the stedman to my oprah. the carl to my dolly.

My mom thinks I’m awful, because I’m getting ready to write about Alex the Ex. “How can you do that to him?”

Him is the dark eyed European in the other room. “Because he’s not the jealous type,” I tell her. “And because the things I have to say about Alex could be said in front of a two year old.” I’d say them in Greek, of course. And I’d whisper certain parts…but I’d say them all the same.

He doesn’t like to be mentioned much on the blog. Prefers his privacy. “I’m not really keen on having my face plastered all over the net.” I’m hearing this now. As I write.

But he’s the Stedman to my Oprah. The Carl to my Dolly. The Peanut Butter to my Jelly. And every now and then, I like to brag about it.

Here he sits through six hours of home videos circa “High School Hair Days” at my grandparents house in Iaeger, West Virginia. “It’s like a movie set,” he says every time we pull into the dusty little coal town. And he’s not talking about the videos.