A mess

I guess I had some unfinished business here. That's the only reason I can imagine I'm back here again. Right back where I started. Here. I wish I could say it's unnecessary, but there is so much to do. Too much to do here. It's comforting and uneasy all at the same time. The remnants of a life that once was, the promise of a life that will never be. It's sickening to watch you attempt to seduce me. I don't want you. You seem desperate and unsure of yourself. It's disgusting. I'm cornered, backed against the wall facing what I have, turning my back on what I want; hoping my decision will spawn the desired outcome this time. It's a challenge, but I've always loved a challenge. So difficult, so validating, so intriguing. I know where I stand now. I know what I want. I know what this is. I know what this isn't. Definition confirmed. Nothing here is the way I remembered it. It's all a mess, but I guess that's the way I left it. I can't stand a mess; nothing is where it belongs, nothing is all in one piece, but somehow everything is as it should be. A mess.

Know Your Role

I've scrambled eggs and fried up some turkey bacon, and I haven't even been here two hours. Don't butter his toast. I'll butter it, but I refuse to put jam on it. He can put his own damn jam on his toast. And I'm NOT washing these dishes. That's not my role anymore. I place both of the plates on the table, with the jar of strawberry preserves (humph!) "Thank you, babe" he says, after he finishes his breakfast. I can feel my temples begin to tense up, and I physically shudder. I am not your baby. I take the dishes into the kitchen and place them in the sink. As I turn on the water I am reminded of what used to be.
Cook.
Serve.
Clean. I catch a glimpse of my reflection standing at the kitchen sink in the window. Rather than filling the sink with water, I fill my tea kettle instead. Within moments I'll be sipping tea out of my favorite mug and slipping into a cat nap. As soon as I feel my eye lids getting heavy, I hear the water running in the kitchen sink. Rest commences.

O.P.P

"Women always want what they can't have." I've heard this echoed over and over again by men and women. Honestly, until I found myself in a situation where I was attracted to, and wanted to sleep with somebody else's man (in my case husband), I was in complete denial. I did not act on my desires, and I did not know he was married when I met him (for details refer to Sticky Situations and Sticky Situations Part Deux). The way I handled my situation however, seems to be the exception, rather than the rule. It takes discipline, and good home training, ofen times prayer to resist a temptation like that. Particularly if you feel a very strong connection with this person, and have convinced yourself that somehow, some way, this man was supposed to be yours. Rarely does a married man leave his wife and family to be with the mistress, jump-off, side-kick, or the like; the idea of this actually happening in real life is almost mythical. I'm only speaking on attraction to married men, my personal situation didn't go any further than that. I just felt like that needed to be said. Just for kicks, however, I sometimes like to play devils advocate, so I did a little "research"(deep thought coupled with personal experience) on why some women are attracted to married men.

In talking with the married man, or the beautiful stranger, as I so fondly referred to him, I discovered exactly what the appeal is. They are already domesticated. I'm not a male basher, and I don't believe that all men are dogs, but for arguments sake, I can't think of a more suitable means of comparison than a trained dog. They've been paper trained, the know how to eat without spilling their food all outside of the bowl, and they can walk properly on a leash. All of the work is already done. There is a distinct difference in appearance, attitude, maturity, and frame of mind between married men and single men. I can spot a married man from a million miles away. In fact, the night I met the beautiful stranger, as soon as I laid eyes on him I told my girlfriends, "he's probably married." He just had that domesticated look. His clothes were neat, and fit appropriately, he wasn't heavily doused in cologne, and he was very well groomed, short, clean nails, clean hair. But the dead giveaway (not a wedding band, he wasn't wearing one) was he wore a peacoat, that was tailored to fit him to perfection; substantial evidence that there was a woman in his life in some capacity, either a stylist or a wife/live-in significant other. A straight man does not dress that way on his own (no offense single men, but if you have any fashion savvy at all you owe it to the women in your lives). I know how my husband dressed when we first met. While he was always very well put together, his style gradually became a lot more polished and refined the longer we were together for two reasons.

