Max attended his region's annual conference, the first since becoming its new manager a couple months back. The meeting provided my husband an opportunity to speak to employees from four countries. Needless to say, Max wanted to make a good first impression and not only use the forum to show his support for their work and present his goals for the year to come, but also to connect with people and provide them a more personal introduction to their new leader.
"So, how did it go?" I asked on the evening of his return home.
Max chuckled, "Good, I think. Some of my managers confided that people have started calling me the company's own 'Barack Obama.'"
Funny and flattering at the same time, the thought caused me to laugh out loud and spend the rest of the weekend mocking the compliment by making all the obligatory jokes. Instead of "Honey," I called my husband "Mr. President." Likewise, our bathroom became known as "The Oval Office."
Still, the employees' impressions of my Max got me thinking about the obvious comparison--a young, inspirational leader and Blackberry addict of African descent with an Arabic name, who was officially inaugurated into office the same week the new U.S. president. I suppose using these narrowly defined parameters, I could see the similarity.
But, more importantly, if Max was Barack, did this make me Michelle? As much as I would like to have thought so, reality kept me honest in my assessments. However, it didn't keep me from doing what I have noticed the First Lady does on occasion--finding ways to keep my husband humble in the face of accolades. And so it was in this spirit that I allowed President Max to assume a few household responsibilities-- changing the kitty litter, taking out the trash, and yes, cleaning the Oval Office--before flying off in Air Force One for his meeting in Rome next week.
That's change I can believe in!
Showing posts with label life as a hausfrau. Show all posts
Showing posts with label life as a hausfrau. Show all posts
2.01.2009
12.10.2008
New direction?
Maybe it's because of the recent drama, but I'm beginning to crave change, perhaps a new direction in my life and lifestyle. The last 12 months in Germany have been a wonderful holiday. I've lived a slow-paced, leisurely existence, which was free from hustle, bustle, and any real commitments aside from feeding my pets and keeping a straight and humble abode.
It's been nice, but not necessarily good for me. I think I've become lazy, accustomed to doing what I want, whenever I want. I've let myself go a little because there hasn't been any real reason to...let' s say... get that regular manicure and pedicure. Most days, I don't see anyone except Charlie and Max, and they seem pretty ok with me sans the frills. And since I've been trying to get pregnant the last year, dieting hasn't been a viable option. Besides, someone told me at carrying a little extra weight was not bad, because estrogen is stored in fat cells.
Oh! Excuses, excuses...
Fortuntately, I need not look too far ahead to find the change I crave. Our move to Barcelona is only a couple months away. I could use this opportunity to shake things up in my life.
My first consideration is where Max and I might live. Do we look for housing outside or within the city limits? When I was pregnant, I felt impelled to look for a house with a garden in a neighboring town, not unlike where I live today. But I find when I live remotely, I don't make the effort to get out, explore, socialize, and do what I should to stimulate myself. And so, I am now contemplating life in the big, crowded, noisy city, where I must force myself to get dressed, get out, if only to walk Charlie to the elusive grass patch.
Is any of this making sense? I guess what I am wondering is whether I should listen to these urges and go for the life that I want today or do I continue to hold back a little and make decisions based on the life I hope to be living (complete with a baby and a white picket fence) someday?
It's been nice, but not necessarily good for me. I think I've become lazy, accustomed to doing what I want, whenever I want. I've let myself go a little because there hasn't been any real reason to...let' s say... get that regular manicure and pedicure. Most days, I don't see anyone except Charlie and Max, and they seem pretty ok with me sans the frills. And since I've been trying to get pregnant the last year, dieting hasn't been a viable option. Besides, someone told me at carrying a little extra weight was not bad, because estrogen is stored in fat cells.
Oh! Excuses, excuses...
Fortuntately, I need not look too far ahead to find the change I crave. Our move to Barcelona is only a couple months away. I could use this opportunity to shake things up in my life.
My first consideration is where Max and I might live. Do we look for housing outside or within the city limits? When I was pregnant, I felt impelled to look for a house with a garden in a neighboring town, not unlike where I live today. But I find when I live remotely, I don't make the effort to get out, explore, socialize, and do what I should to stimulate myself. And so, I am now contemplating life in the big, crowded, noisy city, where I must force myself to get dressed, get out, if only to walk Charlie to the elusive grass patch.
