So says the barren woman

Two months ago, I miscarried my second pregnancy within 6 months. It was a tough knock--a sadness that literally felt as if it was burning in my heart. I hurt deeply. Nevertheless, it was something I had to feel or else I might not have been able to move past it. And yes, I have moved past the loss. I did what I have always done in tough situations--picked myself up, dusted myself off, put a smile on my face, and moved on.

What else is there to do?

But sometimes I wonder whether there might be something wrong with me--that I am somehow in denial, too shallow, or don't want to be a mother as much as I think I would--because I don't seem to carry the weight of infertility like others friends, who find themselves in a similar circumstance and are haunted by it. I don't feel as though my life will have been less significant without the experience of motherhood. I am also confident that Max and I are, and would be, a happy and fulfilled family even if we never have children.

Don't misunderstand me. I know that being a parent is a life-changing, irreplaceable experience and one that I would like to have someday. But if motherhood doesn't happen for me, I do not feel as though I would be living an inferior life...just a different one.

Is this so shocking?

Hope +1 Despair -0

Despite my doctors gloomy disposition during our last visit, my test results were good. We're still being very cautious, and I am seeing the doctor again Monday for another ultrasound. Keep those hopes pouring in! It seems to have helped me tremendously.

I'm off to Thessaloniki, Greece tomorrow to visit my aged aunt an uncle. Now my dilemma is to try to somehow keep my secret from them even though I won't be eating gobs of Feta or drinking any ouzo. How am I suppose to explain this bizarre change in my behavior. Suggestions?

Ice cream

The first time I ever heard someone describe me and Max as an "interracial couple," I stood up a little straighter in a moment of surprise. Of course, I knew that Max's pigment was darker than mine--sort of the color of Häagen Daz 's Cappuccino Commotion ice cream with a hint of cinnamon, while mine was more like your run-of-the-mill vanilla--but, in truth, I had never thought of us as different from one another.

Perhaps this is because, to me, our similarities have always stood out far more than our differences. The essence of who we are as individuals-- our attitudes toward important issues, world views, priorities, interests, likes, and dislikes--are, fundamentally, the same. Almost from the moment we met, it felt as if Max and I were one. And I suppose it surprised me to realize this oneness didn't radiate outward so as to be evident to strangers.

The man who first called us out as "interracial," wasn't doing so in a derogatory manner. To the contrary, he, an African-American, and his Latina wife spotted us in a line of people waiting to go on a four-wheeling excursion in Grand Cayman. And because we were the only other interracial couple, the pair decided Max and I would make suitable companions for the duration of the tour. It was an odd feeling to be singled out for such a reason, but I think it made them feel more comfortable. And regardless of the whos and whys, we enjoyed a lovely day and made new friends.

However, their obvious wariness toward same-race couples reminded me of a conversation I had twenty-five years earlier, when I was just a teen. At the time, I had caught the attention of a young man, who happened to be black. My parents liked my friend immensely, but father discouraged me from dating him because he worried about the reaction of other people. Dad said that while he didn't oppose interracial couples, many other people did. As a result, life for those in mixed marriages was so much harder. And while the conversation didn't completely stop me, it did give me pause for thought. I grew up believing that there was a built-in barrier, an inherent complication, for interracial couples,making life more like an uphill battle.

It's funny how life turns out, isn't it? Little did dad or I know back then, but years later I would be introducing an Egyptian man into our family. And despite initial concerns and reservations, my parents ended up loving the man I chose almost as much as I did.

Also, as it turned out, my father's perceptions about interracial couples weren't so black and white after all--at least not for me and Max. Perhaps it is a sign of the times, but we have never once felt stigmatized because of our relationship. We've never even observed a sideways glance in our direction. Day to day, our marriage is far from an up-hill battle. Instead, we cruise along on a nice, even slope.

Even though Max and I come from different races, cultures, and religions, our life has not been soured. It's been oh so sweet--like a vanilla and cappuccino ice cream sundae with extra whipped cream and a cherry on top.

Would be comical IF it weren't true

A not-so-distant relative sent me the following e-mail.

"Hey, I wanted to let you know that I am trying to become an egg donor. I figured I should tell you first, in case you guys go invitro before I get involved in the process for someone else. I figure I don't plan on using my eggs, so the altruistic thing is to offer them to someone and the compensation for egg donors is nice (generally about $4-6000). Anyway...just thought I'd out that out there!"

Nice, eh?

I'm not in the right frame of mind to answer at the moment, so I turn it over to you, dear wordsmiths. How would you a respond?

