BLENDED: A MEMOIR by Abbe Greenberg A Thesis Submitted to the Faculty of The Dorothy F. Schmidt College of Arts and Letters in Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for the Degree of Master of Fine Arts Florida Atlantic University Boca Raton, Florida May 2013 © Copyright Abbe Greenberg 2013 ii BLENDED: A MEMOIR by Abbe Greenberg This thesis was prepared under the direction of the candidate's thesis advisor, Dr. Kate Schmitt, Department of English, and has been approved by the members of her supervisory committee. It was submitted to the faculty of the Dorothy F. Schmidt College of Arts and Letters and was accepted in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of Master of Fine Arts. SUPERVISORY COMMItTEE: Kate Schmitt, Ph.D. Thesis Advisor tw.pary~~A~ Andrew~1:~~ Furman, Ph.D. Andrew Furman, Ph.D. Chair, Department of English Heather Coltman, D.M.A. Interim Dean, The Dorothy F. Schmidt College of Arts and Letters /p;'ZoO Dateer· / 111 ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS Many people deserve recognition for their roles in the delivery of this manuscript: Kate Schmitt for her gentle, persistent support and her great laugh; Maggie Sarachek for her unwavering encouragement and her willingness to put our writing project aside for this memoir; my husband, Jay Asher, for being the most supportive and generous partner a writer could ever dream of; my grandmother, Viola Holtz, who insisted—until the moment of her death—that I finish this degree; Papatya Bucak, for pushing me through when I was stuck (several times); my fellow grad students whose insightful and diligent comments always inspired me to do better; and, finally, my mother, Nancy Greenberg, who never gets the credit, but deserves it all. iv ABSTRACT Author: Abbe Greenberg Title: Blended: A Memoir Institution: Florida Atlantic University Thesis Advisor: Dr. Kate Schmitt Degree: Master of Fine Arts Year: 2013 Blended: A Memoir is the author’s recollection of her endeavors to overcome the difficulties that often accompany becoming a stepmother and build a “seamless” family. v DEDICATION For Viola Holtz— with all of the love and gratitude in my heart. BLENDED: A MEMOIR PREFACE ......................................................................................................................... 1 AUDITION ....................................................................................................................... 6 FIRST DATE .................................................................................................................. 21 TRIAL SEPARATION .................................................................................................. 43 CHRISTENING ............................................................................................................. 60 AISLE FOR FOUR ........................................................................................................ 81 WIFE-IN-LAW .............................................................................................................. 97 HATCHED ................................................................................................................... 113 GETTING TO MEMOIR ............................................................................................. 138 WORKS CITED ........................................................................................................... 150 vi PREFACE When I was twenty-two, I managed a branch of a national corporation in south Florida. One of my employees had a framed photograph on her desk of a beautiful family: a bright-eyed, curly haired man with his arm around a petite, freckled brunette, both of them standing behind twin, redheaded toddlers with chubby cheeks and cherubic smiles. I never asked her about the photo, but every day I looked at that picture and thought, Those kids could be mine. Five years later, I was married to the man in the picture, and the adorable twins were my stepchildren. Now, before you think I am a psychotic stalker à la Meredith Baxter Birney’s characters on the Lifetime channel, let me explain. The father in the photograph, Jay, was my employee’s brother-in-law, who was also the Director of my company’s New Jersey operation where, and here’s the coincidence, I transferred after I married my first husband. This story gets crazier when I admit that, although Jay was technically my boss because he ran four large offices all over the state, I did not actually meet him until a year after he approved my hiring—at the company Christmas party which the beautiful wife in the photo also attended. When I met him, for all of thirty seconds during which he thanked me for a job well done, I did not recognize him as the man in the photo. In fact, he barely registered in my conscious mind as I was too distracted by 1 the number of people coming up to me to ask if I was wearing pants.1 It was another six months before