Mark

Seems only fair to tell you something about the fourth main player in this drama. Even though he is my ex, he is fourth because, really, he has had less impact on Steve's and my relationship than Ann has. Steve might disagree. Mark is not a bad person, but he is one of the most frustrating people I've even known. And not just frustrating to me. I met Mark at work, years ago. He worked in the back office, on my accounts, when I worked in sales and marketing. People warned me about him---"You have to stay on top of him or he won't do what you need him to do." No truer words were ever spoken. So for the last twenty years, I've been trying to "stay on top of him." And he's rarely done what I needed him to.

This is all my fault, of course. Think about it: people were warning me about him before I ever met him! Yet we ended up having one of the earlier cyber-relationships. This was before chat and IM; e-mails were just something you used at work. But since Mark worked on my accounts, we e-mailed and used the internal messaging system, first to discuss work matters. We then started having more personal conversations.

Second red flag: He was a thirty-year-old man who lived with his parents. Don't do it, ladies! I thought I was being unreasonable. It's not like I emancipated myself from my parents as a teenager or anything, but when I got out of college, I found a job and a (tiny) apartment, and then found a night job when I needed to to make ends meet. Mark, on the other hand, had a really nice car and stereo system; he had a state-of-the-art VCR. And his mommy did his laundry. He told me that no one could afford to live in NJ for what he was making---well, that's true if what you want to afford is a four-bedroom house in Morris County, but of course other people were living on their own, even raising families on that salary.

By the way, the third red flag is: He was thirty and I was thirty-three. Doesn't seem like much of an age difference, really, but combine it with the experience difference, and the IQ difference, and you have a recipe for disaster.

So why did I do it? Well, I thought I was just going out with him for a while. We were like Liz Lemon and Dennis Duffy on Thirty Rock. Mark was easy to go out with, and it was nice to be going out with someone. Then a whole bunch of things happened. My father died. Best friend A (Jenna) moved to California after meeting her future husband at a wedding out there. And best friend B (Will) got laid off and decided to move back to Texas. Then my on-again, off-again boyfriend of many years, Nikos, decided to marry a Greek girl and move back to Greece. (He is now high up in his family's shipping business---talk about a cliché!) Now I'd never thought of Nikos as husband material. He was fun to talk to, I had great stories, and I had great sex. But his leaving at this point made me look around and realize that I was in my thirties and had always assumed that someday, I would have a family.

Mark was much more likely husband material. Most of this was not conscious, by the way. It was just a series of path-of-least-resistance decisions. So, we married. Because by that time I was thirty-five, we decided that we would start trying to have a baby after six months. I got pregnant the first night. So much for women over thirty-five having fertility problems! And so much for any, and I mean absolutely any, sex life. I tried. It started when I was pregnant with Mark saying I could miscarry. Of course, this was nonsense, but I am superstitious. So once he said it, I thought, What if I argue this and then I miscarry? It was only nine months! Hah! The next "problem" was that Mark didn't want to let Tom sleep alone in his room, so we had him in a bassinet until he started having a permanent tilt to his neck because the bassinet was shorter than he was. I still didn't get that this was sex avoidance, but it became sort of obvious over the years. What had happened was that, once I had Tom, I became Mark's mother, too. Really. Ask Jenna. She will tell you the creepy way he called me "Mom," or the way he acted like a kid. And over the years (still), it's gotten worse. This is why the age difference was so important. I was older than he was, more experienced than he was, and better at taking care of myself. But most of all, this was a marriage of laziness and convenience. Had he left me before the wedding, I'd have been a little hurt, but it really wouldn't have devastated me. And that's the problem, and that's why it's my fault. I feel affection for Mark on some level still, but I was never in love with him. And I think he was never in love with me; he just wanted someone to take care of him. Marriage is a difficult thing under any circumstances. If you are in it in a halfhearted way, when things start to go wrong, you will not weather the storm. What went wrong, besides the lack of sex? That's a topic for another day...

