There are the times, usually carefully chosen, when I feel I have to say something to my husband, even if it hurts. On the way home from a recent dinner party: "Honey, the Carters have been telling us since last fall that their son Justin has his heart set on Brown."

"They are calling in all their chits in hopes of getting the dorky kid in there," he says.

"So when you dis Brown, and say his choice of college doesn't really matter, well sweetie, it kind of brought the dinner party conversation to a dead halt.

"Did you notice? Brown seems very important to them. Maybe next time you could say, 'Brown — great school. Fingers and toes crossed for you!'"

That's when he will jam on the brakes a block from our house and call me elitist. And then he'll get defensive: "I'll say whatever I want to say."

"Honey," I respond, "let's just play the game. Even though the less-than-brilliant Justin will never get into Brown.

"Who are we to burst their bubble?

"This is not rocket science, honey. It's just a social grace. Can't you just play along?"

Things like this are minor irritants, taken one at a time. But if he thinks those things don't add up in a small town, he is mistaken. I point that out — again, because these are the people we have chosen to live among.

The town we picked, the street we claim as ours. With neighbors — flawed like the rest of us. It's our village.

All I am asking for is peace in the village. Where our kids, a few years down the road, will dream big, dream a bit beyond our means.

So I want him to quit embarrassing himself. Actually, to quit embarrassing us.

Rules: Keep it down to two glasses of wine.

Skip the tequila.

We can always get snarky about poor Justin on the ride home.

If he does that one more time, I am calling a lawyer. That's it. He's been asked politely, with the proper phrasing from the couples counselor: "Don't say ‘You forgot to get the milk.' " Instead say, "I feel bad when you forget things like this, honey."

I remind myself: "The word 'always' rarely applies."

When he leaves the sprinkler on all night, and soaks the yard turning it into a muddy marsh, I don't always say, "We've got a gusher in the back yard ... again."

Usually I notice it when I'm up first in the morning, as I'm pouring the kids' cereal. So I dash out in my bathrobe and turn off the sprinkler.

By the time he's up and rushing to catch the train, I forget to even mention it.

I don't always use the midnight car ride home from a party to tell him that he raised his voice a tad too loud about Obama in a room full of known Republicans.

Usually I just make a joke: "Wow, you sure told them everything they didn't want to hear, sweetie."

Or, "Remember, these are the people who sponsored us for the golf club last year."

Or, "Maybe you could just tone it down a bit."

Usually, I say nothing, and silently vow to buy a pricy hostess gift, and slip it in front of the host's front door the next morning, without ringing the doorbell.

A few months ago I read a Newsweek article written by a woman who was in the middle of a divorce. She and her husband had both come to the realization that the marriage wasn't going to work, so while they still remained friends they knew that divorce was inevitable.

Instead of splitting up the household goods, working out a custody arrangement for the kids, and then going their separate ways, they still lived together in the same house they bought as a married couple. They had separate bedrooms, but they still maintained the home concurrently. The kids knew the parents were divorcing at that eventually they would be split up into two households, but until the house sells they'll all stay together under one roof.

I remember thinking to myself as I read the article, "Is this feasible? Can two people who are divorcing share a house and not be freaked out the whole time?" I figured it must be an exceptional situation, and didn't give it much more thought until a friend recently told me about her neighbor who is doing the exact same thing. Apparently they're afraid to put the house on the market because of the current real estate environment, so they've set up separate bedrooms and they've already filed the divorce paperwork.

Does anyone else think this is weird?

If I filed for divorce I would not want to live in the same house as my husband. Maybe it's different for me because my husband absolutely does not want a divorce, so it would be weird to live with him and deal with the whole, "Are you sure you want to do this? Can't we work it out? How could you do this to me?" thing that I would probably get from him every single day. Not being able to be physically away from him would be bizarre, considering the circumstances.

I just learned about Living Apart Together (LAT). Interesting idea. (Isn't that what Woody and Mia did, only to have their sense of family diluted enough that Woody took up with his wife's adopted daughter? Eww.)