Decompressing

Admittedly, I am in a state of decompression today. This morning, I woke to quiet calm and didn’t have jump out of bed to rustle up breakfast or organize the day. My guest-free house has returned to order and looks clean and welcoming. And even though my German teacher is scheduled to come for our weekly lesson in just a few hours, I’ve decided to laze around this morning instead of doing homework. I need a day to do absolutely nothing.

Believe me—I enjoyed hosting my family the last few weeks, but I was equally relieved to have them return home.

The visit to Germany provided many positives. My mother and father had never visited this part of Europe and enjoyed the beautiful scenery of both the German and French wine region, as well as Switzerland. I believe they drew comfort in seeing how happy I am and what a nice life I now enjoy. Most importantly, it gave them the opportunity to get to know my husband a little better and see his naturally warm and caring disposition. Max played porter, chauffer, and personal assistant these last few weeks, and his kindnesses didn’t go unnoticed by my family.

However, the last few weeks have also been a little tough for me. I was reminded of some behaviors and attitudes, particularly on the part of my mother, which I find hard to swallow. I won’t use my blog as a platform to be disrespectful or complain, but I will say I am even more grateful that I don’t have to be around the pressures of family very often.

Do you know what I mean?

Mrs. Coffee

Max and I are still vacationing with my family in Kalithea, which is located in area called Chalkidki in northern Greece and along the Aegean Sea. Aside from the exotic location, this is a typical family vacation with some Norman Rockwell moments, but others more like scenes My Big Fat Greek National Lampoon Vacation.

Yesterday, we visited the family of family in another part of the peninsula. We feasted on a lunch that went on for hours and included a fair amount of ouzo and then topped our meal off with Greek coffee, a sludge-like espresso. Maybe it was because of the ouzo, but my aunt decided she would “read” the remnants of Max’s coffee.

I suppose the reading of coffee grinds is not unlike the reading of tealeaves. My aunt grabbed Max’s cup out of his hand and began swirling it around to see what the prophetic beans would reveal. Then, she waited 20 minutes for the impression to dry before passing the cup to her sister-in-law, who was more skilled in interpretation and spoke better English.

“Ah, this is a good and strong cup,” the sister-in-law began.

Both the believers’ and nonbelievers’ ears perked up. Like any good fortuneteller, the sister-in-law paced herself for dramatic effect, waiting for someone at the table to beg her to continue.

“You are successful in your work, but there is a tall, heavy man who is jealous of your successes and wishes to cast the evil eye.”

There went the evil eye again. The table looked to Max to provide the name of said man, but he couldn’t think of a single co-worker who fit the description.

“But it no matter,” she interrupted. “This man cannot interfere with your successes. I see lots of money in your future, and when you get back to work you will hear some very good news.”

Another five-minute discussion around the table ensued about all of Max’s money before the reading continued.

“You have a female friend with long hair. He name starts with M. She also will give you very good news.”

We actually do have a female friend who matches this description, but couldn’t imagine what sort of news she might give us.

“And a door is opening to you. You will be going on a journey in the future where opportunity awaits.”

All of this fortune telling was well and good, but the table grew restless. Because the audience was a bunch of old Greek people and Max and I are newlyweds, everyone wanted to know one thing.

“Do you see babies in the cup?” my father asked.

At this the cup was passed around to those who understood the workings of prophetic coffee beans. The giggling and smiling began.

“I see TWO babies—a boy and a girl. Not now, but down the road.”

Both the coffee bean believers and disbelievers roared with laughter at this pronouncement. Max smiled broadly at the thought, and I made a face at the thought of having not one, but two children over the age of 40. And even though I think the reading was a bunch of hooey, I’ve decided to steer clear of Greek coffee for the duration of our trip.

Proud auntie

My 5-year old niece wanted to donate 12 inches of her hair to Locks of Love. Being the proud auntie that I am, I wanted to post a 'before' and 'after' shot.


She had wanted to shave her head like her auntie once did (for picture click here), but mommy said no. With lock like that, I can't say I blame her.

Cutie pie, no?

Nael's Second (and Final) Podcast

Today is our last full day in Egypt. We board a plane back to Cairo tonight and will fly to Germany tomorrow afternoon. Thankfully, I am feeling much much better. I would have hated life if I had to fly while inflicted with King Tut's gut.

I'll return to you tomorrow with what I haven't blogged about this week, but in the meantime please take a peek Nael's final podcast of this trip. He was very pleased with your comments and asked that I post this as well.