Jay and I started to work together on a project, and another half year until he told me, unable to hold back tears, that his marriage was dissolving—that he was moving out of his house in the early part of the summer. “At least you don’t have to deal with this stuff,” he said. “Enjoy being a newlywed.” The thing was, I hadn’t enjoyed being a newlywed. In fact, I was newly separated, newly terrified to tell anyone, especially my parents (who at that time were married for 26 years) and my grandparents (who at that time were married for 51 years), that my own blessed union had—in just over a year—gone belly up. “Um. The thing is…” I started, trying to figure out the least embarrassing way to break the news. “I’m getting divorced too.” I winced as Jay looked up at me, but he didn’t seem shocked. “What happened?” “Nothing,” I said. “We just don’t have that much in common.” “Didn’t you notice that when you were dating?” “Yeah,” I said. “But I thought it would get better when we were married. Besides, it was nice to be so…adored. I figured he’d never hurt me, you know? And, on paper, he was a pretty good catch.” “Wow. What did your family say?” 1 I was wearing sheer black leggings, which, apparently, in the dim light of the firehouse hosting our festivities, created the illusion that I had forgotten to put on pants. Years later, Jay confessed that he came over to meet me in the hopes of witnessing my risqué attire. 2 “Haven’t gotten that far,” I said. “I’m hiding out at my grandparents’ apartment while they are in Florida for the winter. Anyway, it’s tax season and my mom’s a CPA, so I figure I’ve got til April 15th to come up with a reasonable story.” “I wish I had that long,” Jay said. “My parents keep calling. More than usual. They know something’s up.” “You didn’t tell them?” And so our relationship was borne of a mutual need to find a way to tell our long-married, nice Jewish parents that their children were homeless screw-ups about to be divorced, which, in my family, was not as bad as being fat, but close. Very close. Jay and I became good friends, sounding boards for each other, laughing buddies, safe places to hide. Which, of course, is exactly what one wants in a romantic partner. So, it didn’t surprise me that, when the dust from my first marriage began to clear, the only person I could see was Jay. One morning—after his band had played until two and we had spent the next three hours bemoaning our fates—as we sat in his van in Hoboken watching the sun come up over the city and turning the Chrysler Building into a glowing ball of orange light, Jay told me I was lucky. “Why’s that?” I replied. “Because you are young and you can start fresh. Who in their right mind would want to date a man like me? A guy in his thirties with two little kids and a soon-to-be ex-wife who is taking half his money.” Slowly, I raised my hand. “Really?” he said. “You would?” And I did. 3 This collection of essays tells the story of a young, relatively sheltered, extremely nurturing girl who falls in love with a sensitive, affectionate, self-doubting man with twin daughters, an ex-wife, enmeshed parents, and little economic security. Someone should have warned that girl, I hear you saying. She was too young. She didn’t know what she was getting into. All true. Except I was warned. My grandmother—my touchstone—told me time and again to reconsider. Even Jay’s father asked me, almost daily, “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” I didn’t know what I was doing, although this is the first time I am admitting that. Anyone who attempts to blend a family—to spackle and seal the fissures left behind by divorce while, at the same time, forging new connections which must be made to feel as old and familiar as your dad’s college sweatshirt—goes in blind. Like childbirth, it is a life-altering experience that can be as traumatic as it is beautiful, depending on the circumstances and the people involved. There is no blueprint. No instructions or guidelines. We think (and many suggest) that there is a method—that if we just do things a certain way, follow these ten tips, everything will work out for everyone. But the truth is, it’s a crapshoot. The people involved have to be willing to try, but even that doesn’t guarantee success. I never lose sight of the fact that one step in a different direction could have changed entirely the outcome of the story I am about to tell. If my daughters came to me today and asked me if they should marry a man with children—even if they are the two sweetest, most precious children on the face of the earth and the man is a nonsexist, non-Republican Prince Charming—I would still find it hard to give them the thumbs up. Blending a family is not for the faint of heart. It 4 requires a ridiculous amount of self-confidence, a tolerance for the complicated and unsettled, and an ability to relinquish control—none of which I have. But I didn’t know I didn’t have those things.