Divorced from a compulsive gambler, Maray gives nuptials another chance, now with Benton Bowditch--who ""made bed into a playground,"" visits his mum and dad's mausoleum every Sunday, and little by little turns into a real drip. Maray, for instance, is not allowed to work as an interior designer--it offends B.B.'s sense of male responsibility--so what jobs she has are on the sly. Worse yet, Benton fabricates an imaginary affair with a Catherine Deneuve-type, all in hopes of shoring up his masculine image. The ploy works too well; Maray gets a lawyer (and a lover in the bargain) and a separation. The old urban blues--with lots of ponderings on Gucci, Vuitton, and Bloomingdales, since, unfortunately, Maray is a shoe-in for the Nobel in Nitwittedness. Cute-dumb all the way. Even in her real pain (a marriage's breakup is painful, after all), she gets so dizzily lost in mental cliches and confetti that you wistfully yearn for the days when someone like Mary--heavy of heart and light of brains--would handle her troubles by entering a convent and taking vows of silence.