Is any of this making sense? I guess what I am wondering is whether I should listen to these urges and go for the life that I want today or do I continue to hold back a little and make decisions based on the life I hope to be living (complete with a baby and a white picket fence) someday?
12.01.2008
Forget Mr. Clean
In Germany, the well-known, confident bald guy boasts an even better designation: Meister Proper!
Cute, no?
10.02.2008
9.30.2008
Fascinating Womanhood
A few years after my sister Christina married, she recommended a book to both my mother and me."It has changed my outlook on what it means to be a good wife and improved my marriage," she exclaimed.
My mother showed interest, but when I saw the title, Fascinating Womanhood, I couldn't help but cringe. It reminded me of one of those corny, what's-happening-to-my-body videos that every prepubescent girl was forced to sit through in health class.
Having witnessed the reaction, Christina tried to persuade me.
"It discusses practical things--like how a woman should plan what kind of meals she is going to serve her husband, how she should spend a few extra minutes getting dressed before he comes home from work, and how a relationship is improved if a woman keeps her house clean," she said.
"What kind of crap is this?" I asked snarkily. "The June Cleaver Theory of Relationships? When was it written? 1953 or something?"
"No, more like 1963," she answered, resolute in her evaluation of the book's worthiness.
I passed on reading Fascinating Womanhood because it offended my 20-something sensibilities and felt demeaning somehow. Back then, I worked as many, if not more, hours than my husband of the time. I questioned why I should be solely responsible for the meals and housework. I also wondered why should I feel compelled to put lipstick on for my husband everyday, when he would rarely wear an ironed shirt. Fifteen years later, I still think these questions are fair.
So when a blogger recently asked me how I spent my days here in Germany, my answer surprised me as I uttered the words.
"I see my job as this: making life as easy for my husband as possible. He works so hard--12 hour days or more--here in Germany. My role is to make his life outside work comfortble. What's good for him, is good for both of us."
Egads!!! Fascinating Womanhood? Hardly. Even though the book is still in existence and in its 6th edition, it is was something else--something I like to call Fascinating Manhood-- that triggered my change of heart. What I mean is my husband makes it easy for me to aspire to be a modern-day June Cleaver.
Max does everything to please me and asks nothing in return. For instance, even though Max wakes up in the wee hours every weekday morning, he jumps out of bed on the weekends to walk Charlie and bring me coffee in bed. He's the guy who not only brings home the bacon, but will also pitch in and cook it as well. I am certainly one lucky gal.
So it feels natural to, in all my hausfrau ways, go about my daily routine with Max in mind, striving to do my best for him. But with all of this said, please don't think I have changed my ways and started dressing like June Cleaver. Now *that* would be a Fasicnating Transformation, indeed!
9.16.2008
9.10.2008
Battle of the Blomberg
My new dream guy? The Maytag repairmen. Go ahead and laugh at the image of Ol' Lonely, waiting by the phone to ring, hoping that someone...anyone...would have a mechanical problem with his or her Maytag. I remain resolute in my choice.
As a matter of fact, in my fantasy of fantasies, Ol’ Lonely, tired of being under appreciated and under utilized, moves next door to me in Bad Dürkheim, and enthralls me by fixing my German-made, A-rated, energy-efficient, Blomberg clothes dryer.
Needless to say, Max isn’t too worried about my fantasies.
In order to get our clothes “Shranktrocken” or dry enough to put directly in a wardrobe, my machine runs 2 hours and 20 minutes. The problem is, after this ridiculously long cycle is complete, the clothes still aren’t dry. No wonder most Germans use drying racks instead of a machine!
I refused to believe that my high-end machine was operating properly, and braved language barriers to call the Blomberg equivalent to the Maytag repairmen.
Mr. Not-So-Lonely came a week later and, after running a few diagnostic tests, informed me the machine was fine. He said the problem was that my Blomberg washer spins the wet clothes so dry, there isn’t enough moisture to trigger the dryer’s built-in pump, which suctions the water off into a filter and needs to be emptied after each use.
Even though I knew enough German to tell Mr. Not-So Lonely that I’ve never had to empty my water filter, he simply shrugged his shoulders and again insisted there was nothing he could do. My machine works properly.
