Okay, so Peter from Pelham never panned out. But the hits, they keep on coming, complete with lots of pep talk ("we're excited you're interested in Joe The Plumber!) and mumbo jumbo about my chemistry profile: it seems I'm a negotiator/explorer who is gracious, enthusiastic, and flexible (why thank you very much) who would have "jolly times" and "hearty laughs" with my matches.

And so far, I certainly have had some hearty laughs over their idea of my matches. I couldn't have been clearer that I'm a card carrying, blue state, bleeding heart liberal. If there had been a box that said Would Bear Obama's Children, I would have checked it. So why is chemistry.com sending me so many conservatives?

Or liars, like Wayne, who billed himself as being 53: "I'm a creative, caring, and passionate renaissance man who is 68 chronologically, but 53 in mind, energy, and spirit."

And Stuart, with his "cool Riverside pad" who is "looking for a lifelong romp or casual encounters." He too admits to being 57, but says he "looks 45."

Then there are the scary, grammatically challenged guys like the 6'4" correction guard, who presents himself like this, verbatim: "Just a nice guy looking for a companion friend at first...Not into liars, cheats, or game players. Trust is big in any type of relationship. I don't {like}people who will do certain things just to curb their curiosity. If your (sic) a person willing to have an affair with a married person then your (sic) a cheat even if you say you love them. I don't like liars and cheats your (sic) hurting alot of people when you do. I like up front and honest people who don't play with your emotions." EEK! More than a little angry?

I'm single again. And I'm just fine with it. After all, I was bringing way more to the party than S ever had and I didn't have time to miss him what with that sailing trip to the British Virgin Islands in May, family reunion on Hilton Head in August, weekend getaway to a fabulous little resort on the Riviera Maya with an old college pal in September. Life has been good, I have to admit.

And that idyllic weekend in Mexico, spent stretched out on white lounges tucked into a thatched cabana, just steps from the water, marked the end of Life As We Know It. While my friend and I were drinking in the views (and more than a few margaritas), catching up on the past five or so years, we were blissfully unaware of the storms roiling to the north. We didn't turn on the television; didn't read a paper. And were caught totally unawares when we returned to the states: Ike. AIG. Lehman Brothers. Bear Sterns.

Kind of killed my bliss (and that of untold others).

And then of course, was all the hoopla leading up to the election. I was riveted, appalled, engaged as never before — then euphoric when I watched Obama's acceptance speech, up on that stage with his beautiful family, once again feeling that little frisson of hope for the future.

But now what? Now that I'm not spending hours pouring over the media that informs my world view: The New York Times, Huffington Post, Media Bistro, The Daily Show, The Colbert Report (most of ‘em, all of ‘em!) obsessing over Sarah Palin and her missing "g"s, I have so much more time on my hands.

And with the weather getting colder, and two of my three girls deep in relationships of their own, I've started to think maybe I'm ready to tip-toe back into the dating pool.

By the time I decided to end things with S, we'd been friends for 20 years, and a couple for nearly three: the first one, blissful; the second, puzzling; the third, what the heck am I still doing?

My decision made, I anguished over how to break things off. My inner demon suggested shooting off an email. Keep in mind, this is a guy who for my birthday, gave me a set of those huge, ugly bed rests with the arms that college kids like. One turquoise velour, the other brown canvas. For my beautifully serene and spare blue-gray bedroom. Because he was never comfortable watching TV there. (Note: These now look lovely in my daughters' dorm rooms.)

But I had to remember that first year too — how he had magically appeared in my life when I needed him the most, how he had eased the pain of Ex's remarriage, how he had so engaged my daughters on all our many vacations, how much I had enjoyed being a part of his family. No, an email simply wouldn't do. As much as I hate hate HATE confrontation, a confrontation it had to be.

So naturally, I stalled. I was busy with travel for work; he was busy traveling for play: golf trips, ski weeks, ski weekends.

And as our every weekend together routine turned into once a month, I sort of figured the relationship might just atrophy on its own into oblivion.

No such luck.

A girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do. So I told him that while we'd had a good run, I thought that as a couple, we had run out of steam.

"So, we're not steamy?" was his rejoinder.

Sadly, no.

Robert Frost famously wondered if the world would end in fire or ice. I've always loved (and agreed with) the line:

From what I've tasted of desire

I hold with those who favor fire.

No steam, no fire, no more desire.

And this is how our world ended.