Enjoy!

A 9-year old's first podcast

I'm still feeling a bit under the weather thanks to what I not-so-affectionately refer to as King Tut's gut, so my 9-year-old nephew Nael pitched in by making a little podcast about the first half of our trip to Egypt. He spent two hours working with me on it and enjoyed practicing his English very much. He hopes you like it.

Talking Smack and Mac

Today's post promises to be as bad a Brittany Spear's performance last night on the MTV Music Awards. I don't have a prepared story because I spent all weekend playing with my new Mac last night. That's right, folks. I'm a Macster for the first time in...well... ever.

It certainly is good to back from vacation, but life is hardly routine. Max and I are in full relocation mode. Today we meet with the langauge instructor to schedule our first 40 hours of German classes. I also meet with my physician to schedule all those new tests a woman gets whenever she turns (gasp) 40. I'm about 3 months early, but figure it would be better to be throughly checked under the hood because finding a phycian I'm comfortable with might take some time in Germany.

Max, on the other hand, leaves for Germany tomorrow and won't be back till the end of the month. He starts transisitioning to his new role and, hopefully, will get some house hunting in during the trip. We can't schedule an appointment with the movers until we find an apartment.

Yeah, life is crazy. I feel as though we are temporary resident in this land. And I suppose, given the fact that we have only about 10 weeks left, it's an accuarate feeling.

In an unrelated tidbit... Max's youngest sister read my travel journal and apparently got really offended by it. She posted a message on the board in defense of Egypt. I was stunned. I've e-mailed her personally rather than post on the board to explain a few things I think she might have misunderstood and to apologize for anything she took offense to, but so far she hasn't e-mailed me back.

You think I should be worrried?

M-I-L

When Chico, Max and I arrived at Cairo International Airport, I spotted one of the most important, international; symbols—the sign for the women’s restroom.

“Hold on. I’ll be back in 30 seconds,” I said.

Max and Chico rolled their eyes, and I could almost see their collective thought: “Hadn’t she been to the bathroom enough during our 24-hour trip?”

Female traveling companions would have understood the necessity of this pit stop. A long voyage with little beauty sleep did little to enhance my appearance. And, in a post 9-11 era—one where you can’t carry vital toiletries on the airplane—the only hope to freshen up was a cool, wet paper towel and a couple breath mints.

As I looked in the bathroom mirror a thought hit me like a sucker punch to the gut: I was about to meet my new mother-in-law. A moment of panic ensued.

Two past marriages taught me that a woman not only weds her husband, she also marries a family. Circumstances had prevented me from meeting Max’s mother before the wedding, so I felt as though I had closed the deal sight unseen. And while I had every reason to believe my new M-I-L would be perfectly delightful, a tiny voice in my head reminded me there were no guarantees.

“Remember Cruella Devil,” it whispered.

Cruella was my nickname for M-I-L-1, a heinous and heartless woman who would have clubbed a puppy if it got in her way.

I shuddered at the thought of her. Surely Max’s mother would be nothing like her.

“There are no guarantees,” the little voice whispered.

This would be my third M-I-L meeting, but the first in which I couldn’t verbally communicate. “First impressions and body language would be critical,” I thought. “Smile a lot.”

I double and triple checked to make sure remnants of my airline dinner hadn’t gotten caught in my teeth. Then, I patted my face with a damp, paper towel. This was as good as it was going to get.

I stepped outside the restroom and saw Max jokingly tapping his toe and looking at his wrist watch.

“30 seconds, huh,” he laughed. And then as if he had known my fears all along, Max grabbed my hand.

“Come on,” he said softly. “It’s going to be fine.”

And with that the little voice in my head stopped. The time had finally come to meet my new mother-in-law.

Frosted Flake

Today I dressed in the sort of outfit that caused co-workers to ask if I am interviewing for another job or have an after-work engagement.

"No," I replied. "My dad is coming. I need to be well dressed for him."

Understandably, my work mates looked puzzled by the answer. I could almost see their thoughts: "She needs to be dressed up to see her own father? How messed up is that?"

But if my colleagues only knew dad, they'd understand.

My father grew up in an age and culture where women were expected to dress well for any sort of public viewing. Buying feed for the goats, visiting blind aunt Tula, shopping for olives, picking up cigarettes for the husband--it didn't matter what the occasion. If you were going to be seen by anyone other than your own mother, you had better look presentable, meaning make-up, hair, and a coordinated outfit at the very least. Like heavy, impractical baggage that should have been left at home, my father brought the standards of his culture on the long boat ride from Greece to Ellis Island, U.S.A..