I’m tempted to call Mr. No-So Lonely back, make him sit through a 2-hour cycle, and then ask him if he would put still-damp clothes directly into a wardrobe to mold. Or maybe I should join my German neighbors, give up, and and get a drying rack? Then I ask myself, what would the Maytag repairman do?
What would you do?
As a matter of fact, in my fantasy of fantasies, Ol’ Lonely, tired of being under appreciated and under utilized, moves next door to me in Bad Dürkheim, and enthralls me by fixing my German-made, A-rated, energy-efficient, Blomberg clothes dryer.
Needless to say, Max isn’t too worried about my fantasies.
In order to get our clothes “Shranktrocken” or dry enough to put directly in a wardrobe, my machine runs 2 hours and 20 minutes. The problem is, after this ridiculously long cycle is complete, the clothes still aren’t dry. No wonder most Germans use drying racks instead of a machine!
I refused to believe that my high-end machine was operating properly, and braved language barriers to call the Blomberg equivalent to the Maytag repairmen.
Mr. Not-So-Lonely came a week later and, after running a few diagnostic tests, informed me the machine was fine. He said the problem was that my Blomberg washer spins the wet clothes so dry, there isn’t enough moisture to trigger the dryer’s built-in pump, which suctions the water off into a filter and needs to be emptied after each use.
Even though I knew enough German to tell Mr. Not-So Lonely that I’ve never had to empty my water filter, he simply shrugged his shoulders and again insisted there was nothing he could do. My machine works properly.
I’m tempted to call Mr. No-So Lonely back, make him sit through a 2-hour cycle, and then ask him if he would put still-damp clothes directly into a wardrobe to mold. Or maybe I should join my German neighbors, give up, and and get a drying rack? Then I ask myself, what would the Maytag repairman do?
What would you do?
8.20.2008
What I didn't do today
I could not have been more unproductive than I was today. And I’ve got to tell you, it felt great to do nothing.
What didn’t I do today, you ask?
With Max away on this cool, rainy day, I didn’t get dressed, opting instead to stay in my pajamas. And rather than prepare something nutritious for myself, I dined on cheese and crackers for lunch and a frozen pizza for dinner. It’s amazing how good even the junkiest food tastes when you don’t have to cook it.
In fact, I didn’t lift my fingers to do anything other than hoist a surprisingly good, German Cabernet from a local village here in the Pfalz.
I realize I can’t spend my entire week doing exactly what I didn’t do today, but it sure was nice while it lasted.
What didn’t you do today?
What didn’t I do today, you ask?
With Max away on this cool, rainy day, I didn’t get dressed, opting instead to stay in my pajamas. And rather than prepare something nutritious for myself, I dined on cheese and crackers for lunch and a frozen pizza for dinner. It’s amazing how good even the junkiest food tastes when you don’t have to cook it.
In fact, I didn’t lift my fingers to do anything other than hoist a surprisingly good, German Cabernet from a local village here in the Pfalz.
I realize I can’t spend my entire week doing exactly what I didn’t do today, but it sure was nice while it lasted.
What didn’t you do today?
8.19.2008
Double-edged
As I speak with other expatriates regarding housing, I realize how lucky Max and I are when it comes to our own experience here in Germany. In truth, I probably haven’t gushed enough about my landlord and his wonderful house, now my home, along the Weinstrasse or Wine street.
Let me put it to you this way: Up until this point and without a doubt, my single, most favorite aspect about life in Germany is Tom-- known to some as “the landlord”, but known to Max and me simply as “friend.”
I met Tom at the end of my house-hunting trip to Germany last October. My company-sponsored guide knew of him and had an inking we would click. Max could not be with me in the search for a new home because he was being sworn in as a U.S. citizen, so I ended up viewing the property and meeting with our potential landlord all by my lonesome.
It turned out to be a meeting that will go down in the Mandy history books. My guide had been correct in her assumption. Tom and I did click. In a purely platonic, landlord-tenant way, we experienced love at first sight.
