The Backstory

I have been married 16 years. The first two or three were ... somewhat happy. The last baker's dozen ... have not been. Things started to go downhill when we veered onto the path to impregnation. Apparently, it is a steep path.

I got pregnant almost right away. And I miscarried just as quickly. T, I think, did not really believe I had ever been pregnant. I say "I think" because he never once said a word about it. Which is ... typical.

I got repregnant quickly, too. Since T's main source of power/pleasure/motivation has always been money, I thought I'd share The News with him accordingly. I put the positive home pregancy test in an envelope with an IRS return address. Inside was a note congratulating him on his new tax deduction. He was not amused. He yelled, "Is there PEE on this?" and threw it across the room.

Perhaps you can hear the alarm bells from there.

I have since learned that I was meant to be a mother. Not so much a wife.

Blame partially accepted, let's move on. T is now having an affair. Has been for at least 2 years, probably more. He decided to have an affair -- no shit -- while we were sitting in the marriage counselor's office. Apparently he figured that was A Major Sign that things had gone bad.
His adulterous mistress (which is how I always refer to "her," so T is reminded that he is, indeed, commiting a mortal sin) is his employee. Not his secretary, which would be so perfectly typical that it would be cool. But he is her boss.

Since their affair began (I learned about it via the cellphone bill, which was 8 times its usual thickness thanks to the 20,938 text messages between them), she has since divorced her husband and moved within 15 minutes of our house. This is especially handy when she wants to rendezvous after the rest of us have gone to bed, since she can simply pull into our driveway at will and honk for her bloated paramour.

The central dilemma of this entire blog -- the "discovery" of the title -- is to discover why I cannot leave him and/or boot out his cheating ass (and weiner). I almost did once, just over a year ago. I got to the lawyer's office -- twice -- and thought I had all my divorce ducks in a row, but when push came to shove, I could not shove.

I know I am not happy. I know we are osmosis-ing unhappiness onto our kid.

But ...
1) I have this thing about commitments. I tend to keep them. I have a very, very hard time breaking my promise, my vow, my word.

2) I have a son. The way I see it, the second I gave birth, I promised to put him above everything else. Does that make me a martyr? Yeah, fuck. Probably.

3) No one can assure me it's the right thing to do. Unlike my friends who have divorced (some more than once), I do not have a backup dude. I do not have a safety net. I do not have A Plan.

So I have a cheating husband. And a son who loves him. And a brainload o' indecision. And now, finally -- yay! -- I have a therapist. And on this voyage of Discovery, I could use a little personal GPS.

The Disclaimer II: The Sequel

One more thought on the whole authenticity thing: Because I am a journalist and have been ingrained to hate plagiarism, and because I am blessed with a pesky Midwestern set of internal ethics, I also promise that every thought, idea, rambling, muse, opinion, whatever, will come strictly from my squirrely noggin. Of course, since I am so fricking typical, I can promise only that they will originate with me, not that they will necessarily be original.

For example: I saw "Atonement" yesterday. Blah. My first thought: I would be allergic to that entire movie. Too much cigarette smoke; too many overflowing English gardens and flowering weeds; too much old, moldy-looking paneling and wallpaper in the ancient, mildewy brick manor. Claritin should have paid for some product placement.

Also, speaking of unoriginal, the whole movie was basically "Cold Mountain," circa WWII. While Sonny Boy was headed off to war, I just kept thinking, "Please don't let Keira say, 'Come back to me.' " She did. A couple times. Speaking of her: She should maybe set down the smokes and pack in a few Twinkies.

I'm sure no one else has thought of that.

The Disclaimer

There are two inherent problems with blogging, as far as I can tell:

1) As much as you want other people to share your blog, do you really want everyone to know who you are? It's one thing if you're blogging about your precious Shih Tzu and her meteoric rise to fame in the dog-show world, but if you're blogging from your slightly damaged soul??? Yikes. So, until I get more comfortable with this, or until I'm outed, I'm going to cushion true identities by using only initials. Say ... now that is clever. :)

I promise that everything will be true, and honest, and authentic ... but just not obvious.

2) It's addictive. Crap.

The Introduction

I hate being typical. I know. How fricking typical is that? (Prude disclaimer: I am in no way opposed to the word "fucking"; in fact, I had it in there first. But I am a journalist, and "fricking" just sounds so much better.)

Anyway, so here I am, on typical Google, for God's sake, typing a typical blog like 4 billion other typical chicks screaming toward middle age on a well-lubed luge.

I also:
1) Have "issues" with my mother-in-law.
2) Have bigger "issues" with her son.
3) Wonder whether I'll ever fit in.
4) Could stand to "tone up" in 89 specific spots.
5) Am blogging for therapy.

Fucking, fricking typical.

Until I tally the counterstrikes:
1) I do not think Tom Hanks is a good actor.
2) I work, as they say, at "a major metropolitan daily" that actually prints a newspaper, which is probably a lot like heading up Bush's Nobel Peace Prize application process -- not a lot of bright, shiny prospects there.
3) I am a natural blond (but not everywhere).
4) I have the planet's most sensitive nose.
5) I am not divorced. Or having an affair. Or looking.

So I'm torn. Can you be atypical and still fit in? Can you be so atypical that you're typical? Can you be atypical on purpose?

But, most importantly, can a blog bring you self-definition, catharsis, insight, constructive feedback and some degree of happiness? Or a book deal?

Let's find out.