My mother and I had an interesting conversation this evening, fueled by the recent flurry of media activity in the world of current events. With the marriage of Jay-Z and Beyonce [admitted or not] and the what-the-hell-was-that marriage between Mariah Carey and Nick Cannon [and I'm still scratching my head over that one], it forces you to look at the sanctity - and sanity - of marriage. To say Hollywood marriages are sane is the biggest oxymoron faux pas. Next to the unicorn, it’s right up there with mystical creatures.

We both agreed we had no intentions of marrying when in our dating days. She and my father had long called it quits, and it was pretty much a been there-done that attitude to the whole settling down ideal. I, on the other hand, had lived through her been there-done that [minimally, I might add] and grown up seeing the parents of my friends fake happiness in their suburban homes and private school tuitions while their marriages were falling apart. No, thank you. I wanted no parts of that train wreck in my adult life.

By the time I’d met BFam, he had done his manly duty of playing the field and tired of what he saw. I was a few years younger than him having seen nothing of a field, a bat, a helmet, or any form of playing. My dating life was narrowed to a history of four experiences - eh, ugh, blech and dear God what was I thinking. Almost in that order. I’d only had one serious commitment among the four but still had no intentions of seeing it through to a white dress. The feelings were mutual so there wasn’t much to think about. When BFam tricked me married me, I thought, wow. So, THIS is married life. Um… OK?

Fast forward almost eight married years later, and we’ve survived the seven year itch, the divorce of Brad+Jen [who were married on the same day as us, mind you] and I’ve come to the understanding that, should BFam and I dissolve our union, I will never be marriage material again. This is it. Sure, I’ll date. Get a nice meal out of it. But marriage? In the words of my fallen idol, Whitney Houston, “Hell to the naw.”

It is work. It is time. And I don’t need someone telling me they love my kids but want some of their own. Because that factory is closed, too. I tried it. It was nice. Let’s move on. Of course, my mother says, “Never say never.” And maybe she’s right. I mean, I do have a very nice, wouldn’t-trade-for-anything stepfather out of her logic. BFam, however, shares my mother’s logic and is game for a rematch…

So if I end up on a milk carton, you know who to come and get.