It’s been nothing but a honeymoon ever since. Tom and his girlfriend, Bridget, have become our closest companions in Germany. We go out as friends, have met each other’s families, and are even planning an overseas trip together to New York. I couldn’t even begin to imagine how different our German experience would have been without Tom. He has introduced us to the best local hangouts as well as a number of fellow townspeople, and helped us develop a solid social circle of friends.
But at the same time, he is my landlord. And his home--a thoroughly modern, completely redone, 1000-year old dwelling and 7-year community renovation project that was barely lived in--is now my responsibility. I am its caretaker. And the burden of it all is sometimes overwhelming.
With its stainless-steel kitchen island and staircase, lustrous, white Italian marble flooring, I feel as though I live in a glass house. And while I can prevent major stones from being cast at it, I can’t stop my dog’s paws from causing tiny scratches on the floors or my guests from occasionally placing porcelain dishes directly on the stainless steel countertops.
I am an imperfect resident of this near-perfect dwelling, and I am having a hard time distinguishing between acceptable wear-and-tear and catastrophe. And every time I find a new, albeit minor, imperfection of unknown origin, I can’t help but have a coronary. Because at the end of this expat experiment, I have to formally hand the house back over to my friend and landlord. And I just want to make sure our honeymoon isn’t over once this happens.
Business is business, and pleasure is pleasure. But what happens when the two mix? Anyone got examples that don’t end in disaster?
Let me put it to you this way: Up until this point and without a doubt, my single, most favorite aspect about life in Germany is Tom-- known to some as “the landlord”, but known to Max and me simply as “friend.”
I met Tom at the end of my house-hunting trip to Germany last October. My company-sponsored guide knew of him and had an inking we would click. Max could not be with me in the search for a new home because he was being sworn in as a U.S. citizen, so I ended up viewing the property and meeting with our potential landlord all by my lonesome.
It turned out to be a meeting that will go down in the Mandy history books. My guide had been correct in her assumption. Tom and I did click. In a purely platonic, landlord-tenant way, we experienced love at first sight.
It’s been nothing but a honeymoon ever since. Tom and his girlfriend, Bridget, have become our closest companions in Germany. We go out as friends, have met each other’s families, and are even planning an overseas trip together to New York. I couldn’t even begin to imagine how different our German experience would have been without Tom. He has introduced us to the best local hangouts as well as a number of fellow townspeople, and helped us develop a solid social circle of friends.
But at the same time, he is my landlord. And his home--a thoroughly modern, completely redone, 1000-year old dwelling and 7-year community renovation project that was barely lived in--is now my responsibility. I am its caretaker. And the burden of it all is sometimes overwhelming.
With its stainless-steel kitchen island and staircase, lustrous, white Italian marble flooring, I feel as though I live in a glass house. And while I can prevent major stones from being cast at it, I can’t stop my dog’s paws from causing tiny scratches on the floors or my guests from occasionally placing porcelain dishes directly on the stainless steel countertops.
I am an imperfect resident of this near-perfect dwelling, and I am having a hard time distinguishing between acceptable wear-and-tear and catastrophe. And every time I find a new, albeit minor, imperfection of unknown origin, I can’t help but have a coronary. Because at the end of this expat experiment, I have to formally hand the house back over to my friend and landlord. And I just want to make sure our honeymoon isn’t over once this happens.
Business is business, and pleasure is pleasure. But what happens when the two mix? Anyone got examples that don’t end in disaster?
6.23.2008
The recap
The final number of Max’s coworkers their families… 50
Number of hours in the kitchen preparing food for the event…9
Flies in the house after the event...13
Tent, Table, Chairs, Plates, Glasses, Flatware, and Drinks… €350
Meats, Side Dishes, Salad, Breads, Desert… €350
Decorations, candles, flowers, and party favors for the children… €100
Max’s reaction to the praise and accolades from party attendees €1000000
Max promising that we never have to do another big party again…PRICELESS
Thank you to everyone for your tips on food and music for the big event on Saturday. I implemented many of your suggestions and am happy to report things went off without a hitch. The guests seemed to have a great time, with the last of them leaving at midnight. However, the best part was my husband felt happy and satisfied, even though we were still breaking down tables and washing dishes until the wee hours of the morning.
I.am.so.tired.
PS. I lost the SD card to my digital camera and I don’t have pictures from the party. Boo!
