Most of what transpired is The Husband's story to tell, and I still (foolishly? optimistically?) hope that one day he will relay the story to you himself.

But since that is not an option at this point, the simplest news is: he has a job after 2 1/2 years without one; located in Clean Slate, miles away from Stepford.

He's already there working, has been for two months; I'm back here hoping this house will sell before the next Olympic games in 2012.

He's home on weekends; I work weekends. You do the math.

We actually get along surprisingly well over phone, text, and email ... so there's a purpose in this separation-without-a-legal-separation dance, I crazily hope.

And here's the thing.

Our house shows well.

It is such a pretty place: not too big, clean lines, fresh flowers, no clutter (all packed away), happy family photos, nicely decorated (I give ups to the Husband for that, he's a natural), super nice neighborhood, thick woods, deer & fawns, apple trees, ducks on the pond, yet close to town, super school district, yaddayaddayadda.

Other realtors were jealous, stating they wished it was their listing. No, really. It's a sweet house.

BUT.

Like the wolf in sheep's clothing, it's our Ground Zero.

If I were looking at my house as a buyer, I would walk through (scarily-clean-for-unannounced-realtors-) rooms with a twinge of envy. I know me.

I would be so covetous of the family that lived in this house; their children are gorgeous, the colors on the wall are perfect, the hardwood is pretty, the views are sweet.

They must be such a happy family, I would think. They are living the perfect life.

And I would want the kind of life that this home looks like it contains.

I would probably make an offer, subconsciously hoping that the good vibes would stay in the tile caulking and emanate to my life should I, too, live here in Shangri-La.

And that would be a lie; I would have bought into appearances. Like we all do.

We look good, therefore maybe we can stretch that performance into actually being good. As if that magical thinking works. What am I, Eight?

I still struggle with pirouetting for the masses. Even after all this destruction and hard-won self awareness. For people who don't even matter, I worried that they consider me 'put together'. You do it too, right?

And on the other side of the picket fence, I totally buy-in to everyone else's 'presentation'. Are you kidding? I rarely, if ever, entertain much thought that things aren't what they appear in other people's homes. I mean, not until presented with concrete evidence.

I always presume other couples are happy, affectionate, and that the wife knows what the hell she's doing in her role... you know, that other couples can't possibly be as far off the rails as we have been.

Surely, she never agonizes in the anniversary card aisle at Hallmark. Surely her mouth isn't dry from preventing the escape of an anguished half-sob whilst perusing the "For The One I Love" column of greeting cards

Because she can't possibly buy any of them.

Because they don't use such words between them anymore.

Yet she must buy a card.

Surely this other wife reads such cards with ease. The cards that wildly celebrate the years of love, support, no regrets, friendship, fun, and hot sex with tender verses and images. Surely she chooses her "For My Husband" card without any of the chest pressure that resembles a cardiac event. She is without the guilt of having to carefully scrutinize every phrase.

She is without the ache of passing over a plethora of sentiments that are absolutely off limits between them.