The family joke is that if I had stopped at two children, I'd be the most insufferable mother who ever lived. My two oldest daughters have never given me moment's pause — well maybe a few moments — but I saw none of the screaming, slammed doors, sullen withdrawals or general obnoxious teenaged behavior I've heard about (or exhibited myself as a self-absorbed young lass). Never had to set curfews, never had to mete out punishments for missing said curfews. How clueless I was.

But daughter number three — bless her little heart — has given me a run for the money from the very start. Didn't want to be born; we had to induce. Once born, she didn't want to leave my arms — or the house. Where most babies are lulled to sleep in their car seats, K would scream bloody murder the entire time. I remember one wretched ride where I compulsively kept reaching for the radio knob, as if that could turn her volume down.

Now it's just the opposite. At 15 with her first beau, it's all about The Boy, and she can't wait to get into his car. She doesn't want to spend any time with me — and certainly not with my beau and His Boy, four years younger. And I understand her need to be with her guy, her first love, so it's a delicate dance between her legitimate needs and ours.

So I thought she was being particularly magnanimous, when S and his son came over one Saturday afternoon and she agreed to go iceskating with us at a nearby rink. Afterwards, we came home, baked cookies together. When she said she'd like to skip going out to dinner with all of us to meet her guy, I thought it was a reasonable request. But S got a little pissy, which annoyed me, so I sweet talked her into it. We had a lovely dinner, then she went off with The Boy, S and I retreated up to my room for a movie, his son settled with video games downstairs.

I awoke at 3 am with a start. I was sure K was home by now, but something made me check.

Not in her room.

Looking back, L's death was the point where things started to unravel, not just with my love affair with S, but with his family. It was so incremental that I wasn't sure if I was imagining things, perhaps subconsciously sabotaging the relationship because I was afraid of where it might lead. More likely that I didn't want to acknowledge that nagging question mark, simmering at the back of my mind. Which I really should know to trust by now. 

With L gone, I offered to host the first Thanksgiving without her and it went really well...except S and his siblings only invited his mother, not the step mom and dad as had been L's habit. Awkward. The sister stepped up to the plate for the holidays...but was put in the strange position of having to host both Christmas Eve and Day, identical menus, identical guests, but with the mom at one; dad and step mom at the other.

But the real shocker came a few months later at the annual benefit for the organization that L had co-founded, the one where S and I became an item. She was being honored that night for all the work she had done; her son was presenting the award.

And her widowed husband came with a date.

Trying to hide my shock at this, I glanced sideways at B, L's delightful son who I loved as much as my own daughters. "I hate her already," he said flatly, as he prepared for his speech. I looked at S, who shrugged as if to say: time to move on. I sure as hell wasn't ready to move on; obviously her children weren't either.

When L called, saying she had an extra ticket to a benefit dinner that weekend, of course I said yes. We'd been friends for nearly 20 years and I knew her extended family as well as my own. It would be fun.

We mingled around the silent auction table, bidding on items we didn't need, nibbling on coconut shrimp and baby lamb chops. It wasn't until we sat down at the table to eat that the reason for the extra ticket became clear. L's very cute brother-in-law, S, had just separated from his wife of 12 years and was, apparently, back on the market. And apparently, my date for the night.

Well, well, well.

We had first met at a baby shower 20 years earlier that L and her mother-in-law held for me and my husband. I was hugely pregnant and S, recently returned to the family business after years in San Francisco, was puzzled to find himself at a such an event. (I figured guys have a part in this baby-making business, so they should be at the shower as well.)

Someone even snapped a picture of the two of us standing together — he looking for all the world like the father of my unborn child.

Over the following years we saw each other often at his family events, at ours. And I developed a secret little crush on him — nothing I would act upon, just a fun little "what if" fantasy. But as he was leaving my holiday party one Christmas, he gave me a look and I saw a glimmer of something there.

I remember thinking: I married the wrong one. Oops.

But then he got married, had a son, settled down. We hadn't seen each other in years, until that night.

As we sat at the benefit dinner, chatting easily with his dad and step-mom, sister and brother-in-law, brother and L, I wondered: Could this be possible? After four years of disappointing dating, could it really be this simple to find the right one?

So, what about the matchmaking services we keep hearing about? The ones promising to eliminate all that bothersome deleting of Internet undesirables by focusing on core values and future goals rather than the physical (some won't even offer a sneak peek of Mr. or Ms. Potentially Wonderful before your first date).

The conventional wisdom is that people who pay out a sizable chunk of change for a dating service (about $1000 versus about $50 a month for computer-based services) are going to be more likely to be looking for serious relationship rather than simply trolling for dates.

