We tried to get onboard with The Solution but it was always too expensive, elsewhere-happening, otherwise indecipherable from the clump of thirtyish white people in the park playing kickball ironically.  We tried to be part of the Solution but it seemed I was forever on the return leg of bulk shopping at the Big Box Emporium, cruising down the parkway (how Jersey is that??!) with the kiddies sacked-out in back, unmedicated, weepy, rocking my Uggs and my sweats with the writing across the butt, my signature Disgruntled-Housefrau chic.  We tried, sure, we enjoyed a vibrant and still-favorable two-kids-under-six handicap for sexual satisfaction and frequency; in the checkout line, at the kids’ appointments, I scoured the back issues with the latest on oral techniques and couponing. After awhile, though, you had to wonder if The Solution was still really out there or, like the rest of us driven out by housing costs, it had moved to somewhere permanently more Else-er, the way we didn’t leave the city so much as the city left us.  I looked pretty hard but The Solution was nowhere to be found at the town Easter egg hunt, nowhere in the half-sprung, schlumpy, disconsolate trees, nowhere even in the face of the churchfront Jesus across the street from the park, the expression on his face (His face?  His Face?)  always looking half-righteous, half pissed, like, I gave up Eternal What-Have-You for this?  For this?