Number of hours in the kitchen preparing food for the event…9
Flies in the house after the event...13
Tent, Table, Chairs, Plates, Glasses, Flatware, and Drinks… €350
Meats, Side Dishes, Salad, Breads, Desert… €350
Decorations, candles, flowers, and party favors for the children… €100
Max’s reaction to the praise and accolades from party attendees €1000000
Max promising that we never have to do another big party again…PRICELESS
Thank you to everyone for your tips on food and music for the big event on Saturday. I implemented many of your suggestions and am happy to report things went off without a hitch. The guests seemed to have a great time, with the last of them leaving at midnight. However, the best part was my husband felt happy and satisfied, even though we were still breaking down tables and washing dishes until the wee hours of the morning.
I.am.so.tired.
PS. I lost the SD card to my digital camera and I don’t have pictures from the party. Boo!
6.17.2008
Let's party--NOT!
Back home, Max and I kept quite the social calendar. Extraverts at the core, we hardly let a week pass without throwing some sort of shindig. Many times, these casual gatherings of close friends happened spontaneously and usually ended up with people crashing at our house. Other times, Max and I planned larger, more formal, extravaganzas.
None of this seemed like work despite the fact that we’d spend many hours preparing in the kitchen. We loved entertaining and felt adept at it. After all, I spent my formative years at my parents’ restaurant and knew how to cook for large groups. Max is naturally attentive and good at making sure people are comfortable. Together, we were like the Mark and Martha Stewart of our friends. But it also helped that we knew our guests well, understood their culinary tastes, and had the phone numbers for caterers on hand if we needed a little assistance.
Since living in Germany, however, we’ve only hosted a few smaller dinners of 10 people or less. During these events, I’ve stuck to the basics—spaghetti dinners or Greek lasagna—meals I’ve prepared a hundred times before, with ingredients I was able to easily locate in the grocery store despite my limited knowledge of German.
But when Max recently came home and said he wanted to invite his entire division over for a party, I tried to talk him out of it.
“Let’s just continue to have small groups over for spaghetti,” I said. “It’s easier this way.”
But Max wanted to do something “special.” Our house boasts a large, enclosed courtyard, which could easily accommodate his coworkers and their families. My husband had visions of hosting an American-style barbeque with all the fixings sometime during the month of June. Before I knew it, invitations went out. The event was etched in stone—quite possibly my tombstone.
Now we have 50 people (30 adults and 20 kids) coming over this Sunday at 5pm. Even though I’ve hosted scores of affairs, I’m freaking over this one. Having only spent six months in this country, I feel completely out of my comfort zone.
With the help of someone who speaks the language fluently, I’ve made arrangements for a tent, tables, chairs, beer taps, wine, and soft drinks to be delivered the morning of the party. Sometime this week, armed with a German-English dictionary, I’ll visit the local butcher for recommendations on cuts and types of meat. Friday night, I certainly won’t be salsa dancing. Instead, I’ll be at the local Globus looking for side dishes, dessert, and condiments.
It may sound like I’ve got things well in hand, but I still have many questions. So, I am turning to those of you who’ve been doing this expat thing a little longer for guidance. HELP!
1. What do you recommend as good grill food, both meats and side dishes? We’re hosting an international group of people and children, so I want to appeal to a broad range of tastes.
2. Can I go to the deli section of a large grocery and pre-order sides like potato salad or kraut? I’ll make a few dishes myself. However, given the large number of people, it would be nice be able to buy a few ready-made items.
3. What about bread? Will a corner bakery accept orders ahead, or should I just go in that morning and clean them out?
Any thoughts, tips, important vocabulary, or encouragement would be greatly appreciated and might even prevent my untimely departure. That's right--my life (and sanity) is in your hands!
None of this seemed like work despite the fact that we’d spend many hours preparing in the kitchen. We loved entertaining and felt adept at it. After all, I spent my formative years at my parents’ restaurant and knew how to cook for large groups. Max is naturally attentive and good at making sure people are comfortable. Together, we were like the Mark and Martha Stewart of our friends. But it also helped that we knew our guests well, understood their culinary tastes, and had the phone numbers for caterers on hand if we needed a little assistance.