But from the sounds of it, others make it work, and in living apart, they find the freedom to stay together as a couple.

What about the opposite? Allow me to coin the term Living Together Apart (LTA!). As in someone moves into the guestroom and the former couple shares the apartment equally as roommates, and no intimate relationship continues.

I bet Rob would go for it. And this way I get to keep my favorite study intact, continue to receive the affections of my cat, and stay in my beloved neighborhood!

But would it be fair to Rob? I've been opening up to the idea that we have helped each other grow but might need to grow in separate directions in the future. While living together could eventually impact our moving on and dating, what about in the near future? Is it possible this could ease a transition?

Or is it a cop out when the fear of change and loneliness related to moving out are too tough to imagine? I'd love to hear from others who have given it a try.

The other day was a doozy. The kids were both stir-crazy because of the rain, and when they get stir-crazy they get awfully clingy and needy. I had three deadlines looming and I had to go to a meeting. The house was a mess and I couldn't figure out a time to go grocery shopping even though the pantry was pretty much bare.

All in all, it was the kind of day where I felt stretched to the limit and although I wanted nothing more than to curl into bed and hide from the world it just wasn't an option.

Too many obligations, and not enough of me to go around.

After the kids were in bed I sat down to punch out the work that I had to do. I figured if I worked for two hours straight I could get to bed before midnight, then the next day I could try to tackle the housework and maybe get to the grocery store if everything worked out.

I had been working for a few minutes when my husband stopped flipping through the television channels and looked over at me. "I need to talk to you about something," he said, and then proceeded to tell me that I wasn't paying enough attention to him.

Now that's bad timing.

I was already on edge because I was trying to deal with so much at once. Sometimes it gets overwhelming: kids, work, keeping up the house...I understand that when I have so much to deal with my husband's need for attention might take a back seat. There are just some times when I have to get stuff done and I don't have the time to fawn over him.

That either makes me a realist, or it makes me incredibly insensitive to my husband's needs. Or maybe I'm an insensitive realist.

I work hard. It would be great to end an evening with my husband saying something along the lines of, "I know you've been stretched thin lately. What can I do to help?" instead of, "Pay more attention to me."

The other night I lay in bed with Sam at his place. The bed that used to be my bed, my favorite piece of furniture. The nightstand that used to be my night stand. The husband that used to be my husband.

And none of it felt like mine anymore. Laying there, body next to body, I was thinking: This man is my husband. And the words surprised me.

I don't feel married. Haven't worn a ring since before I left.

This man is my husband. I don't know what that means anymore.

There's no judgment, no longing. Just the thought. This man is my husband?

It's close to two years we've been apart together. I haven't dated anyone else. Haven't kissed anyone else. Haven't had sex with anyone else. In 15 years there hasn't been anyone else.

When I write these posts, I always feel like they should to go somewhere deep. Land on some wise thing.

I don't have that. No clarity to offer.

I'm just keeping with these words, meditating on the thought: This man is my husband.

This man is my husband.

If I repeat them enough, they'll lead me to the truth.

If you would have taken a glimpse into my relationship with my husband a year ago and then had a look at it recently, you would probably notice something right away. A year ago my husband was a different guy. He didn't seem to care less if I was fighting a high fever, or if I had a deadline, or if the kids gave me a really trying day.

It didn't matter. He still wasn't going to lift a finger to help because keeping the house going was my job. Keeping the kids happy was my job. It just didn't seem to matter if I was wandering around in an exhausted stupor, because he was happy and had his video games to occupy him.

Cut to present day. Something about me trying to leave shook him up enough to where he does the things I always thought he should do be doing anyhow: he takes the kids when I have a lot of stuff to do, he'll make dinner once in a while if I'm running late getting home, and he'll encourage me to take a short nap if I'm not feeling well.

Those may sound like normal things a husband would do, but for me it's a 180 degree change from how things once were.

So what's the problem? Now that he's doing all the things I once wished he would do, why can't I just be happy? This is a question I have been struggling with for a while now. I think it all boils down to this: Why did it have to take me trying to leave for him to finally notice that something had to change?