Ann

Ann is the baby mama. When I wrote my first post and called her the "former baby mama," Jenna corrected me. There is no such thing as a former baby mama, she said. Once a baby mama, always a baby mama. And she is right. Unfortunately. So, anyway, Ann is the mother of Alex, or as she calls him, Alexahnder. I am probably losing your sympathy with my tone. After all, Steve left her for me (sort of). But she is not some innocent, wronged wife. She is an Ivy League-educated control freak who has had 2 children, conceived with different married fathers. I'm sure she was surprised when Steve stuck around, and she certainly made him pay for the privilege.

I still haven't convinced you, have I? Maybe this will. When Steve first left the house, he was communicating with her by e-mail. He had a standard closing on his e-mails that said, "Steve." She wrote back, "Whose Steve? In this household, you were always Stephen." I told him he should write, "Certainly not yours" to the question, "Whose Steve?" But let's look beyond the incompetent spelling. That bitchy comment lost more of you, didn't it? But since she likes to remind everyone how smart and well-educated she is, I figure she should proofread her e-mails.

Anyway, back to the Steve question. I thought, Maybe he used to go by Stephen. He's British---a lot of Brits go by whole names that Americans would shorten. (Of course, Ann is American.) I asked, repeatedly, because it seemed incredible to me that a woman would insist on deciding what her forty-something lover could call himself. So he showed me old name tags from sales conferences he'd attended. A couple said "Stephen," but most said "Steve." Then he showed me programs from community theater groups he'd been involved with in the UK. All listed him as "Steve Copperthwaite." So let's think about this. There are a lot of people who insist on being called one thing, usually their whole names. I have never been one of those people. I am Katherine, Kate, Mac (for McMahon). I am even Ed (Ed McMahon, Johnny Carson's old sidekick). At the bar we hung out in after work, I was likely to hear "Hi-yo!" when I walked in. For those of you under forty, that's what Ed McMahon used to yell when Johnny came out.

But I know people who might only want to be Margaret or Elizabeth. That's their prerogative. I make an effort to call everyone what they introduce themselves as. There's the second level of control: women (especially) who want their kids to be called only one thing. Back when I was little, parents called their kids things like Joey or Jonny. Now you're likely to hear "Joseph!" or "Jonathan!" at the playground. Again, this might seem a little pretentious, but you can understand it. They named the kids something they liked; they have something invested in those names. So I'm a zero on the 1 to 10 name-control scale. Women who want to be called one thing themselves are maybe a 3. Those who then start correcting people who nickname their kids are, say, a 6. But have you ever met anyone who renamed her lover/significant other and then insisted he call himself that? She is over a 10. It is especially frustrating because her name is about as short as you can make a name: Ann Dun. Maybe she has short-name complex.

You can imagine this causes problems in our relationship and in Steve's relationship with Alex, a.k.a. Alexander. And as the only non-control freak in the bunch, I am the one who pays. So Ann limits Steve's access to Alex. (She's very clever about this, making appointments, etc., so that it would be churlish of Steve to demand more access.) And Steve takes it out on me---and Tom, because Tom is here.

Housekeeping

I am something of a slob. If left unchecked, I am perfectly happy to leave dishes in the sink for a week. When I am doing research or correcting papers, the stacks around my computer rival the Collier brothers' piles. Back in my single days, I sometimes said no to sex with someone I actually wanted to sleep with because I was embarrassed to have him come up to my apartment. That's why when I tell my best friend, Jenna, some of these stories, I know she doesn't believe me. I will tell her, "I have been very neat," and she will respond, as if there's a bad translation, "Well, if it bothers Steve, he should clean." I repeat, "I know you don't believe me, but I really have been at least as clean as he is." I hear something that sounds suspiciously like her mother's "mmm-hmm" of disbelief. So now I will tell you. I have not been up to my grandmother's or Jenna's mother's standards, but I have been very careful to be neat. I have two warring factions in me---my natural slovenliness and my good-girl desire that I make everyone around me happy. For example, I never litter. Steve will roll down his car window and throw his gum out; I never would. Of course, that means that when I take the gum out of my mouth, I find a receipt or some other piece of paper in my car and then put the gum in the ashtray or something, adding to the horrible mess in my car.

