By Paul Lambert, FWW co-founder

With knees knocking, a divorce rap swirling in her head, and her Adam's apple lodged in her stomach, Debbie Nigro energetically took to the stage at the Gotham Comedy Club in New York and made the whole crowd laugh themselves silly.

She was hysterical as she talked about "cougars", the plight of divorced women, her approach to life and fun, and most of all, she shared how absolutely petrified she was standing up there, but what the heck ... "I am giving it up for a good cause".

That made me think about giving... and as she put it, "giving it up".

Marty Ingels once wrote that in this world of "give and take," too many people "take" and not enough people "give".

So I started to reflect this morning on "giving". We can all do it. Give a smile, a word of encouragement, a hug.

Anne Frank said, "No one has ever become poor by giving". And Winston Churchill said "We make a living by what we get, but we make a life by what we give".

So as I sat back and reflected on the courage and determination that Debbie put into her wonderful comedy routine, I thanked God for this wonderful girlfriend who has devoted most of her life to giving to others.

I feel better, had a good laugh, and remembered that great St. Francis of Assisi quote: "For it is in giving that we receive".

Debbie received a lot of applause the other night, but deep down I'm sure she received something much greater: The satisfaction of stepping up to the plate and "giving it up" for a good cause.

My best girlfriend finally broke it off with the married guy she'd been seeing for the past year. Of course she didn't know he was married when she started seeing him, despite suspicious signs.

That doesn't bode well for any of us.

While warnings seem redundant, and books like Greg Behrendt and Liz Tuccillo's He's Just Not That Into You and Jamie Callan's Hooking Up or Holding Out spell out exactly what not to look for, it bears repeating: If a guy looks sweet, but acts sneaky, you should probably be wary. Has to run to catch a train after work? A tan line on his ring finger? Wants to meet for lunch, and go to hotels? Duh!

Even if it's just that little voice in the back of your head that keeps whispering, "This doesn't feel right," then it's probably not right.

The Internet is a constant source of distraction and deception. I've heard of more guys who either get hooked on cyberspace porn, or start to roam in places they shouldn't be. (Why do you think David Duchovny is being treated for sex addiction?)

It seems there's a web site now for almost everything. One of my "happily married" guy pals just met someone from a site that specializes in married couples seeking discreet affairs. A quick Google search, and philanderers.com is just a mouse click away.

My friend insists he's only looking for fun, not out to destroy his marriage, but I know differently. We FWW women can smell divorce coming a million miles away.

Because, divorce stinks; it smells like sex, lies, and the Internet.

A while back — a long while back — I wrote about how in those first few months after Levi left I couldn't stand to look at anything that reminded me of him. This obviously included pictures of us, his clothes, his stuff etc., but also included things that he had bought for me: jewelry, clothes, dishes, and so on.

Although this has changed somewhat — I am once again wearing my favorite pair of jeans, even though he gave them to me — it hasn't completely gone away.

Levi's splitting plan (which was equivalent to that of a criminal running away in the night) wasn't conducive to hauling furniture along with him.
 
Although, he was slightly crafty and snuck a few of his favorite things into a storage shed before he left, I was left with quite a bit of furniture.

(Now that I think of it, I never did say thank you — better get on that.)

Not initially having room for all of it, I put most of it into storage also. (Too bad Levi and I weren't on better terms, we coulda probably gotten a sweet two for one deal.)

Well, now I have the room, and a need, for the rest of the furniture. I have enlisted my friends to help me fetch it next Saturday.

"Why didn't you get it earlier?" my friend Rachel asked. I told her the truth: I didn't quite have the room for it, and, I couldn't stand to look at it. She told me that she had that same problem when she had broken up with a long term boyfriend. "Yeah, I think its a common symptom of breakups," I told her.

Then it hit me. I had an idea. "Wouldn't it be great if I could find another woman with a storage shed of furniture that shed of furniture that she couldn't stand to look at? "We could trade!!"

This guy, Mike — you probably haven't met him. But you've heard of him; I've been going on about him for a while now. I'm sorry that there aren't more of him, that there aren't dozens and dozens, so I could dole him out everywhere he might be needed. Because, it turns out, Mike is pretty much perfect for a divorced girl. At least, this one.

He has never tried to move any faster than I am comfortable with.

He has never said anything negative about Jake, no matter what I've told him, no matter how I've felt, no matter how he might feel. He knows how to be supportive and understanding without being derogatory.

I've had hysterical breakdowns, panic attacks, periods of unexplained misery. He's happily (well, maybe not happily, but certainly willingly and patiently) weathered these, as little sense as they made to either of us at the time.