So I decided to give it a try, meeting with the owners of a new, highly touted matchmaking service. That they had met on Match.com before marrying didn't concern me as much as it should have.

They quizzed me on age, income, religion, political views, physical likes and dislikes, height, and even weight (ouch!). They were curious about my past relationships: What went right? What went wrong? What was I looking for? I felt like I was on a first date with an investigative reporter.  

They told me modern yentas don't make matches by computer, instead relying on instinct to figure out which two people will click. They would ask for feedback after each date so they could further refine their search.

It is extremely rare for a perfect match to occur the first time out, they warned. And, once you've met someone you like, you're on your own: "We're responsible for the first two minutes of your date. The rest is up to you."

The deal was to find me three dates.

After Ex got engaged, I thought it safe to test the match.com waters again. (If you recall, Ex popped up in my last online dating search.) This time around, I found the profiles could be personalized to an absurd level: You can specify a match between 3'1" and 8'11" tall as well as indicate certain turn-ons including tattoos, body piercings, and brandings (no, no, and no). I filled out the profile, hit enter, and waited. And waited. "Sorry," the screen informed me. "We have no current matches."

Really.

The company claims to have about a gazillion members in the New York region alone, so either I filled the profile out incorrectly (a distinct possibility) or my search for any guy without tattoos, piercings, brandings, and the like from this database was futile.

So I checked out eHarmony next. It doesn't ask your physical preferences, but purports to use a more meaningful system they promise will match you up with soul mates, not sole dates.

Indeed, you need to spend about an hour to fill out the incredibly detailed questionnaires asking about character traits, family background and values, and emotional temperament. Once you receive a match, the system offers a high level of anonymity, guiding potential matchees through a series of increasingly personal levels of communication until both parties decide to share phone numbers or actually meet.

You can choose at which level you want to reveal your photograph, if ever, and mismatches are easily deleted and most important, prevented from ever contacting you again.

I just read another dopey article claiming that married people have the best sex lives. How it's so great knowing all the person's buttons, the freedom in having just one partner, yada, yada yada.

I beg to differ. I speak from a long lack of experiences during my marriage and unless my friends — both men and women — are all lying to me, we were all to some extent in the same boat.

Take my beleagured friend D, who had the ill-fated date with me that stormy November night (check out my first post). He returned to home and hearth, willing to give his marriage another go.

"There is peace in the family and I have buried the hatchet, swallowed my miseries and decided to hang in there," he wrote me. "After looking at all the alternatives and the reaction of the brood to my breakout suggestions, I've just hunkered down. If I were in France, I would probably have found myself a mistress and lead a double life. But I'm in Norway, so I live a quiet Calvinistic life of middle class mediocrity."

Yikes.

Compare that with my randy neighbor, S, who left her husband and our quiet rural suburb and moved to a condo complex in a nearby town that had a rep of attracting lots of new divorcees. After a few months she confided, "In our neighborhood if you heard screaming, you assumed people are fighting. But here, when you hear screaming, you assume people are having really great sex." 

Or my friend P, who reunited quite literally with a former squeeze after years languishing in a sexless marriage. "It was like finding the magic lamp and getting my three wishes: sex, sex, and more sex!"

I knew from the get-go that Rebound Man was just that; not Mr. Right, but a perfect Mr. Right Now. A gentle reintroduction to the self I lost in marriage. You have to start somewhere.

The first kiss was just a gentle brushing of lips, the slightest embrace. But oh so nice.

“Could I have another one, please,” I asked.

A slow smile. The mutual acquiescence.

“If we keep this up, I won’t be able to walk out of here,” he said.

“What? It was just a kiss.”

“A kiss with intent to seduce. That constitutes sex in the first degree.”

Oh My Lord! Here I’d thought I’d lost my libido — turns out I was just looking for it in the wrong place!

In the beginning, being with Rebound Man was like opening a gift and finding exactly what I had hoped for. I loved regressing back to that state of inarticulate adolescence, nearly swooning from the sheer delight of fresh infatuation. Which is always my favorite part, before the hard work of a relationship.

But the rebound relationship is meant to be light, insubstantial, fun — like cotton candy. It has no nutritional value, and is fine in limited amounts, just enough to leave that sweet taste on your lips. It’s when you overindulge or try to take it seriously that you get into trouble: dip in, dip out, move on, be happy.

Not that I practice what I preach — even new habits can be hard to break. So I hung onto my rebound way past its expiration date, finally accepting that this relationship was just as lacking as my marriage had been. He too, could only offer just one piece of the puzzle, nothing more. Time to find a new game.

But it sure was fun while it lasted.