability, and that was one of the many things wrong with our relationship.

Of course, packing in such a way involves somewhat obsessive planning. What Mike would think of this, especially when he saw the little outfit diagrams I make, I didn't know. So I sent him an email detailing what I was doing, thinking, "It's best he know this now, before he stumbles across the drawings and wants to know why I've labeled pictures of my T-shirts."

Did packing so impressively lead to what can only be described as the most marvelous vacation ever? Or was it because this particular relationship is everything I thought didn't really happen in real life?

I suspect the latter, myself.

Obviously my "coolness" factor is on the upswing, as I was invited to the gala premiere movie screening of The Lifetime original movie Coco Chanel — hosted by Lifetime Television, Vidal Sassoon and The Hollywood Reporter Monday night.

I loved it! And highly recommend you tune in if you find your "cute divorced self" sitting on the couch this coming Saturday night.

Shirley MacLaine, who plays Coco in the later years of her life, was in person at the event, and was just fabulous. Barbara Bobulova, who played Coco as a younger woman was incredible.

Why is this all relevant to you?

Well, Coco Chanel's story is an incredible inspiration to any woman who has had to "make it on her own." She never married, and had regrets about that. She loved deeply, but suffered many instances of great loss. Her work became her drug of choice to cope.

Many of us know that drill.

According to Shirley MacLaine, Coco was a name borrowed from a dog in a bar. Coco's real name was Gabrielle, and her real last name was Chaznel. Coco's character had a couple of lines in the movie that really resonated; I typed the words I wanted to remember to tell you on the keypad of my silent iPhone, in the dark, during the movie without reading glasses.

When I checked back today to clarify the quote, it read "channel cinnabons."

I went to a barbecue at my boyfriend's mother's house last weekend. I had already met her a couple of times before, but this time, I was bringing my son. There was supposed to be a crowd of friends and family, along with his sister (whom I know and like), so I wasn't sweating it too much. 

I much prefer functions like those. Where you can sort of find one person to chat with and get lost in the shuffle. I like big families. Levi's family was way too small.

I was having a really fantastic time when I looked over and saw his mother holding a present wrapped in paper that said "Grandma" all over it. This woman doesn't have any grandchildren.

She saw me looking at her — and I'm sure I had that "What the %&^*" look on my face — so I blurted (who hasn't done that?), "Does that say 'Grandma' on it?" She nodded at me. Then her friend, who had given her the gift, jumped in and said, "Oh, anything for a laugh, you know?"

I was sitting there thinking — but this time not saying — no, I don't know. What the hell?

I feel like I've been dealing with this kind of bullshit forever now. When my boyfriend and I first met he was inundated with people telling him to "WATCH OUT" or, "She's on the lookout for a father for her child," etc. etc. etc. The implication made me so angry; as if I'm willing to allow just any man to be a father to my child. Give me a break.

Yes, I am a single mother, and I love my son, but he is not what defines me. I define me. My decisions define me, like the decision to keep my child. My intelligence defines me. 

I imagined a trip to the Greek Isles in my last post. I'd like it to be a month-long journey at least, so I could really drop out from my harried city life and revel in a slow life governed by the natural rhythms of day, night, and season.

It's not quite the same, but my Labor Day vacation will be an island getaway of a sort. Rob and I are flying out to L.A. and ferrying out to Santa Catalina, a hilly rock of an island off the southern Californian coast.

This is the first time in months Rob and I are going away together, and it's the first time in a couple of years I'm looking forward to spending time with him. What's different? I'm not sure.

I'm waiting and seeing rather than grasping for an immediate resolution to our discomfort. Rob is still working at therapy, and we're seeing a therapist together. We're both growing and changing. Apart or together? Not yet sure. But why not try to enjoy each other's company in the meantime?

Actually, this trip could be an important test. I've heard it's not a good idea to go away on vacation to try to fix a marriage because it's easy to get along in paradise, away from the stresses of normal life.

But if a successful romantic getaway can't predict successful romance back home, an unsuccessful romantic getaway — one plagued with fights or, worse, boredom — certainly can't predict one either.

So this weekend may be telling. Stay tuned.