We've been looking for a place to rent for almost two months, but we're still in the same broke boat, with the same crappy credit we had two years ago when I left.

And just like when I left, and all the long years leading up to it, the weight of financial pressure creates this ongoing competition for resources that exacerbates all of our other problems.

Sam says I'm more stressed about it than he is.

He says it to me and he says it to our therapist, then we walk out of the appointment and he accuses me of wanting more than I actually want, of wanting to keep up with the Joneses, when actually I could not care less about anyone else's lifestyle.

I don't want a McMansion. I just want to get by without struggling.

It's the same old fight.

Not being able to support our family makes him feel inadequate, and I know it's true because when I left because he owned up to it. Admitted the nasty things he said were about being angry with himself, not me.

So I call him on it, and he apologizes. It's an improvement I'm willing to work with.

Our therapist once told me finances are cited as a key factor in 80 percent of divorces. Money is the number-one point of contention in marriages. I'll buy that. There's so much stuff bound up in dollars.

Like they say, money is power. So, of course, there's contention about who spends it and how. That's assuming there's money to be spent.

Those arguments feel luxurious to me. We don't get to fight about whose spending irresponsibly. More likely, I ask Sam to ask his family for a loan; he refuses. Or what we are going to do about child care this fall because we owe Lila's pre-school more than it cost me for a year of college back in the day, and until we pay it down, we can't use their before and after care program.

Sam and I both work hard at jobs we love, but we don't make much money doing it.

In my ongoing quest to spend a month happily living solo, I decided to spring for some fresh, fanciful fare.

I've just finished reading French Women Don't Get Fat. It seems the French drink a lot of champagne and that, somehow, ingesting quality ingredients keeps their women from over eating.

I scored beautiful local goat cheese at the Hastings Farmers Market and picked up a lovely pink Brut for under $40.

I don't usually drink alcohol while I'm alone, but I'm in survival mode and the kids don't get back until after Labor Day.

Popping the cork and pouring the Brut into a pink marabou martini glass, purchased at the TJ Maxx bargain rack, life seems sort of okay for the moment.

This was not a reward for spending a month in isolation. I don't need a reward, because I know that a workshop or trip to the Omega Institute is coming up.

However, I'm convinced that every night I spend alone is going to help me be a stronger person.

Admittedly, as I'm having these thoughts, there is a strong craving for a Valium or something else that will make me feel numb.

I used to feel desperate if I didn't have a man in my life. I still feel desperate, but when I compare the relative peace of my little blue house in Hastings to my married life in the mansion, with my over-the-top, angry ex-spouse, I'm satisfied with my decision.

But when I think of the things I gave up to be a hermit, I want to cry. Family and friends from the last 20 years are gathering on Fire Island this month to swim, laugh, and sail together.

Flirting with single guys, and sometimes even the husbands of my friends, chatting with the hunky lifeguards, and making the rounds to Saltaire, Fair Harbor, and Kismet were all part of my married life.

Feeling popular, rich, and loved seemed ingredients for a perfect life. But they're not.

"Marriage makes you soft," I once told my female co-workers. This was a few years ago, during a very active hurricane season here in Florida.

My husband, Ed, was spending time in rehab, so it was up to me to get the house ready for an approaching storm. I was not handling the task very well.

I'd been doing okay working full-time at a new job, taking care of our many pets and, when I was permitted, driving 15 miles through traffic to visit Ed. But I quickly wore myself out hauling in the lawn furniture, the plants, the grill and all the other stuff we kept outside.

In a hurricane, that stuff becomes projectiles.

And then there was that little matter of the steel storm panels, the ones that are supposed to be secured across the sliding glass door. I'd donned high-top sneakers and leather work gloves to give it the old college try, but by the time I'd hauled 3 of the 12 heavy panels from storage, I was exhausted.

Surprised and frustrated to find that I really couldn't do it all, all by myself, I burst into bitter tears.

Surely I had not been such a wuss before I became a wife.

