Upon the advice of my expensive and exceptionally educated attorney, I regret to report that I must cease and desist with my blog effective immediately.



Nah. Just kidding. Did I get ya? Maybe even just a little bit?

Come on now, I hope you know me better than that by now. I continue fighting the good fight, but that fight takes time. And attention. And wine. Lots of wine.1

Which brings me to the point of this blog post. Because I’m too plastered busy working on copious court docs, I’m finding myself wanting to touch base with an amazingly supportive community of readers, but woefully unable.

My days are spent working (I must keep my day job, after all, to pay for aforementioned expensive and exceptionally educated attorney), my nights are spent researching case law and writing in legalese and my sleep is spent battling demons that come in the form of Michael Jackson’s head on a squirrel’s body, now-married-ex-boyfriends who declare “It’s Morality-Free Wednesday…let’s have sex!” and ginormous infestations of hairy, blood red spiders with skulls and crossbones emblazoned on their backs.

(And just think, that’s just a sampling of last night’s nightmares. Wonder what fun tonight will hold?)

But throughout it all, I’ve never lost sight of the big picture, which includes an upcoming book tour to promote my No. 1 New York Times best seller and Oprah book club pick. But before that tour, I guess I’d better actually begin — um, I don’t know — maybe writing the book.

Which means one thing: I. Must. Research.

So instead of sharing my own story in an effort to inspire healing today, I’m turning the spotlight to you. We’ve all read my the-universe-is-dicking-with-me tale — how in a cruel but symbolically fuckin’ awesome twist of fate, the writing on the wall for me was actually an inscription on a brick.

That was my moment: the moment when I knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that it was over. The moment that — wait for it — hit me like a ton of bricks.

(The brick jokes, my friends … they practically write themselves! It’s like the gift that keeps on giving!)

So because part of my book will be devoted to highlighting some of the more interesting/inane/common/insane/shocking/mundane/heart-wrenching/side-splitting moments when the writing was on the wall, I’m hoping you will all share with me the moment you knew that a relationship was over. OVER. O-V-E-R! (Shouted in your best and boldest “Caps Lock” voice.)

It’s cathartic, people…trust me. And who knows, maybe one day you’ll be thumbing through a book with your adorable pixie of a grandchild, taking turns reading silly little passages from a “how to heal, post-divorce” humor book (cuz you’re gonna fuckin’ go ape shit if you have to read “Hop on Pop” one more time), and you’ll find yourself sweetly musing, “You see this story about this awesome woman who broke up with her boyfriend because he referred to his penis as his “pleasure shaft” and compared her nipples to tiny but tasty Tic-Tacs? Well, that’s my story, sweetheart.”

Your future grandchild will be so proud.

So tell me about a time when the writing was on the wall for you: When you knew it was over. Was it your wedding night? Inspired by a Facebook message? The result of poorly cooked meat?

And trust me, it doesn’t have to be as symbolic as my brick. Or include penis/nipple imagery. Unless, or course, that applies…


1 This, my friends, is called hyperbole. Sadly, I am forced to clarify: I once wrote a humor article for my local newspaper that jokingly indicated I was taking Xanax, which prompted my ex-husband to condescendingly allude to my pill-popping tendencies in a subsequent convo. Hyperbole. Sheer fucking exaggeration. I am probably almost always hardly ever never anything but not drunk. Got it? Good. End of disclaimer.