If you were married to one very particular type of person, say, the deer head on the wall, lifetime NRA member redneck type, then it would stand to reason that you just might want to step outside of your regular pool of male types and go for something exotic.

Perhaps an African-American instead. Yep. That was sort of my mind set when I finally decided to have sex again after being divorced and removed from Stinky for a year and a half. And younger. Yeah, that's the ticket. Let's see I am 49, so what about someone, say, 23 years younger than me. Yep, again. That might just work.

Well, my dear FWW'ers. It didn't. In fact it was quite the disappointing fiasco. Naturally, we'll keep the names out to protect the innocent. Or is it the guilty? Ah, well.

God love him, he was so young and inexperienced, but very drawn to me, and, naturally, I was loving the hell out of that. He pursued me, and let's just say that I didn't resist. I mean, he was a living doll, and he was young and virile, or so I thought.

It was Jan. 1, and I'd heard that whatever you do the first day of the New Year is what you'll do the most of for the rest of the year, and it damn sure was not going to be laundry! So, I took the plunge. Of course, I did have to drink a couple of glasses of wine to get my courage up, then I just showed up and we had sex.

It wasn't horrible, but it needed much improvement. Unfortunately, the second time was twice as bad, and I just decided to throw in the towel, dress and go.

He wanted me to help him, and he said I could be his teacher. Well, women, I have to tell you that being a young man's teacher just doesn't have the same appeal at 50 that it did at 40. No, really. It doesn't.

I'm right back at that place where I want somebody else to "knock my socks off." I've been working for years at pleasing others, and now, now it's my turn.

Here's a question: Should a mother take her daughter to see Sex and the City? Should I even be asking this question?

I loved the series, but I'm 51 years old. Is it proper for a 13 year old to see this movie?

I don't think so, though my daughter is begging me to let her go. She's seen the softened version of SATC on TBS, and she's in love with the characters. She wants to know what happens to them in the end or more specifically if Big and Carrie get married.

Every little girl's dream — a beautiful wedding complete with gown, flowers, an orchestra, an unblemished face — you know the perfect day. We all had it once.

In the third grade, I was set on marrying a preacher. Don't know why other than as a form of rebellion against my older brother and sister who were best buds and were always leaving me out in the cold. Marrying a preacher seemed to be a way to "get them back" for some reason. Using God as my weapon. Hmmmm.

I did marry, but I was six weeks pregnant and nearly 38 years old. I wore an India style outfit I bought at Pier One Imports (when they used to sell clothes) and I felt like crap. We went to the Justice of the Peace. I had to throw up in the middle of the very brief and non-frilly ceremony, but managed to hold it in until we got home.

I was so sick; I barely made it to the bathroom, removing my clothes as I went for fear of getting them stained. It was awful.

Later, and in sweats, I treated myself to Velveeta Cheese & Macaroni (about all I could stomach) while our few guests had Mexican dishes that made my stomach churn. Yeah, it was a great wedding day and a great experience. Some fairy tale.

Now, back to SATC. I've heard, though I do not know, that the movie is not all peaches and cream and that there is a dark ending. "Dark" meaning what, exactly? Don't know.

After Hurricane Katrina blew my life apart, but gave me the opportunity to escape my prison sentence with Stinky, I was in what some people call a bit of a state of shock. I was traumatized. Yep, that storm blew my house, my children's school, and my office away, and Stinky had knocked me clean stupid.

So, though it's been two and a half years, sometimes I long for those first months (okay, it was actually a year) of being so confused and unhappy and scared that I couldn't hold down a full time job and was afraid to really do anything more than get up, get the kids to school, and brush my teeth.

That's when I found my new friends: Crown Royal and Mimosa. Mmmm. I had no money, but I actually bought the complete collection of all six seasons of Sex In the City and after the kids were in school, I would come home and I would put in the next DVD open a bottle of Frexinet Brut or Extra Dry, mix a mimosa and sit down to plunge into complete oblivion watching four hip chicks living their lives in the Big Apple.

Ahhh. Those were the days. By noon, the champagne was gone along with a king sized bar of Hershey's dark chocolate, I would lay down and sleep for two hours, awake refreshed, brush my teeth, again, and go get the kids.

Then after baths and homework and giggles and stories of their day, and once they were both snuggled in for the night, I would shower, slip into my bed and put in the next DVD and hit play. I would also begin drinking the four Crown Royal highballs that would lull me into a deep sleep, so deep that I would not have the nightmares that had plagued me the first few weeks after my departure from the coast of Mississippi.