For a couple of years I was obviously stressed out, exhausted and generally unhappy with the way things were. I told him things needed to change. I asked him to go to counseling with me. I begged him to cut back on his video game time. Really, if my bursting into tears at the drop of a hat wasn't a pretty good sign that things weren't working, what was?

Wanda's post last week about living in the real world rocked! Ice cream for dinner? You are my new hero!

So thanks, Wanda. I'm taking it to heart and making peace with my piles.

I'm tired of holding myself up to ridiculously unattainable standards. I read and re-read about the detrimental ways super-mom syndrome is killing women, all the reasons it's okay — healthy, even — to let the house be a mess, but I just can't tell that obnoxious internal judge to sit down and shut the hell up.

Grilled cheese, soup, salad, and fruit for dinner instead of elaborate homemade gourmet makes me feel like someone should call child services and take my kids to a better home.

Why? It's a healthy meal.

I'm so embarrassed about the tiny size of my one-bedroom apartment and the piles of papers and toys and clothes, I haven't invited one of Roxie's friends here to play this year.

I grew up in an impossibly spotless five-bedroom house. I'm talking David Lynch freaky clean. We sat down as a family for a home cooked meal. Every night. Always. Eight of us, when all the kids were home.

My parents, brother, two sisters, me, my uncle and grandma Rose, for whom Roxie is named. (My grandmother and my developmentally delayed uncle lived with us.)

Both my parents, and my Grandma Rose and my uncle worked full or part time. Still the food was homemade and nothing was out of place. Ever.

How'd they do it?

I'll tell you how. Two words. Cleaning lady.

There were four adults pitching in on meals, house work, and yard work. FOUR! When the adults were all working, there was enough income to hire outside help.

Even in my smaller space, with less people, how can I expect to do the work it took four (five, including the cleaning lady) adults handle in my parents' house?

Though tentative about commencing a trial separation from Rob, I recently undertook an apartment search. After finally graduating from browsing listings to meeting potential apartment-mates on-site, I hit a wall: Apparently thirty-something women leaving a troubled marriage are not considered great apartment-mate material.

This was a terrible eye-opener about the stigma I might have to face down the road, but given my uncertainty about leaving Rob, it was kind of nice that the next step — and whether or not to take it — was out of my control.

How convenient to avoid an inner struggle over whether it's time to leave or not — let someone else provide the answer!

Yesterday, however, some nice women in an adorable apartment nearby decided I'm a "good fit." They didn't pry far into my current living situation or personal life, and so the fact that I'd be in the middle of a separation isn't exactly on the table. But their age and respectful reserve make me think they wouldn't unfairly judge my ability to be a roommate with a year's lease by my unsuccessful attempt to choose a life partner.

Now it seems I have to similarly convince the building management company. No doubt much will be revealed about my situation in the "extremely thorough background check" I've been told to expect. Scary. But also a relief: This means I'm still not exactly in control of taking the next step. I guess I'm not quite ready to take the wheel.

When Sam and I split 18 months ago, agreeing to "leave it open ended," our therapist warned that 80 percent of separations end in divorce

I thought, "Well, that's okay. At least those people who were unsure or unable to move directly to divorce gave themselves some time and space for thinking."

The statistic seems like a big "So what?"

I mean, at that point, the only things on the table were separation or divorce. Staying in it wasn't an option. So my 20 percent chance was better than the other option — a zero percent chance.

Now I wonder, of the 20 percent who reconcile, what happens to them down the line? Are their relationships any more or less susceptible to dissolution because they've already been to the brink without falling over?

A few weeks ago we were at friend's dinner party, the whole family. And we weren't the only couple there who'd come all the way undone without undoing everything.

Another couple had been separated several months and have been back in one home for a couple years now. A friend of mine was separated for two years and got back together for seven or eight.

I wonder: Do "second first marriages" face better odds than other second marriages? Is the seemingly higher rate of reconciliation just proportional to the high rate of divorce?

I also wonder if any of those numbers matter anyway. Just like the statistics our therapist threw out, they all kind of seem like a big "So what."