Wuss or no, I still had to secure the house.

The next morning, as insistent breezes announced the proximity of the storm, I was back at it, determinedly ferrying the storm panels to the front of the house. Two of my neighbors, Bob and Joe, were outside, so I stopped for a few minutes to chat. As I prepared to get back to work, Bob asked, "Do you need some help?"

Do I what?

I almost said no. I'd always thought of myself as independent and completely capable. But common sense prevailed.

Bob and I got the panels up in a matter of minutes, during which I realized it is a two-person job. Duh.

When we finished, I barely managed to keep from crying as I thanked him profusely.

"It's nothing," he said. "That's what neighbors do."

What would happen if I just made up my mind to leave? How would life change for me and for my family? Would I find the inner peace that I lack right now? Would everything magically get better?

I'm not delusional. I know that it would be ridiculously hard. Most of all, I know that it would be a really difficult transition for my kids. They're young and as far as they know, mommies and daddies stay together.

Did I say it would be "difficult?" Maybe I should change that to "horrible." "Tragic." "Life-altering."

"The end of a secure life."

Am I being dramatic? I just try to think of what it would be like if a life truth was suddenly changed for me. What if my house burned down? What if I lost my arm? I can only imagine what it's like to suddenly have everything change.

I know that I would recover just fine. I know the process would be painful, but in the long run I think that it would make me happier overall. Then again, how can I be happy when I cause so much pain to my kids?

What a tangled web.

If I one day suddenly blurted out, "I can't take this anymore. I need a divorce," then it would be a bizarre combination of a huge weight lifted off my shoulders while also opening the door to a bunch of new drama and turmoil. It’s like I know what I want the eventual outcome to be, but I don't want to deal with all the stuff in between.

So what happens if I just make up my mind to leave? The world will be turned upside down. My life will never be the same again. The question then becomes, will the new life be better, and worth the effort?

If there is one thing I have learned from this experience of divorce, it is how to disengage, or as I call it, 'The art of disengagement'.

More often than not separations and subsequent divorces are far less than civil and almost all of us have found ourselves totally losing it, at least once.

Personally, I've gone ballistic more times than I even care to admit. This experience is such an emotional roller coaster that the only thing I found comparable to it is pregnancy.

I mean really, one second I'd be all smiles; happy to be single, grateful to be starting over, etc. Then I'd be weepy; missing him and not knowing what I was going to do without him. Then I'd morph into uber bitch mode and scream, yell, and one time I even broke something.

It was an exhausting cycle: happy — sad — bitch.

I think they call that spinning in circles. I distinctively remember actually feeling dizzy; I remember consciously acknowledging this cycle as it was happening, but I couldn't figure out how to break it.

Then it hit me...about five minutes ago.

I'm not the only one going through this. HE's going through it too. Levi is engaged in his own vicious cycle, spinning his wheels, along with me.
I've realized that the longer I play along with him — and by play along I mean take his phone calls, deal with his family, read and / or respond to his e-mails — the longer he'll play along with me.

One of us has to end it and it looks like it's going to be me. As one of my dear friends just told me, "It's like playing a game of catch, if you put the ball down and stop playing, what's he going to do?"

OK, so you're asking: Why am I still here?

I think I've got a new answer this week: Monkey Branching. You know, brachiation, swinging from limb to limb. Something gibbons do in the jungle.

It's positively evil, emotionally unhealthy, this notion of keeping one hand on the solid branch of home, family and two cars in the driveway, while reaching the other hand out for some branch that may be out there somewhere.

But that's how I plan to go about searching the suburban jungle — finding something, some new guy, new while clinging to the old.

It's not like no one's ever done this before.

In high school we called it keeping another guy on the "back burner," in case some other relationship turned out not to be on the boil.

Alas, in high school, it was just you and the candidates for prom date. Now anyone on the back burner, or, to mix metaphors, any new branch, is going to have to hold not just my heart but my two children as well.

