second fiddle

I'm drowning my sorrows in a glass of merlot. I'm on my first one, so by the time I get a few hundred words down, I will have to disclaim responsibility for being too disclosive.

I adore my husband and he adores me. That works pretty well most of the time. There is, however, some competition that causes marital strife on a regular basis: poker. Texas Hold 'Em. I refer to it as Tom's mistress. There are plenty of times I don't mind sharing his attention, after all, I'm a very busy woman who needs time to not talk, to cook, to clean, to iron Tom's shirts, to work, to parent, to do laundry, to walk the dogs... and to drink merlot.

The best thing about having a first husband whom I share children with is that I get to share the children. As in, every other weekend, Tom and I have 2 whole nights to ourselves. Except Friday is poker night. And poker night isn't just 'Tom goes out and plays poker and comes home late.' Poker night is "Julie gets the house as spotless as possible in anticipation of 7-12 guests and plans the poker night menu in her head whenever she's at the grocery store to ensure that Bucky has stick pretzels and banana bread and PJ has artichoke dip and Mike has shrimp every now and then and Art has Michelob Light and PJ's kids have chips and dip and there has to be some healthy food options -- fruit salad or vegetable platter...' and on and on. I did mention that I am a person of excesses, yes? That extends to my hostessing, for sure. I even go so far as to think about what to wear on Friday that is both appropriate and sexy enough for both work and poker, and which pair of high heels are both comfortable AND quiet on the tile floor. And can I walk the dogs in that?

I thought it would be fun to host a weekly poker game for several reasons: There was a lot of mystery surrounding this poker business -- who does Tom play with? What kind of people are they? Would I like them? What do they talk about? Would they like me? Tom's incessant absences from home to play poker were a frequent source of arguments. Not because I didn't trust him or want him to have outside interests, but because I often felt that poker ranked higher than I did (do) -- Tom wanted to play poker more than he wanted to be with me. The last straw was one Saturday morning in bed -- the kids were at their dad's, we were fooling around, and somewhere along the process it became apparent that Tom was rushing me a little bit. I was ENRAGED when I discovered that he was rushing me because he wanted to get to a poker tournament -- it felt like his mistress was standing over the bed saying, "hurry up! Git 'r done and let's go," while Tom was thinking, as long as I meet her needs before I go, she'll be fine with me playing today... I wasn't fine, and it was one of many weekends wasted on arguing about poker and priorities and where do I fit in?

Hosting a game potentially solved a few problems: with a standing engagement, I would know what to expect. I'd get to see how Tom interacts with his mistress. It would meet my social needs -- I could play hostess, meet new people, entertain, and Tom would be home while engaging in his passion, with my blessing. Win, win, right? Well, mostly, except for a few things that cropped up: poker players aren't very social. They tend to be gun totin' Republicans. They don't listen when they're in the middle of a hand. They can sit and watch me bring in 49 loads of groceries from the car without ever offering to help. What started as a promising social engagement for me with motivation for keeping a cleaner house has evolved into a hostess-for-pay gig. I still wear high heels, put on a good spread, engage in conversation when the opportunity arises, but I know my place, and it is in the kitchen. And the next morning? Oh yeah, I'm in the kitchen 'till noon, doing dishes, putting away chairs, moving tables, mopping the filthy floor... while Tom sleeps in after playing 'till the wee hours of the morning.

I've been ridiculously busy for months with work, bringing work and stress home nightly and every weekend. Yesterday marked the first Friday in ages when I packed my briefcase with... nothing. Nothing urgent to accomplish over the weekend, no deadlines to meet, no grants to write. PFEW. I came home a little early, so glad that this monumental weekend coincided with a kid-free weekend. After a little down-time with Tom, who also got home early, setting up for poker seemed like a breeze. After the guests arrived and I was buzzing around, replenishing coffee, whisking away dishes, serving up fresh hot dishes hourly, I also evesdropped -- everyone was talking about a tournament in Westfield Saturday morning (today). Tom sounded... interested yet noncommittal.