So that's the background. And one of things that really worried me before I moved in with Steve was that I, and Tom (my son), would not be up to Steve's standards. Well, I was right, but that's not because I am a slob. It's because whatever Steve does at any point in time is, in his view, the only right way to do it. Also, he's one of those people like I used to know at work, who manage, almost effortlessly, to tell you every single thing they've done so that it seems like they've done a lot more than you. I'm getting better, but I still don't know how to do it. Here's an example: Now, when I've vacuumed, just so that he notices I've vacuumed, I will say, "I can't believe the electricity in this place; I had to plug the vacuum cleaner in 3 different outlets before it worked (true story)." Or, "I missed Jenna's phone call because I didn't hear the phone while I had the vacuum on."

I probably shouldn't be using vacuuming as my example because I will admit that is one of my weaker areas. It doesn't occur to me to vacuum until I see cobwebs in the corner or food on the floor. The vacuum cleaner is also very, very heavy, so I avoid taking it upstairs, or, when it's up there, I avoid bringing it back down. So, I will admit to everyone, here and now, that Steve vacuums more than I do. But the principle is the same for everything. I'd say we somewhat equally clean the bathroom, probably not as much as we should, but it's not disgusting. When he cleans the bathroom, he manages to tell me in such a way that he is chastising me for my negligence. I just can't figure out how to do the same thing. I cleaned the bathroom before he came back from a business trip yesterday and I couldn't figure out how to tell him that I'd spent a long time on the black mold in the shower. (No, not because we neglect---because no matter how hard you clean, there's black mold there at the bottom of the shower stall again in a week. Bad ventilation.) So here's the rundown: Steve mostly vacuums. I mostly do the dishes. I probably dust more frequently than he does, but when he does it, he makes a big commotion in front of me so I know he's doing it and he does the entire house at once---usually dusting the TV while I'm trying to watch it. I am more likely to see that dusting is needed and do it on a case-by-case basis. And I'm making sure not to get in the way.

Cooking is another subject. Steve is a fabulous cook and he likes cooking. I like cooking, too, and I am a good cook, but he's more adventurous in the kitchen. In comparison, Mark, in fifteen years of marriage, cooked one meal---my first birthday after we were married. I've also limited what I cook over the years because Mark and Tom pretty much liked pasta. And a couple of other things. So I am really, really happy to have a grown-up who likes to eat the same things I like to eat, and is good at cooking them too. And he's amazingly competent in the kitchen. Ask Steve and me each to dice an onion. By the time mine is done, Steve will have diced the onion, gone for a walk, and read the paper. So I really have no complaints here---except... Steve takes over when I cook. He'll throw something he thinks belongs in a sauce I'm making, even if I didn't want it. He'll turn down the heat or start making something to go with whatever I'm cooking, and before I know it, I'm in a small corner of the kitchen, trying to slice and dice and pour, and I spill something and he shakes his head with a little superior smile, because he doesn't spill things the way I do. And...sometimes, when he's in a bad mood, he acts like I'm not pulling my weight in the kitchen, either. Imagine if you loved playing the piano and everybody liked to listen to you, and complimented you on your playing. When a less competent piano player tried to sit down to play, you said, "Here, let me." Would you get mad that no one else was playing?

The problem is there is nothing I can do to feel like Steve thinks I'm doing my fair share. Our incomes are disproportionate. I know there are things that I do more or better than Steve does. The problem is, it is not my nature to be aggrieved and I think it is very much Steve's nature. Or maybe it really is like Steve sees it---I'm not aggrieved because he is perfect, and he just suffers through my incompetence and sloth.

So why am I starting a blog?

Well, the reason I'm starting it right now is because there are about 10 other things I'm supposed to be doing, so it seemed like a good idea to start something new.