The result? Being high maintenance was not only accepted, it was expected. Far from the perfectly acceptable granola-girl style of our American culture, my dad wanted his daughters to be Frosted Flakes, and the more frosting the better. I believe this was because Dad saw our day-to-day appearance as a public reflection of how well he provided for us. The other motivation could have been marriage. Dad wanted to be sure his girls were married off well before they were "too old"-- about twenty-five in Greek years.

Needless to say, this caused occasional stresses in the family. Far from caked-on makeup and frilly clothing, my sisters preferred a natural look and balked at my father's standards.

"Amy," my father would lament, "you look like a hobo in that get-up. How are you ever going to find a husband?"

Pointing at a pubescent pimple on her face, father asked the other sister, "What are these scabbies on your face, Christina? For god's sake, would you wear a little foundation?"

If they had been the types to care, Amy and Christy would have been given complexes by his comments. Determined to dress any way they pleased, however, my sisters ignored his counsel and laughed off his criticisms.

Fortunately for dad, I was eager to please, and even more eager to outshine my siblings. I spent years dressing to be judged favorably by my father. You would have thought I'd outgrown this need, but up until a few years ago, I wouldn’t leave the house without lipstick.

But oddly enough, I never found dressing up for my father burdensome. Truth be told, I like being his Frosted Flake. And today, when I picked out the sparkling top and white flouncy skirt, I did so because it would make my father proud and me happy.

True to form, as soon as I arrived home from work, dad’s compliments came quickly.

"My daughter looks like a movie star," he beamed. I could only bask in his approval.

Some things never change.

It's Almost Here

In only nine days, I travel to Egypt to meet my husband's family for the very first time. As you can imagine I am curious, excited, and nervous. Fortunately, I am not traveling alone. Along with Max, my brother Chico makes the journey to this historic country. Even before I met my husband, traveling to Egypt has been a goal of mine and my brother since we were kids. It means so much to be sharing this trip with him.

Although I haven't physically met Max's family, I have spoken with them by phone. His father, two sisters, and nephew speak perfect English with an almost British accent. His mother only knows enough to tell me that she wishes to have a granddaughter in the family.

"Make baby. I want a girl," she says, giggling the entire time.

Since we've already been married two months, I'm sure she wonders what is taking so long.

I've left the planning of this trip completely to Max and his family. We arrive in Cairo, spend a couple days touring the pyramids, and then will head to a resort area somewhere along the Red Sea. We will spend a full week at the resort, in part to escape the 100 degree temperatures in Cairo. Then before returning to the United States, we will visit Max's extended family and take a dinner cruise down the Nile. I am also looking forward to a Henna painting ceremony for Max's female relatives and me. Apparently, this is a all the rage in Egypt, something special for brides just prior to their wedding.

Doesn't it all sound amazing?

Max understands my need to journal and blog about the experience, and he is prepared to take me to Internet cafes around the country if necessary. I do have the best intentions of posting to this site, as well as a trip journal I set up for my family and friends. I've included a link to my trip journal on the side bar if any of you want to get all the nitty gritty details of the trip--the sort that will only interest my family. Longtime readers are familiar with this routine because I have produced journals for trips to Greece and China. On the site, readers will find a place set e-mail notification of updates, as well as a messages center. This is how my family and friends will sends notes to me, Chico, and Max while we're away. I love getting messages because it makes me feel as though my friends and family are sharing in the adventure.

Of course, I hope to keep Martinis updated as well. There may be few topics I wouldn't feel comfortable discussing with my family-like how Chico has been e-mailing Max's youngest sister over the last few months and whether anything is developing. So my trip journal will be the place where I share the Pollyanna version of Egypt, while Martinis will offer a more complete picture on the off chance anything doesn't go well.

But let's hope that doesn't happen.

He’s too sexy for…

I was about 14-years old and at my first sleepover when a friend informed me that my father was “cute.”

“Are you kidding me?” I asked. I couldn’t imagine that she was talking about my dad. Charming? Yes. Charismatic? Maybe. Cute?!?!?! Eww.

I found her chatter very disturbing, but she wasn’t the only one. Every time a new friend met my father, she had to let me know that he was something special or, as one girl put it, “a something, something.”

This was a problem for me. Next to thinking about or walking in on your parents having sex, hearing friends describe your dad as “something” is about the worst thing that can happen to a hormonal, egocentric teenage girl. I mean, really, who wants to be upstaged by their old man? But rather than be scarred by this revelation, I chose to protect my innocence and block out the entire matter altogether.

