Not so Divine Comedy.

When life comes at you funny, you've got to laugh. Between the constant need to pee or eat, a soon to be ex who keeps finding excuses to call, and hunting for baby knitting/crochet patterns that won't nauseate me all over again, occasions for a good belly laugh abound, even though my life, some might say, is a wreck.

Being a single mother-to-be and domestic violence survivor is definitely serious business, but it's not a death sentence, nor will anyone benefit from me treating it like it is one. I have my life, one that is going through lots of changes as I seek to provide someone else with a life. But there are many women with more responsibility, more challenges and fewer resources. Who am I not to pray for them, be grateful for what I have, and yes, even enjoy it?

I'm meeting new people, who are the kind of folk I'm hoping to raise Schenectady around. For every cruelty I suffered at my husband's hands, I'm finding those willing to offer a hand. I'm a better, stronger, freer person than I was under my husband, and I'm no longer afraid to do what's right for my child. I refuse to feel shame or guilt for making preparations to be the best parent I can be. That said, I feel a mite weird talking to Schenectady out loud. But I do it anyway.

The elaborate revenge fantasies persist, but instead of cutting his brake lines, a video taped repeat of the Spearmint Oil Incident* will do. It'll do until my next ultrasound-induced high.

*In which the fool I married smears 100% pure spearmint essential oil on his privates, against my express directions. A blowtorch would have produced less of a burning sensation.