Most notably, most importantly:

He accepts that this marriage was part of my life, that it is now and will always be part of who I am. He never pretends it didn't happen. At the same time, he knows he doesn't have to feel threatened or compared. He doesn't mind that there was someone else important before him.

I don't know if he has any idea how much of a worry it was that, if I ever got into a relationship again, I would somehow have to ignore or negate or erase those years that were with someone else. But with him, if I'm still sad over this marriage sometimes, if I have a story that involves me as I was before — it's a non-issue. He's enough of a friend that all those parts are just a part of me, and I don't have to pretend they're not there.

So, I'm thanking him.

I wish everyone were as lucky as I am.

I said yes to doing stand-up comedy in NYC Sunday night.

Here I go again terrorizing myself. Why?Why?Why? I won't sleep till it's over. I know my friends think I'm funny, but a packed room of strangers? Once again, I obviously need to prove it's never too late to risk anything — even my reputation.

My producer Mark Goldman made me do this 3 years ago when I was a stand-up virgin. I was freaking out until I got up to the mike and heard the first laugh from the crowd. Then they couldn't get me off the stage.

Some say if I hadn't gone on for 3 weeks I might have won the darn thing. I was disqualified for going past the five-minute window, They flash a red light to get off. I never saw it, just heard the laughs from the crowd and kept rolling.

They had to call the comedy police to get me off.

On Sunday, I will try again, representing FirstWivesWorld.com in the 3rd Annual New York's Funniest Reporter Show and I am one of nine brave souls in a stand-up comedy competition that raises money for Operation Uplink, a unique program that keeps military personnel and hospitalized veterans in touch with their families and loved ones by providing them with free phone cards.

Who am I not to risk my reputation for people who are risking their lives for me?

If you are in NYC, it's at the Gotham Comedy Club starting at 8:30pm.

The event PR is being run by the fabulous Ryan McCormick. The cost is $15.00 and a two-drink minimum. Personally, I may need a couple more before I get up there. Call 212 -367-9000 to see if there are any reservations left. My Ithaca College roommates who spit out their coffee when they heard, may already have bought them all.

Wish Me Luck!

There are a gazillion stories in New York, but for some reason mine have a tendency to intersect and overlap. Shortly before I married Ex, the man I had originally moved across country to marry (which is another story in itself) called to congratulate me. And to share some good news. "I'm not sure how you'll take it," he warned.

"If it's good news, I'll take it just fine," I replied.

"Well, I just got a great new job — everything I wanted, more money, good accounts."

And the down side would be...?

"My office is next to Ex's. We'll be working together."

Great. Welcome to The Story of My Life.

Which brings me to my current conundrum. While I didn't need to vet my dates with Ex, he and S had known each other most of their lives, even played in a band together for heaven's sakes. How exactly to broach the subject that we were now dating?

The little devil perched on one shoulder couldn't wait to spread the news. Just weeks before S and I became an official item, I received a disturbing phone call from my church.

Seems Ex and his Next wanted my pastor to officiate their upcoming nuptials...even though neither of them were members of my — or any — church. What's more, they decided the best place to hold the ceremony would be the lovely little chapel down the street from my house, where my daughters annually sang Christmas carols, a place that had meaning for me, my daughters, the family we once were.

"Rise above," my friends told me. "You don't want to spoil his wedding; wait until after to drop the bomb." Okay, okay. I conceded to the little angel on my other shoulder.

Well, at least my intentions were good.

The night of the wedding rehearsal, S and I went out to dinner to avoid any awkward confrontation with Ex picking up and dropping off the girls at my house. I told them to give me a heads up when they were leaving.

I have a court date scheduled with Levi for October 23rd. He still hasn't paid a dime of child support and I, sick of draining my bank account down to pennies every day, am sick of putting up with his bullshit.

I am exhausted. This whole ordeal is so freaking exhausting. I never realized how worn out your emotions can make you. Getting a divorce is like running a million marathons.

I tried everything. I tried to go it alone. I've tried to pay for everything by myself. I've tried having four or five jobs at one time  I've tried to reason with him. I've tried to negotiate with him — always reiterating, "I'm not asking for a whole lot, I'm not asking to get rich, I just need some help." 

Every single time I've tried, I've either been met with lies, empty promises, or absolute hostility.

It's weird though, I'm not even angry anymore. I'm just...tired. I want peace in my life. I want happiness. I want my son to have a peaceful, happy, wonderful life. I need to be able to provide that for him.

