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.

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.

It’s been a year now since I determined I could not go on living with my husband, Ed. While he was the first one to bring up the D-word, he is also the one who does not want to get divorced.

Once I finally got him out of the house (my house, thank you very much; I bought it a few years before we married), I devoted myself to scrambling for money to keep body, soul, and animal family together.

I soon realized that divorce, with its lawyers and fees, was a luxury. And Ed, never a financial genius, said he didn’t have the funds either.

He did email me a proposed settlement agreement; I think he found a template on the Internet.

We have no kids and my lawyer tells me our pets are considered chattel (I’m sorry; anybody who looks to me for food and shelter and doesn’t work is a dependent).

I wasn’t seeking alimony and he wasn’t planning to battle over the house. Still, like any good divorcing couple, we managed to oppose each other.

I wanted to keep the health insurance he got through work, at least for a while; he would not sign a quitclaim deed formally relinquishing any interest in the house, until the divorce was final.

I was more concerned about the health insurance. I could keep that by just keeping quiet, so I did.

But after I tapped my retirement account to cover all the things I hadn’t earned earning enough to handle, I remembered that I’d also meant to get divorced.

I got out of bed in the middle of the night and emailed Ed, asking how he thought we should go forward.

Then it was his turn to keep quiet.

Weeks passed without a word from him.

I felt I’d done my part for the present, but my therapist thought I was procrastinating.

Imagine.

I said I’d get in touch with Ed, ask what he wanted to do. “Why are you giving this back to him?!” she demanded.

I thought about it briefly before replying.

“Habit.”

When you start dating, you realize there are a number of things you don't necessarily want the other party to know about — at least, not at first. Habits, tendencies, things you're mildly embarrassed about, things you're not sure will go over well, things that didn't go over well with the last partner. They're small, yes — not really that big a deal in the grand scheme of things — but you're not necessarily eager to share them.

I mean, you can love and trust someone and still not want to them to know you have a really, really hard time peeing when you think anyone can hear.

Since we're in a long distance relationship, when Mike and I see each other we stay in each other's apartments. This means we're together a lot of the time. This means he's figured a lot out already.

And no, I can't pee if I think anyone can hear. Or if I think someone's waiting for the bathroom. Obviously, this had to come out into the open early on. He hasn't stopped rolling his eyes, but he has let me pile pillows on his head before I head to the bathroom.

He's found out how I feel about jammies. In that I like them — a lot. In that I tend to come home from work, put them on, and stay in them the rest of the day. In that I avoid getting dressed as long as possible over the weekend.

He knows the house kind of revolves around the cats.

I've had to admit, recently, that I have a number of friends I only know through the Internet.

He knows I smoke sometimes.

These things have all come to light. None of them, of course, have been a big deal, but all of them were things I was reluctant to share. They are all things that may not have been learned as soon as they were if we hadn't been sharing a space.

In less than a month, we're taking a trip together. There's no hiding when you're traveling. What will come to light then?

It's official: Larry the Cat has given up his vendetta against Mike.

The last time Mike was in town Larry made it clear that he was displeased. This was odd, since Larry is a cat-whore. He loves everyone, boys especially. His normal reaction on meeting someone new is to make out with them, or, at the least, sit behind them on the couch and hug their heads.

Larry is convinced that he is my boyfriend, although he considers it a fairly open relationship, what with his tendency to stick his head into other people's mouths. When Mike came to stay for the first time, Larry took one look at him and realized something was different. I'm impressed, still, with Larry's insight here — he's not the smartest cat in the world. This is a cat who runs into walls. This is a cat who has set himself on fire — twice.

Larry, the lap-lover, would immediately vacate the couch if Mike sat beside him, stalking to a chair across the room and watching with hostile eyes. He stopped trying to sleep in the bedroom, much less on the bed. He refused to let Mike pet him.

One of the things I love about Mike is that he loves my cats. At the risk of being the crazy cat lady, they're awfully important to me, and anyone who wants to be a part of my life in any significant way really has to be ok with that. Finding someone who not only tolerates this but is actually pleased when I drag him out of the shower to see them in a particularly cute position...well, it doesn't get much better than that.

So Mike's been on a mission to win Larry's affections.

It helped that his second visit saw him working a lot — it got the desk lamp on his side. Larry loves napping under the desk lamp.

Then there was the miraculous day when Larry actually got into Mike's lap. I have a picture of Larry looking over at me in horror and guilt before leaping off and pretending it had never happened.

Living apart together... Living together apart.... There are all kinds of ways to make relationships work, whether they're relationships that involve love and affection or relationships built to sustain two people at lower costs than separate houses.

Here's a popular strategy that some couples use in Quebec: The kids get the house. The parents move out.

Of course, not at the same time, because that would leave small Wilbur and precious Joanie to tear up the family home in no time flat.

But what some couples who separate try in order to achieve the least amount of emotional trauma for children is a shared custody arrangement in which the parents are the ones to shift between houses, not the kids.

Here's how it works:

The parents shop for an apartment or second home that they feel they can afford. It has to be a location that both like and feel comfortable living in. They furnish the place and make it viable to live in. Each choose a room to be theirs and set up their personal effects.

Then, one week of two, one of the parents moves out of the main family home into this secondary location. The other parent stays in the family home with the kids. When the week is up, the parent that had moved out moves back into the family home, and the other parent gets a week-long break in the secondary home.

The exchange of household only requires that the parents pack a small bag of personal items. They already have a room set up in either home with clothes in both locations.

The benefits? The kids never have to leave the home they grew to love. They get to stay in one place without suffering an upheaval or leaving behind a house they feel good living in. The kids stay in one familiar location. There's no fear of the unknown, no leaving behind anything and no worries about the future.