In this very sensitive-to-spaying-and-neutering world and in view of all the unwanted dogs and cats in the world, I must beg your forgiveness - I let my cat get pregnant. She wasn't supposed to be in heat, but I shouldn't have let her out. But I did and she is.

But, oh, the sweetness of it all. It is an indulgence that I have let myself experience. In my life of so many losses, I have allowed my cat to grow new lives inside her belly. I have allowed myself to put my hands on her stomach and feel the growing life inside and then as the weeks passed to feel those lives move and kick. One, two, three ... I think I count four.

I have allowed myself to leave work early a few days ago because I sensed that her time was near, and was glad to know I was right as I lifted the tiny lives from my bed (yes, my bed) and the floor and moved them to the box I had carefully prepared for this event. And I gave in to the luxury of the celebration of life and called my best friend to say, "they're here -- they've been born."

And I was delighted when she, too, left her job and rushed to see the new lives that had come to live on Kenneth Avenue with my children and a dog named Brittney, a now mother cat and some sea monkeys.

I sterilized the knife and cut their cords and their birth sacks and helped mama cat adjust as this was a new world for her too, and I smiled as her instincts took over and she cleaned and nursed and settled into her new role as a mother.

They sleep by my bed in their box with a heating pad underneath to keep them extra warm, and I hear the mother gently coo and encourage her new babies to eat and cuddle and finally sleep. I hear her purr. I hear the tiniest of mews coming from the so-very-small mouths of the six new lives that have come into our world.

Since I'm always writing about the struggles and heartbreak of Moving Beyond Divorce, this morning I'm writing about breakfast instead.

Breakfast with two of my best gal friends.

Picture this: I'm sitting at the bar that is open to the kitchen. Almost immediately, if not before, Lori is across from me making a drink of orange juice and wine. (We were out of champagne and we live in a blue law state — you know, you get "blue" 'cause you can't buy liquor or wine on Sunday.)

She adds something to sweeten the drinks, throws in a couple of fresh strawberries, and we're set.

Kim, the chef extraordinaire, is doing a whole lot of chopping. Looks like fresh spinach, and I see some baby yellow squash, some red and yellow peppers. And there are some diced potatoes and something I honestly do not recognize.

The greens and vegetables have water beads on them, as Kim has just carefully and gently rinsed the produce she bought just this morning from the market. And I know that because she called me from the checkout counter while I was driving into Nashville, where she and Lori live.

The smells are beginning to lift into the air and across the bar. I smell it all, and it smells like heaven.

The wine did its job, and we have moved onto Grey Goose. It's Sunday and it's finally past noon, so we decide to take it up a notch.

Then the food is served. Kim does it all, the shopping, the chopping, the cooking, and the serving. She puts the food on our plates with careful balance. She makes certain we each have more than enough, and then she puts our plates on the bar.

She serves us.

Women will serve each other. Men seldom do, if ever. My guess is that most of you reading this were not served by your exes.

Well, of course it does. Freedom comes with loneliness and fear. It comes with self doubt and trepidation. Freedom comes with a blank canvas that stares at you saying, when you are going to finally pick up that paint brush little lady?

But it is worth it. Leaving your partner, disconnecting from the person you shared three, 10, 20, 30 years with is painful, but it's the first step toward freedom.

He left you, you left him, you both left each other — it doesn't matter. Divorce hurts. It cuts to the very core of who you are and who you were. No matter whose decision it was, you find yourself in a new existence, but instead of feeling excited and happy, you find yourself lonely and regretful. You may even fantasize about the possibility of getting back with him because he and that marriage were a "known". You are now faced with the unknown.

It's hard. But rest assured, God wants you to be happy.

But, everything you've been taught, everything you read — it all points to the husband and wife and family scenario. You now feel that you've abandoned your beliefs, failed at your marriage, lost what mattered most.

But, you are wrong. I personally wrestled with the whole "I took a vow, I promised forever, I swore to never leave," yet I did. You could say, well he beat you, Wanda, of course you had to leave. But many women take their beatings and remain "a good wife." So, was I selfish? Was it my fault he hit me? After all I am opinionated. I am mouthy. I am feisty and somewhat self centered. I do like to do what I want to do. So, am I somehow to blame for all of this?

Self doubt and regret — they're killers. But, they will pass. You have to trust me on this. I made it through. Today, I don't have any regret. I don't have any loneliness either, as remarkable as that may sound. I've been busy painting, you know.