1. I began to buy most of his clothes
2. On occasion, I picked out what he wore.

I have a hunch that single men are aware of the obvious difference between themselves and married men, which is precisely the reason why they are so resistant to a woman buying their clothes when they are "just kicking it," but I digress. To some single women, a married man equals a good man (for argument's sake, let's just ignore the fact that he's cheating on his wife). A married man has "know-how." He knows how to carry on a decent conversation because he's married. He doesn't have committment issues because he's married. He knows how to come home at night because he's married. He probably knows how to fix a car, or trim your hedges because he's married. And he knows how to treat you in public because, well, he's married. I realize how this may make single men feel. I'm not saying that you're incompetent, but relationships make a world of difference in the lives of single men, particularly long term relationships. Relationships, for single men, provide the transformation from bachelorhood to husband-hood. Speaking as a married woman who is going through a divorce I can appreciate the irony of today's post (I created it), but as an aspiring writer, I am interested in all things life. For the most part (at least in my one, isolated instance) there was no deep, philosophical reason for my attraction to the beautiful, married, stranger. The attraction to married men is just like everything else that makes this instant gratification world go round. It's fast, conveinent, and pre-packaged. Single women who are attracted to married men are attracted to them because subconsciously, whether we like to admit it or not, we all want a husband. The catch is, however, you have to get your own.

The Good Wife

I bought a mixer with some of the money we received from our wedding. A pretty, pink, Kitchenaid Mixer (the good one). I had never baked a cake in my life, not even one from a box, but I always wanted to. I promised myself when I bought that mixer I was going to bake a cake from scratch. I know it sounds crazy, but that's just me. That's how I do things, authentic and all the way, or I don't do it all. I woke up one Saturday morning and decided this was the day. I got dressed, and updated my facebook status (I had to tell somebody, this was major).

I'm going to bake a cake today for the first time from scratch. I will post pictures later, regardless of the outcome.

I got all kinds of comments

OMG!

This should be interesting, seeing as how you can't cook.

Wow! Good luck!

I can't wait to see this!

The recipe was for a basic, two layer, yellow cake with chocolate icing. I jotted down the ingredients I would need for the cake and the icing, and left for the store. I bought the finest ingredients at my local Whole Foods, stopped by Williams Sonoma to buy a sifter, and Bed Bath and Beyond to buy parchment paper. By the time I got back home I was exhausted, but I was on a mission. Mission: Bake a Damn Cake from Scratch. So without further adieu, I pulled my hair back in a ponytail, went into the kitchen armed with my perfect, all organic, most-expensive-brand-you-can-buy ingredients, and I was gonna bake me a cake. I schlepped my heavy, pretty, pink, mixer over from the shelf in my tiny New York apartment kitchen and slammed it on the countertop. The only sliver of a piece of a countertop I had was now occupied. How the hell did I think I was going to do this again? Anyway, I was determined, so I preheated the oven, pulled out the recipe and began mixing, and measuring; dry with dry, wet with wet. I turned on my mixer and alternated mixing the wet ingredients with the dry ingredients, just like the instructions read. After about five minutes of alternating and mixing, I'd made cake batter. I evenly poured the batter into my two cake pans and popped them into the oven. I now had to melt chocolate to make the frosting (I was doing too much). Needless to say I'd never done this before either, but I'd seen Ina Garten do it on the FoodNetwork, so I knew to be careful of scorching the chocolate. I did it! My chocolate was perfectly melted and my cakes were in the oven. I was feeling very good about myself. I whipped up the melted chocolate and at least a million sticks of butter, and wah, lah, I'd made buttercream icing. I cleaned up a little bit while I waited for my oven timer to go off. There was chocolate smeared all over everything, bowls were on the floor, on top of the microwave, on top of the refridgerator, and I was beyond stressed out. But it would all be worth it in the end after I put the icing on my cake; a cake that I baked with my own hands, from scratch. I am so proud of myself! I didn't think I could do it! I'm such a good wife! I thought to myself smiling. DING!

It was time to pull my cakes out of the oven. I opened the oven and pulled out the rack. I felt myself begin to sweat. This was the moment of truth. I set the cakes on the coffee table to cool, and before my very eyes, the middle of both of them started to sink. Oh my gosh, they're not done. I carefully, placed them back in the oven, and tried not to panic, but it was too late. Where is my husband? I can't believe these cakes aren't done. I did exactly what I was supposed to do. I kept opening the oven to make sure they didn't burn. After about ten minutes, I checked them with a toothpick. They were both still undone in the middle, so I left them in the oven for a few minutes longer. It still didn't work. The outside of the cakes were now dry and hard, while the inside was half baked at best. I was so disappointed and frustrated. Where is my husband?! I had to finish, so I took the cakes out of the oven, let them cool, and frosted it anyway. I was extra careful to fill in the big, sunken, hole in the middle with a lot of frosting. When it was all done, I was relieved but it didn't make me feel any better. By the time my husband got home I was beyond distraught. Where is the camera? I asked him with a nervous smile. He found it and I took a picture of my chocolate frosted, half-baked cake, and posted it to my facebook page. It didn't look too bad at all. Looks can be deceiving.