I went to bed early-ish after everyone quit eating and continued their card playing. I'd stayed up late every night this week, cleaning, working, Facebooking... was more tired than I had been in recent memory, so I slept late -- it was well after 8 this morning before I became cognizant of the time. I asked Tom if he was planning to go to the Westfield tournament. He answered noncommitaly again, seeming open to the possibility of doing something with me, but only if it was something he wanted to do. I wanted to run, clean up the poker mess and get my house in order. None of those are on Tom's fun list. He went to Westfield, I went running.

I realized around 11:00 that I was going to have to go alone to the art gallery show I'd promised to attend. I wished I had friends to call up and ask to accompany me. I don't, so I got ready and went, alone. It wasn't particularly comfortable or well-attended (I was afraid of that), but I introduced myself to some people, tried to mingle, etc, and was rather surprised when my main mingler said, "Leaving already? But we need some local flavor here!" Huh. Then why didn't you make some eye contact and direct some conversation my way if you wanted to woo me into staying? Damn the Northeast Kingdom and its vague social cues.

After I got home I started wondering if I had spent a whole 45 minutes getting dressed, coiffed and made-up only to be seen by 8 or so art show people, me who seems to have this thing for being seen if I want to be seen... and I was prepared to be seen. Then Tom called and said he'd won the tournament (yay! money!) and wondered if I'd be okay with him bringing home a few guests to play poker for a few hours. Sure. Whatever.

I made coffee. Sliced cheese. Put out crackers. Cleared off the table. They arrived. I thought about the fact that Tom had remarked the day before that we had the weekend to ourselves and we should have a date night, which I interpreted as dinner out, and I was dressed and ready to go. I walked the dogs. Went upstairs to iron shirts while waiting for the poker people to leave. Thought about the fact that it was now 5:40 and Tom hadn't mentioned dinner, wasn't dressed or groomed, sorely needed a haircut and shave, and I didn't particularly want to be seen in public with him until those things were done. And I got mad.
Only every other weekend do we have time to just be together, and one of the 2 nights is consumed by poker. The next morning is consumed by poker cleanup. That leaves Saturday afternoon/evening to be together. Tom knows full well how important grooming, hair, shaving and wardrobe are to me. He slinked upstairs at 5:52, saying that the players would be leaving in 8 minutes, and would I like to go out for dinner (as if it were a new idea and wasn't the plan all along)?
I was already quite hungry and wasn't too keen on waiting for people to leave (as it surely wouldn't be 8 minutes only), hair to be cut (my job), bathing and shaving to happen.... I got mad.
People left, Tom groveled, I was uncharacteristically firm -- I didn't give in for once -- this happens so often -- Tom disappoints me by putting his mistress before me, I get pissed, it's too late to do what I wanted to do (go out), so we stay in, order take out and watch our favorite DVR shows (House). I couldn't do it tonite. We argued for a while, he was amply apologetic, but I could not give in this time. I'm sleeping on the couch. Why? We have 2 nights alone every other week. 1 of them is consumed by poker. This weekend? Poker took up 15 hours of Tom's time (and an ample portion of my time hostessing and cleaning, and yes, I do work fulltime) between Friday evening and Saturday evening... and he wanted to give me from 6-10 PM? Ungroomed? No thanks. 4 hours for me vs. 15 for the mistress? No thanks. I'll blog, I'll clean, I'll walk the dogs. But take the 4 hours as something acceptable? No. I'm sorry, I said, but no -- I can't do it this time. I've done it many times, but this time it feels like giving away a part of me that I can't afford to give.
I peeled a cukeumber. Ate some salad. Declined when Tom offered to order Chinese. Declined footrubs while watching House. Was uncommittal when asked if I would sleep in the same bed. I'm a practical person. I get addiction, I get passion, I get infidelity. But being second fiddle in this manner? Um, no. No more.