The reason I'm starting it overall is because so much has happened in the last couple of years that really wasn't supposed to happen, and I think there are probably a lot of people like me. I am one of that first wave of women who came after the previous generation opened doors. We thought we could do everything, but a lot of us---certainly I---felt like we had to do everything. And every single major decision I've made in the past 20 years has been out of guilt or to please someone else. Lately, I've reserved the guilt mostly for my 16-year-old son.

Why do I feel guilty? The general answer is because I think every mother feels guilty. That's the legacy of those women who opened doors. Once we felt we had free choice, we could second guess every choice that we made. I was watching Shakespeare in Love (again) last night and thinking about it. Sure, Viola de Lesseps was unhappy, and was being sent across an ocean to a strange country with a man she hardly knew and didn't like. (By the way, there are going to be constant movie and book references in this blog, because I love movies and books and this is the way I think.) Anyway, Viola could never have considered staying with Will instead. So, she may have been momentarily unhappy, but imagine what would have happened if she'd stayed. For the rest of her life, she'd have been poor. She'd have been shunned by polite society. And, certainly, Will would not have remained as besotted with her if she'd stayed as he was because she left. Let's face it, in six months some other pretty girl---or boy---would have been the inspiration for some other play or sonnet. But because women had no control, and were expected to be obedient, she didn't have to feel particularly guilty about leaving him behind. Today, she'd have been guilted into running away with Will, her family would no longer be speaking to her, and once Will found out he was financially responsible for her, she would no longer have seemed like such a prize.

The specific reason for my guilt, however, is a lot of the reason for this blog. Two years ago, I left my husband of fifteen mostly unhappy years. The beginning of the end, or at least what shook me out of my stupor, was our tenth anniversary. I'd gone to get gas at the local gas station and the attendant (this was in New Jersey, the last state in the union that still bans self-serve gas) propositioned me. Now, I hope you understand how thrilling this was to a 40+ woman whose husband had not wanted to have sex with her for oh, nine years. Sure the guy had some sort of weird tooth issue and had to ride a bike to work because he couldn't afford a car---he was still a guy and he propositioned me! I laughed and blushed and left the station. I told my husband---remember, this was our anniversary!!! He said, "Whywould he do that to YOU?!"

That was the moment I realized that this lack-of-sex thing was not temporary. He'd turned me into his mom ever since I'd gotten pregnant six months into our marriage. We'd planned the pregnancy, but I hadn't planned the result. People used to ask me when I was going to have another child, or why I didn't have another child. The answer was quite simple: you have to have sex to have a child. It took me another five years to get out.

But here's where it gets sloppy. The push to move out was that I'd met the love of my life. My soul mate. (Or so I thought at the time.) We'd known each other years before, when he was married and I was a carefree, independent single woman. Oh, how things had changed. When I'd met my husband, I'd been making twice as much as he was. (Never a good idea.) Now, I'd taken responsibility for our son and was freelancing and adjunct teaching and making less than I'd make working at Shop Rite. I had no benefits, except through my husband, and that nice full-time job I thought I'd be able to get with my education and experience turned out not to exist. I timed my leaving to the economy's falling apart and found out that I was obsolete. It didn't matter that I had two degrees from good schools; it didn't matter that I'd had more varied experience than just about anyone I'd met. I'd been out of the full-time workplace for over ten years. Not that I hadn't been working full-time; I just had to do it at a bunch of places for less money! That had allowed me flexibility. Now I found out that you can't be very flexible when you have no money and no insurance. So, in order to move out, I had to move right in with Steve. who'd moved out of his own (also sloppy) domestic arrangements the previous summer.

This blog, then, is my account of what it's been like, and is still like, blending the lives of two middle-aged people with tons of baggage---including two teenagers, one ex-spouse and one ex-baby mama. (The marriage he'd been in all those years ago had ended around the time he'd gotten the baby mama pregnant.) Hence the title of this blog. Can it work? I'll let you know.