What sort of man would provide such a strong branch? Who would want to? One thing I do know: I won't be swinging on any new branches without my kids.

I know, I know.

My girlfriends, the talk show psycho-bablers, the self-help books, the marriage counselors, all say, "You have to be on your own before you can find somebody else."

Yeah, but I've been on my own before.

I'm no princess, waiting in her turret for Prince Rescue to come along. I've paid my own rent. Worked in Corporate America (high-profile and six-figures, thank you). Dated bigtime in the Big Bad Apple.

It's just that I've never done it with two beautiful pre-school kids in tow.

Monkey branching? Me? The library-helper-mom? The bake sale mom?

Isn't that sleazy?

Is the term "cougar" really that bad? As my FWW colleague Debbie Nigro points out, the term is used to “describe a woman who chooses to play/date/carouse/befriend a younger man.”

Debbie thinks the term is demeaning to women because it “makes it sound like older women are pouncing on innocent young men, when truthfully we are treating them” to our wisdom, experience, and an occasional expensive dinner.

“Neither side in this romantic pairing initially embarks innocently and without agenda,” Debbie wrote. “Both find it curious.”

Debbie, however, thinks there should be a new word and is offering radio stations, newspapers, and TV shows the opportunity to run a contest to find a better term. We’ll use their results and then take a national poll.

But here’s the thing: I like the term “cougar.”

First of all, at least men aren’t invoking another animal analogy, like “hog” or “rhinoceros.” A cougar is thin, feline, beautiful, and strong.

It’s also sleek, smart and pursues a wide variety of prey. Variety is always good especially when you’ve lived a life being loyal to one person who then either dumps you or disappoints you.

In fact, this cat has the greatest range of any wild, terrestrial mammal in the Western Hemisphere.

Note: Wider than the wolf.

It’s solitary and doesn’t need to stick around, like those herding animals. Nor does a cougar want to stick around, which, natch, makes them more appealing.

After last week's pity party, I came to the realization that I have been handling things all wrong. Instead of letting my current situation (of being an overeducated and unemployed professional squatter) take me down, I need to have a more Sisyphean approach.

The seemingly insurmountable obstacles can be broken down into simple tasks: I am to get up every day and put forth the effort look for a job for a few hours a day. Then move on to the next task: studying for the GRE.

Then I'll tackle research questions and design and polishing my writing samples.

After this task, I'll move on to the next, and to the next and to the next...until I get a job. Luckily, this will not be my fate forever — it only feels that way.

My biggest adversary throughout this process is myself. I overanalyze almost everything, and I'm too harsh when things don't work out my way. If ever I can figure out how to keep my inner taskmaster at bay, it will be smooth(er) sailing from that point on.

Something will come to pass from my diligence — I am too stubborn to be beaten by this.

I'm somewhat resentful and frustrated by aspects of my parents' marriage and divorce but that hasn't blinded me to the lessons to be learned.

I've learned from my parents' marriage not to let a few rocky patches turn into decades of dissatisfaction. Their betrayals of each other — big and small — and their unhappiness across the years show how easily people can get stuck in terribly unhealthy relationships. So with Rob, I've delved into couples therapy. And if that doesn't work, I'm not going to stay put forever.

I've also learned — and this is a big life lesson — how to muster feelings of compassion toward very difficult people. I can't forgive my father for his betrayals, or forget how he could make his kids feel like unwanted nuisances. But as his Alzheimer's disease rapidly progresses and he becomes further forgetful and confused — and, ironically but most helpfully, increasingly nice and gentle — I can let my resentment go and help him. He didn't take care of me so well, but now the roles have reversed, I don't need to repay his unkindness.

In all the crap life throws at us, divorce and disease are up there among the worst. But it is short-sighted to dwell on their difficult aspects only. Lessons to be learned, silver lining, lemonade from lemon, "challenges" — call them what you will — I'm not letting anything get the best of me.

Though...I'm on duty with my dad for the next few days, so let's just wait and see what I have to say after that.