The Problem with Proposals

During dinner he kept fidgeting, and shifting in his chair. He left the table at least twice in the middle our meal. I knew what he was up to, act surprised I kept telling myself. Dinner was over, and he asked for the check. Okay, here it comes. I looked him straight in his eyes. He gave me a wink. He paid the bill and we exited the restaurant. Okay. He drove down to the beach. We parked, I took my shoes off, he didn't, he would never do that, and we walked down to the shore. It was a pretty night, a little cloudy, and cool, but I love the beach at night; the way the ocean looks as if it stretches farther than your imagination. Endless, and overwhelming. We talked about our future, what we wanted out of life. Then he spun me around, and got down on one knee. "My life is not worth living if I don't have you." "Will you marry me?" I giggled, I was so nervous. I really wanted to think about it, but I couldn't hear anything but the sound of the waves. Before I knew it I shook my head yes, then the word yes slipped out of my mouth. He slid a one carat round solataire on my finger, and it was done. We were engaged.

My story is a classic American marriage proposal. Boy meets girl, sometimes they fall in love, sometimes they don't, but for whatever reasons, they stay together. If they stay together long enough, inevitably, at some point in the relationship, the question of marriage is going to come up. Girl waits patiently, or impatiently, for the day that he finally proposes, never questioning whether or not she would say yes or no. Boy kneels down on one knee, girl says yes, with or without a second thought. I had second thoughts, but I didn't entertain them for longer than a second. My boyfriend of two years had just knelt down on one knee, in the sand, and asked me to marry him at the precise time in my life when I wanted to get married, holding a diamond ring, what woman wouldn't say yes. This is the problem with proposals. In American culture, while men may fret over whether or not the woman will say yes, women rarely do. Most of us either don't realize we have the option of saying anything other than yes, or we don't have the guts to say anything else. Whenever I spoke to my girlfriends about the possibility of my ex-husband proposing, no one ever asked me "What will your answer be?" There is no emphasis on the answer, it's all about the question. If a man asks you to marry him you say yes, that's just what you do. No woman wants to be the bitch who turned down her boyfriend's marriage proposal. Surely it will be the NO heard round the world, and undoubtedly it will mean the end of the relationship. It's like blindsiding someone with an ultimatum, only it's teasingly biased because you know that the right response will get you a pretty, sparkly diamond (beautiful wedding, 2.5 kids, and a house, or a classic six on the Upper East Side of Manhattan whatever your dream is). As long as the relationship is okay, and there have been no major problems, this is usually enough to sustain most of us; never mind love and happiness (sorry Al Green). If my ex had never put his hands on me, I know we would still be married, even given the fact that I was never in love with him. I'm not placing blame here. I don't blame men or our culture, nor am I blaming the women (such as myself) who say yes when they really wanted to say "no," or "maybe." I am proposing that we revamp the way we propose marriage.

Women you are not going to like this but I disagree with the idea of a man purchasing the ring before proposing (yeah, I know, now that somebody put a ring on it and it didn't work out I'm ready to screw it up for everybody else). I think it adds too much pressure. If there were no ring involved until after the woman accepts the proposal, then maybe we wouldn't feel as if we had to say yes. At the very least we wouldn't feel so much guilt if during the time between the proposal and the actual purchasing of the ring, we changed our minds. It would also lessen the humiliation for the man, who probably spent four to five months salary, or maxed out a credit card to purchase such a ring, only to have to return it, or sell it on ebay. The ring in and of itself creates so many problems with marriage proposals. It is a symbol to the world that another human being thought highly enough of you and loved you so much that he wants to spend the rest of his life with you. The ring is usually symbolic of something more personal for the woman wearing it. For me it was a symbol of the relationship we had before, the man he was before, the woman I was before. It was a symbol of everything I worked for and fought for and defended. I deserved it, it was owed to me. But the world's idea of what that ring symbolized was easier on my spirit and my heart so I forgot about all of that and held on to the world's idea for dear life.

