“When he walked out of my life after three years, he was the same person who had entered my life three years earlier. I’d formed an image out of my perception. I thought he was what I wanted him to be.”

“This does not escape my notice, it is a context. I resent the fact of a context; my social status has shifted and no one is going to acknowldege it, that´s certain. I´m expected to be Brave and Rise Above. I dress for the role; I must look far better now that I did when I was married. I must look pulled together into a nice tight Hermès knot of self-containment. I don´t make the rules; I just do my best to follow them.”

“There is that, and there is also the Irreconcilable Differences line. It seems so catchall, so vague. You could say that about anyone, any man and woman at all. Jesus and Mary Magdalene: “Irreconcilable Differences.” JFK and Jackie, anyone at all. It´s built into the man-woman thing. What kind of paltry reason is that? “Insanity” is another box to be checked on the divorce petition, the only alternative to “Irreconcilable Differences.” I would like to check it.”

“To keep myself from harming or calling N and to stave off the rage and despair, I focus on my extraordinary son, drink midrange Chardonnay every night after he is asleep, and make a barrage of late-night mail-order retail purchases placed from the couch. The couch has officially become my second battle station. I am angry and I have credit And I´m all blackened inside; I should wear a pointy witch hat around Larkspur as I go to the bank and drop A off at day care. It would be more honest.”

“Naturally, I do blame Françoise. I blame her for having N in the first place. She was young, she was beautiful, she was married to a doctor, and she was intelligent. She could have abstained from producing her first son. It was wrong on a variety of levels.”

“Although I notice there is never a truly good time to have a nice long chat with one´s mother-in-law, unless you are having an extraordinary life and marriage and your mother-in-law is, say, Maureen Dowd, or Indira Gandhi. Someone of that ilk.”

“For me, it´s sloth,” I say. “Hedonistic sloth and escapism.”

“I feel incendiary, a wildfire. My spirit licks at the gates of a very elaborate, customized, and distracting emotional Hades.”

“I´m just not sending out the right vibe lately. Perhaps the fact that I wear stained sweatpants and free T-shirts is holding me back. I just can´t seem to get back into the intelligent-slut-for-hire outfits that lure men; even shoes with laces evade me. Plus my hair is Fran Lebowitz-esque. I think my eyes are getting closer together. I don´t know.”

“You get what you give,” we will tell his sorry, selfish ass.” The Betty Lady has spoken. I detect a Bronx accent.”But,” I demur, “it will make the other woman say, ´See? She IS a jealous and paranoid and pushy wife.´”The Betty Lady rips open a cell phone statement with a nail file and, without looking up at me, says, “Let me tell you something, honey. In my experience? The only thing they care about is what they see in the mirror each morning and WINNING…or their perception of winning.”

“I´ve blown it, the whole grisly charade.”

“I know my vision is impaired and cannot be trusted with even the simplest tasks, much less dating. Not that I´ve come within talon distance of a man.”

“I review what I know once again, confronting the monolith now alien and almost unconnected to me: my marriage.”

“The Betty Lady explains love and splitting up: “It´s like playing the shell game with Jesus. You can´t figure anything out; it´s best not to try. You´ll just humiliate yourself.”