That is, until last Thursday on the occasion of my marriage. Twenty five years have since past; my father is now 70-years old. You’d think this sort of chatter about him would have stopped. But at my wedding, I was reminded that it hasn’t.

“Is THAT your dad?”

“You’re father is adorable!”

“Could I get a picture with your father?”

Max and I thought we were going to have to beat the women off with a stick. And while I didn’t mind it as much as I had years earlier, I did worry how my mother handled the attention. As one friend wrapped her arms around dad’s neck, I glanced to see my mother’s reaction. She sat talking, oblivious to the hubbub around him. I guess after 41 years of marriage, you get use to having your husband ogled.

For a few minutes as we exchanged vows, Max and I took center stage. When the judge introduced us as man and wife, I glanced over to see my parents’ reaction. There they sat holding hands and smiling at each other. In that moment, my father never looked more handsome to me. And rather than recoil, I happily gave in to the obvious.

“Your dad is really something,” one friend said.

“Yeah...he really is.”

Guess Who's Coming?

Now that Max faced my Big, Fat Greek Family, I’ve begun obsessing about the next meeting to take place. Our trip to Egypt to meet Max’s family is still a few months away, but that doesn’t mean I can’t already be stressing about it.

I ask myself all the usual questions that a new bride poses before meeting her future in-laws. Will I like them? Will they like me? Will I be accepted as part of the family? But I also worry about the vast cultural schism that might exist as I, an independent Western woman, make my way in an Islamic world. I do not know much about Muslim society, and I would hate to offend Max’s family out of sheer ignorance.

“I read that in Middle Eastern cultures, it is an insult to show your sole to a guest. What if I accidentally cross my legs and show my foot? Will your parents be offended?” I asked.

“ Maybe,” Max replied. “I really don’t know.”

And he really doesn’t know. Having never lived in Middle East and rejecting much of the culture himself, Max offers little guidance. As far as he is concerned, we might as well be visiting Disney World. There isn’t anything I need to do differently in order to prepare for this trip.

“Just chew with your mouth closed and flush the toilet after you use it and everything will be fine.” Max says with a chuckle.

Since he’s not taking my worries seriously, I’ve been doing online research. After all, we know that everything on the Web is 100% accurate.

Max insists that because Egypt is a popular tourist destination, the people are familiar with Western ways and style of clothing. He says I don’t have to change anything about how I dress while we are there. But everything I read tells me that this isn’t the case. While I wouldn’t need to don a head scarf, I should try to wear calf-length skirts and ¾ sleeved tops at a minimum. If we go to a mosque, I will have to cover myself completely.

As you can probably guess, my wardrobe wouldn't be considered "modest" even by western standards. So I’ve already begun hunting for my Egyptian wears. Somehow I’ll need to find clothing that covers my body, but will also be comfortable in the 100 degree temperatures. Even with my savvy shopping skills, this task may be a mission impossible.

Max’s immediate family spent many years living in Greece, so I am less worried about offending them with my wild Western ways. But a few of his extended family are less moderate, and some of the female cousins even wear burkas, clothing the completely covers the head, face, and body. In these cases, Max tells me he has not seen the faces of these women since they were children. I think that my fiancée shares these tales as a way of preparing me. He is hosting a post-wedding party for about 50 of his friends and family in Cairo, where I will be on full display for all to see.

Did I mention that alcohol is forbidden in Muslim countries? I’m a goner.

Awww!

Just when I thought I had nothing to share with my fellow bloggers today, the following e-mail hit my Inbox. Max’s father sent it after his son forwarded a photograph of us together.

Dear Diane, Hope all is well with you and the family.
Delighted to receive the Lovely Photo that unite you with dear Max
I am taking the liberty of passing same to Max’s sister with your e mail address so that She can start communicating with you.
My wife like me was happy to see the beautiful Photograph and joins me to wish you both all the Happiness.

As you can imagine, the e-mail just melted my heart. I am counting down the days till I travel to Egypt for the first time to meet Max’s family. Only 120 to go!

Glass Half Full

Despite my positive and cheery exterior, I have always been sort of person who expects the worst to happen, reasoning it is better to be happily surprised than severely disappointed in life. But after months and months, agonizing over how to approach my parents about Max, expecting with certainty that they would flip out and I would be cast off--only to find, in reality, their reaction was respectful and inviting-- I’ve come to the conclusion that I should rethink my glass half empty disposition.