I never dreamed about my wedding day as a little girl. I always wanted to get married, but I never obsessed about it. After I was engaged however, I could think of nothing else including whether or not I honestly wanted to marry this man. The task of planning my wedding became a welcome distraction from the reality of my unhealthy relationship. I became fixated on this image of the life I always wanted for myself, and got busy planning it. I may not have been in love with my ex, but I was 100% dedicated and devoted to our relationship, and our marriage before I started to examine the issues. The American traditions and customs that a marriage proposal is based on are the reason why over half of all marriages fail in the U.S. If the answer to a marriage proposal was discussed and well thought out the way we handle any other type of proposal, there would be less people shouting YES to it and investing so much time and money so quickly. As I've figured out by now, a proposal is just that, a proposal. A marriage proposal should not automatically be the pit-stop on the way to holy matrimony. It should signify that you're giving the idea of marrying this person some serious thought.

Sincere Lee

The "No Baby Daddy" Oath

"If you don't have any children by the age of thirty, there's no point in having any at all." My mother made this comment yesterday while eavesdropping on a conversation I was having with one of my girlfriends who is childless and single. While I'm not single, I will soon be divorced, and I don't have any children either. We both took offense to this. I was appalled, yet I couldn't figure out why. I had to sleep on it, and think on it some more this afternoon. I think it's bothering me because I will not have children without a husband. I realize that this is a rather archaic way of thinking; the nuclear family does not really exist anymore. Some may challenge whether it ever really existed at all. Whatever the case, I still want to have a family in the more traditional sense. My sister is a single mother, so are three of my cousins, and I've seen first- hand how they struggle. It's like pulling teeth to find a babysitter. There is never enough time, or enough money, and it ages you well beyond your years. Not to mention the effect it has on the children who rarely get the time and attention they need and deserve from both parents.

I took a "no baby daddy" oath (see below) when I was eighteen, and I plan to continue to adhere to it, so far so good.

I ____________ hereby swear to always be responsible
and cautious where matters of a sexual nature are
concerned. I will refrain from having sexual
relationships with men who have baby mamas. I
promise to avoid one night stands at all cost,
and never go home with a man when I am inebriated,
or otherwise not liable for my actions.

So basically my decision to have children is dependent upon when, or if I remarry, and truthfully that is anybody's guess. I have a prospect, but as much as I believe that we were written in the stars, I also know that nothing is guaranteed. My mom's comment really hit home with me because I am ready to be a mother. I love children, and children love me, it's always been that way, but I'm ready in a different way now. I physically get a sensation whenever I see a baby, it's almost like something is tugging at my uterus (I don't mean to be so graphic), but its true. Herein lies the most frightening thing with this apalling comment, for me it has to be all or nothing. It's either family i.e. me: mother, wife, writer he: husband, father, thriving career, and children, or me: single, writer, traveler. There is no in between, all elements must be present, one will not exist without the other. Here come the "what if's," What if I never remarry? or worse What if I remarry and re-divorce? OR What if while I'm enjoying bachelorette-hood, and writing, I get pregnant? I honestly don't know how I've made it this long without getting knocked up. I love sex. It is most certainly not in my plans to stop having sex as my single, (might I add sexy), writer, traveler self. Given my current screw up, I refuse to marry again for the wrong reasons, or without being in love. When did it all get so complicated? The funny thing is I called myself avoiding all of this when I got married the first time. I guess the joke is on me (just in case you're wondering, I'm not laughing).

Degrees of Separation

I had no idea that dating when you are separated could be so complicated. The more I try to get around the fact that I am getting a divorce, the harder it is to explain exactly what is going on in my life. It's no longer as simple as status: married, place of residence: NYC. Now I have to give the back-story of my life because none of these elements of my life are defined right now, and none of them are the same anymore. This always proves to be very tricky. I usually make something up on the spot that's colorful, and witty, and little less shocking. The fact that I look about five years younger than what I really am, makes it all the more agonizing.

The second I say I'm getting a divorce eyebrows rise, and they give me that skeptical eye. Inevitably, the questions how long were you married, and why are you getting divorced, follow. The answers to both of those questions are equally embarrassing. Then one of two things happens; the guy either pays for my drink, the pity martini is what I call it, or he finds a reason to walk away. On occasion he actually asks for my number and uses it, but rarely does it go beyond a first date. How serious can you be about someone who is still legally married? It bothers me that even after deciding to end my marriage, I am still defined by it. It bothers me that I will never be single again. It bothers me that I had the perfect wedding, and a painful, short-lived marriage. It bothers me that I am going to be someone's ex-wife, and at the tender age of twenty-six, I will have an ex-husband. My life is on a red light right now, and I am so desperately ready to go. I can't wait for the spring.