Brandi, You're a Fine Girl

Honestly, I couldn't have written it better.

My husband moved out in May. Mother's Day Weekend to be exact. And it's been going well and it's all for the best, and when a door closes a window opens and all that malarkey. But the other day he said casually, something-something, "...when I go back home." And he didn't mean our house in the suburbs, the one we bought and fixed-up together with his stripped and re-varnished windowsills, his re-built garbage hutch and the living room screens he made me for Valentine's Day way back when. Nor did he mean the home that contains his son's bedroom with his beautiful son sleeping soundly in it, an exquisite angel with his legs bent at the knees and feet crossed at the ankles, oblivious to the malestrom of our marriage.

He meant his sublet on the Upper West Side.

And I thought, well, there you have it, what's done is done, the transformation has been completed. He now thinks of his bare room in a three bedroom share on 109th street as his home. And who does he go home to? None other than, Brandi.

How friggin' perfect is that. My marriage falls to pieces in part over my husband's textbook mid-life crisis and he rents a room in an apartment with a female roommate named, I kid you not, Brandi.

Now it takes two to tango and two to admit accountability for the dissolution of a marriage. A large part of what I've been trying to change in my basic personality pie chart is the part that gives a hoot about what the folks in my life are up to. That's gotta go. So to be given the gift of Brandi "But-she's-engaged", the actress, was pretty perfect as far as being tested by God and the cosmos goes.

So, what does a guy who's left his wife and son to follow his New York City bachelor dreams do with a roommate named, Brandi? I'll never know. And I'll never ask. But more importantly, I don't care.