I just wish I knew what I was doing wrong. Why is it so impossible for me to communicate this effectively to Levi — effectively enough so that he'll listen? Effectively enough so that he'll step up and do SOMETHING.

This doesn't feel right, either. It doesn't feel right to drag the man — a man that I once loved so much — into court and call him a deadbeat.

I realize now why I've been avoiding this moment for so long — filing papers, and then retracting them — it's painful. This hurts. This back and forth bickering. This sitting back and watching Levi not only abandon but totally neglect our son. This really hurts. I only wish there was another way. 

Recently a very good friend of mine called me, "rigid." "Rigid!," I exclaimed. "Me!! Rigid?"

"Yeah, you're rigid," she replied. And then added that in her opinion I've always been "kinda uptight" but since my divorce, it's gotten worse.

We joked around about it then, laughing at each other, and soon it was forgotten and we continued our day. But not long forgotten. On the way home, I kept thinking about it. Arguing with myself.

I'm not rigid, I thought; I'm light, easygoing. Hell, the people at Adrian's daycare have dubbed me "the hippie" — another label I'm not too fond of — and anyway, isn't hippie kind of the opposite of rigid?

So, I did what any girl would do. I called one of my other friends to complain. "Can you believe so-and-so called me rigid?" I asked. "Well, uh, Faith, I don't know how to tell you this but you kind of are. You really could stand to lighten up a bit" was the reply that came from the other end of the line.

She went on to explain that sometimes my friends will joke around with one another about all of my "rules," about the orderly way that I do things; or rather, the way that I do things in order.

And then I started to get it.

I do have a lot of "rules," because for one, it makes me feel in control, and the other obvious reason is that I am a human and by nature we are creatures of habit.

Although I don't believe that this "rigidness" of mine has worsened, I do see myself carrying it over into areas of my life that I hadn't before the Levi Fiasco.

Like dating. I have rules about what days I will go on dates. I will not do lunch dates. And when I'm in a relationship, I won't have sex before five — unless it's a weekend or holiday. Why? It's a direct result of the Levi Fiasco.

“Friendhsip First” was how Paul McCartney billed his recent concert in Tel Aviv. It’s obvious he took the same approach with his new gal Nancy Shevell.

It took Paul 43 years to perform in Israel and just about as long to perform with Nancy.

Like many divorced people, Paul and Nancy are what I call comfort daters...those that head back in time and re-date old boyfriends or girlfriends who are now also single. Often you track them down. They knew you when you were young and really cute and still see you that way and you them. The delusion is intoxicating, and at least you know where the heck they came from.

In this instance Nancy was an old friend of Paul’s and his first wife Linda who died of cancer in 1998. You can imagine the connection.

Isn’t it great to be attracted to someone who you have some history with. Saves a load of conversation.

Besides, if you’re going to hop in an old car and head across the country like the two of them just did, it’s gotta be with someone you're really comfortable with. Especially when it comes to deciding on the rest stops.

Hey, come to think of it, it actually might be more worth it for you to go back in time and find a ‘comfort station dater’

Monday, September 29th was a big day. It marked one year since Mike and I started dating.

So you'll have to forgive me if this week is a little Mike-heavy — but this one-year point is somewhat startling, and really, really marvelous.

I would never have guessed, a year ago, that this is where I'd be. The curled-up-in-a-ball-on-my-couch stage of getting divorced was truly over. I loved living alone. I loved being single. I loved casual dating and nothing serious and doing everything on my own terms.

I liked this person I had turned out to be: She had fun. She didn't need anyone. She was free to do anything she wanted.

I had no interest in getting into a relationship. As soon as someone said the R-word, or mentioned their mothers, or planned ahead, I dropped them.

My Third Date Rule wasn't about sex — it was the last time I'd see someone.

Then this person showed up. He didn't want a relationship either. We rejoiced in our No Strings Mindsets. Then we realized that we liked each other a lot, and rejoiced that we lived so far away, since neither of us were in any place to date "for real." Then we realized we really, really liked each other a lot. And — well, you've pretty much been here for the rest.

I realize that we didn't call it a relationship until well after September, but seeing as both of us stopped dating other people, and both of us spent all our time being alternately delighted by and terrified of the unnamed something we were in from that point on, we may as well just count it from there.

So now, here we are. Long distance, yes. Terrifying, sometimes, still. But more happy-making and supportive and wonderful than I knew relationships could be. It astonishes me that this is where I am now.

And how nice to have an anniversary that marks the beginning, rather than the end.