Since living in Germany, however, we’ve only hosted a few smaller dinners of 10 people or less. During these events, I’ve stuck to the basics—spaghetti dinners or Greek lasagna—meals I’ve prepared a hundred times before, with ingredients I was able to easily locate in the grocery store despite my limited knowledge of German.
But when Max recently came home and said he wanted to invite his entire division over for a party, I tried to talk him out of it.
“Let’s just continue to have small groups over for spaghetti,” I said. “It’s easier this way.”
But Max wanted to do something “special.” Our house boasts a large, enclosed courtyard, which could easily accommodate his coworkers and their families. My husband had visions of hosting an American-style barbeque with all the fixings sometime during the month of June. Before I knew it, invitations went out. The event was etched in stone—quite possibly my tombstone.
Now we have 50 people (30 adults and 20 kids) coming over this Sunday at 5pm. Even though I’ve hosted scores of affairs, I’m freaking over this one. Having only spent six months in this country, I feel completely out of my comfort zone.
With the help of someone who speaks the language fluently, I’ve made arrangements for a tent, tables, chairs, beer taps, wine, and soft drinks to be delivered the morning of the party. Sometime this week, armed with a German-English dictionary, I’ll visit the local butcher for recommendations on cuts and types of meat. Friday night, I certainly won’t be salsa dancing. Instead, I’ll be at the local Globus looking for side dishes, dessert, and condiments.
It may sound like I’ve got things well in hand, but I still have many questions. So, I am turning to those of you who’ve been doing this expat thing a little longer for guidance. HELP!
1. What do you recommend as good grill food, both meats and side dishes? We’re hosting an international group of people and children, so I want to appeal to a broad range of tastes.
2. Can I go to the deli section of a large grocery and pre-order sides like potato salad or kraut? I’ll make a few dishes myself. However, given the large number of people, it would be nice be able to buy a few ready-made items.
3. What about bread? Will a corner bakery accept orders ahead, or should I just go in that morning and clean them out?
Any thoughts, tips, important vocabulary, or encouragement would be greatly appreciated and might even prevent my untimely departure. That's right--my life (and sanity) is in your hands!
6.16.2008
Good for Nothing
For all of my earlier bellyaching and angst about becoming a “trailing spouse,” I can honestly say I have settled nicely into my role as stay-at-home hausfrau and lady of leisure--much to the surprise of those who knew me in my previous life. When friends, family, and former colleagues back in the States quiz me on how I am fairing without a career to keep me busy and fulfilled, I can only offer a positive report.
“After 24 years of working,” I say pointedly, “I am happy for this break.”
The truth is, 99.9 % of the time, I am relaxed and blissful, waking up every morning with the feeling of being on a fantastic adventure. After all, I live in *Europe* now. If this fact alone didn’t put the kick in my knickers, I’ve also come to appreciate this time of my life is completely mine--to do or be whatever I want--without the stress, structure, and pressure that comes from longtime entanglements and relationships. And although I may not use this time toward any great or meaningful endeavors, I do spend it leisurely pursuing the hobbies, which I’ve always loved, but never really had the time to cultivate. Add to this a great man sharing easy times, and my life is a good and satisfying.
But then come evenings like this past Saturday and an invitation to dinner with some of Max’s colleagues.
Oh, they are pleasant and interesting people—a multinational group, a highly educated lot of chemists—usually husband and wife teams, who boast degrees from Oxford, MIT, and Harvard. They casually sip their aperitifs (in only the appropriate glass) and spend the evening discussing, in multiple languages, the sad state of polymer research, as well as the lack of good, organic chemists within the company.
And if this weren’t enough to send me flailing through the nearest window, the idle chitchat inevitably turned to me.
“And what do you do Diane?”
In similar situations, I’ve tried all sorts of cute and clever lines. I’ve described myself as “retired” or “gainfully unemployed.” Sometimes, to prove to my audience I was once a woman of substance, I talk about my former career or some of the interesting jobs I held before moving to Germany.
This time, however, I didn’t feel like doing the verbal tap dance. I realized these folks weren't asking for an explanation of my lifestyle choices, and that maybe in these moments the only one I was really trying to convince was myself.
“Absolutely nothing,” I chirped. “And I am rather enjoying it.”