Do you realize how much money in therapy I could have saved the last 18 months had I given my parents just a wee bit more credit? I wish I were joking.

Let me give you one example of well things have gone.

During our recent visit, my father took Max on a tour of the neighborhood, which is located on an expansive mountain lake. As we drove around admiring the beautiful homes and shoreline, Max commented how much he loved being on the water. “Maybe on our next visit, I’ll rent a pontoon boat for the family,” Max suggested. Everyone agreed that this would make for a nice weekend gathering.

Three days after we returned home, my mother left voicemail for Max.

“Diane, it's your mother, but this message is really for Max,” she began. “Please let him know that your father bought a pontoon boat yesterday, so he can enjoy it on your next trip home to the lake. Don’t worry about calling me back. I just want to be sure you let Max know.”

The voice sounded like my mother's, but I played the message again to be sure. Was it possible that the last few months of worrying had caused me to literally go out of my mind? Where were the yelling, lecture and guilt trip that I had anticipated? Instead of drama, I found acceptance. And, Max got a boat.

Later, I played the voicemail for Max, who immediately called my parents. “So you all know,” Max said with a smile in his voice, “I also like sports car and airplanes.” I could hear the laughter from the other end of the phone, so I know my parents understood that he was joking. But as well as thing are going, I wouldn't be surprised if my folks offer Max just about anything he wants.

Ouch!

Q. What could have possibly trumped having my parents meet their future son-in-law this weekend?

A. The kid sister's brand new nipple rings.

Say it isn't so! Oh, but it is. I got to see them in the flesh--literally.

Meet the Parents

Is it just me, or does the sun seem to be shining a little more radiantly these days? While almost everyone has been complaining about the recent cold snap here in North Carolina, I have hardly noticed. Despite the cool temperatures, I feel lightness in the air and a strong sense of renewal that ordinarily would be attributed to the rise of the spring equinox. Still, I realize that the extra bounce in my step isn’t due to the season. After telling my folks about Max, I’ve had a weight lifted. I feel completely free to enjoy this stage of my life and my relationship.

Unfortunately, when my burden lifted, its weight was taken on by my parents, who apparently lost consciousness the minute I uttered the words “Egyptian boyfriend.” And after their temporary blackout, my folks didn’t hear another sound that fell from my tongue during the rest of our conversation. And ever since, while they have remained silent to me on the topic of my relationship, their questions and concerns have been burning up the phone lines leading to my sister Christina’s house. Thankfully, even though she has never met Max, my sister has become his greatest ally in a war of perception with my parents.

To be fair, mom and dad have spent the better part of thirty years living in a most homogeneous area. My guess is that they haven’t met a single Muslim in all that time, and so the only images they can conjure are derived from current news clips from FOX news. As a result, Christina calls me to offer the daily recap of her conversations with the parents.

“Mom and dad think that Max is going to force you to convert to Islam, then whisk you and your unborn children off to Egypt never to be seen again,” Christina said with the slightest sigh.

“Max isn’t Muslim, and he’s never lived in Egypt,” I respond curtly.

“I know that, and you know that,” she continued. “But mom and dad are convinced that he will suddenly get religion after the wedding and go extremist on you.”

We laugh a little over the wild scenarios being imagined, but more as a way to relieve tension than because we find any of my parent’s concerns funny. Christina and I are resigned to the fact when people base their impressions based solely on negative stereotypes, no amount of reasoning will change their notions.

At the same time, I do make allowances for my parent’s fear because it stems out of deep concern and love for me. Mom and dad can’t help but worry they are losing their oldest daughter to a total and complete stranger. And really, how can I blame them? My folks feel this way, in part, because I haven’t been given them opportunity to love Max as I do. And so, I need to remedy this situation with all due speed.

Max is in Japan until Friday, but as soon as his plane lands I’m hauling him up to Virginia to meet the parents. I’m not the least bit concerned that the encounter won’t go well. Max is an amazing spirit, who will win both my parent’s hearts and minds. They finally will see for themselves that somehow, despite hailing from different worlds and religious upbringings, Max and I share am amazing bond that stems from like-heartedness and true compatibility.

So as not to seem too much like an E-Harmony commercial while we are there, I have also taken the liberty of inviting all my siblings’ back home for the weekend. After digesting a couple plates of Greek food and throwing back a few glasses of ouzo, Max will truly come to know my family in all their glory. And let me just say, if my crazy Big Fat Greek family doesn’t put the fear of Mohammad in Max and cause him to go running and screaming back to the Middle East, nothing will.