A few raised eyebrows, others smiled. Ultimately, the group went back to a previous conversation, laughing about black polymers, which I could only gather were not part of some bad 80s fashion craze. The crowd reaction was fine by me. Instead of feeling less or insecure, I listened and smiled politely, sipped a nice glass of wine, sat back and finally relaxed.
“After 24 years of working,” I say pointedly, “I am happy for this break.”
The truth is, 99.9 % of the time, I am relaxed and blissful, waking up every morning with the feeling of being on a fantastic adventure. After all, I live in *Europe* now. If this fact alone didn’t put the kick in my knickers, I’ve also come to appreciate this time of my life is completely mine--to do or be whatever I want--without the stress, structure, and pressure that comes from longtime entanglements and relationships. And although I may not use this time toward any great or meaningful endeavors, I do spend it leisurely pursuing the hobbies, which I’ve always loved, but never really had the time to cultivate. Add to this a great man sharing easy times, and my life is a good and satisfying.
But then come evenings like this past Saturday and an invitation to dinner with some of Max’s colleagues.
Oh, they are pleasant and interesting people—a multinational group, a highly educated lot of chemists—usually husband and wife teams, who boast degrees from Oxford, MIT, and Harvard. They casually sip their aperitifs (in only the appropriate glass) and spend the evening discussing, in multiple languages, the sad state of polymer research, as well as the lack of good, organic chemists within the company.
And if this weren’t enough to send me flailing through the nearest window, the idle chitchat inevitably turned to me.
“And what do you do Diane?”
In similar situations, I’ve tried all sorts of cute and clever lines. I’ve described myself as “retired” or “gainfully unemployed.” Sometimes, to prove to my audience I was once a woman of substance, I talk about my former career or some of the interesting jobs I held before moving to Germany.
This time, however, I didn’t feel like doing the verbal tap dance. I realized these folks weren't asking for an explanation of my lifestyle choices, and that maybe in these moments the only one I was really trying to convince was myself.
“Absolutely nothing,” I chirped. “And I am rather enjoying it.”
A few raised eyebrows, others smiled. Ultimately, the group went back to a previous conversation, laughing about black polymers, which I could only gather were not part of some bad 80s fashion craze. The crowd reaction was fine by me. Instead of feeling less or insecure, I listened and smiled politely, sipped a nice glass of wine, sat back and finally relaxed.
2.21.2008
Social Butterflies
Thursday night brings yet another dinner party to the Mandy home. In fact, this evening’s event marks the first of the week, an easy, intimate affair with a Canadian couple, Max’s office mate and his wife. Next comes the Saturday party, a killer to prepare and host, with twelve people from all over the planet—Russia, Italy, Guatemala, France, Germany, America, Columbia, and Brazil.
Max believes socializing and networking will play a critical role in his future success. It seems here in Germany, even more than the United States, who you know is as important as what you know or even how well you perform. Max is already ogling his position after this contract is fulfilled, one in either southern Europe or South America. And as the dutiful wife and complement to my husband, I do what I can to contribute to his success. If this means cooking and cleaning for a rowdy group of strangers, then I do. If it means folding a dozen cloth napkins into tulips, than so be it. I can play the Martha Stewart of expats, the perfect wife of a future (hopefully) executive.
Of course before you think I go all out for every event, I can erase those impressions immediately. Today I feel lazy. And since the dinner tonight is only for four, I’m cheating by making one of the easiest dishes—chicken cacciatore—over spaghetti and in a crock pot no less.
Go ahead. Poke fun if you must. I can take it.
Max believes socializing and networking will play a critical role in his future success. It seems here in Germany, even more than the United States, who you know is as important as what you know or even how well you perform. Max is already ogling his position after this contract is fulfilled, one in either southern Europe or South America. And as the dutiful wife and complement to my husband, I do what I can to contribute to his success. If this means cooking and cleaning for a rowdy group of strangers, then I do. If it means folding a dozen cloth napkins into tulips, than so be it. I can play the Martha Stewart of expats, the perfect wife of a future (hopefully) executive.
Of course before you think I go all out for every event, I can erase those impressions immediately. Today I feel lazy. And since the dinner tonight is only for four, I’m cheating by making one of the easiest dishes—chicken cacciatore—over spaghetti and in a crock pot no less.
Go ahead. Poke fun if you must. I can take it.
2.12.2008
An addict?
Hello, bloggers. My name is Diane Mandy, and I am an addict.
Well, maybe.
The truth is I’m not sure, so I need you to be the experts in this matter. After all, reading this post guarantees that you are using, too. Yes, you *know* my vice.
Tell me then, dear experts and jury of my peers, exactly how many hours is too many hours to be spending on the computer?
In my defense and before you answer, please note that I do not have children, a job, working television, knoweldge of the commonly spoken language in my area, or a cell phone filled with local contact numbers. Moreover, my house is (relatively) clean; my laundry finished.
Ok, feel free to answer now. And know, I'll be reading your comments almost as soon as you post it because that’s what I do these day
... and nights.
Well, maybe.
The truth is I’m not sure, so I need you to be the experts in this matter. After all, reading this post guarantees that you are using, too. Yes, you *know* my vice.
Tell me then, dear experts and jury of my peers, exactly how many hours is too many hours to be spending on the computer?
In my defense and before you answer, please note that I do not have children, a job, working television, knoweldge of the commonly spoken language in my area, or a cell phone filled with local contact numbers. Moreover, my house is (relatively) clean; my laundry finished.
Ok, feel free to answer now. And know, I'll be reading your comments almost as soon as you post it because that’s what I do these day
... and nights.
2.04.2008
Trailing Spouse?
Seasoned expats and bloggers, V-grrl and Danie, turned me on to a phrase I had never heard of before, but one that, apparently, describes my new lot in life.The trailing spouse.
To be honest, I’m not sure if I like the way this sounds any better than ‘hausfrau,’ my other new designation. Seeing the words in print for the first time caused my mind to conjured up all sorts of images—specifically, Tarzan dragging Jane by her hair or a woman who is required to walk exactly 10 paces behind her mate, daring not to lift her eyes to meet his gaze.
Of course, men can also be considered trailing spouses, but, regardless, this wasn’t exactly where I pictured myself. So to try and dispel any crazy notions and to shed light on the term, I decided to consult my modern-day oracle, Google, for a definition I could wrap the old brain around. After turning up search results that included things like “trailing spouse syndrome” and support groups, I came across an explanation I could accept.
I forfeited my career and followed Max to Germany, so technically I qualify. And after much consideration, I decided there were worse things in life to be called such as a wailing, flailing, or failing spouse. I am determined not to become any of these. If this is my life's course, than I am going to be the best and brightest trailing spouse, one that conjures up a mental image more like this.
And, lest you misunderstand, I'm not hinting of a crash and burn.
1.23.2008
In Vogue
Now that I’m a stay-at-home hausfrau, I roll out of bed around 9am each morning. If I had my druthers, I’d spend the next 12 hours walking around like this.
High-water pajama bottoms or old sweatpants, slippers, a shirt, 3 sizes to big, and worn either right side or inside out—if I weren’t stepping outside my own courtyard, would it really matter?
And since my fingers are the only part of my body getting any real exercise these days, blogging to my heart’s content, bathing could be an every other day occurrence. And, wearing any trace of cosmetics could be done even less frequently, right?
If I had my druthers, yes. But I don’t.
You see, my landlord, Mr. Orth, both lives and works in part of our large, L-shaped house. We each have private entrances, and share the courtyard. This arrangement is not unusual in Germany.
But what is unusual is that Mr. Orth, a sweet and outgoing person, has made it a point to befriend Max and me. On New Year’s, three days after moving in, we joined him for dinner at an old castle overlooking the wine region. Saturday, we went to a party at his girlfriend’s house. We have coffee together twice a week. He’s even walked my dog when we are away.
This burgeoning relationship is a joy to be sure, but it makes it difficult for me to walk around like a bum. So, I take a shower every morning, put on a complete outfit, and dab a little foundation under my eyes to hide noticeable blemishes. On a really good day, I put on mascara and lip gloss. It’s a chore, really.
But I am not dressing only for Mr. Orth’s benefit. In this small town, I have hardly witnessed a woman who is not dressed for even the most mundane errands. Personally, I’d forego the hair and makeup, throw on a holey pair of sweats, and run to the grocery store. But here, I haven’t seen anyone roaming around in such fashion. Perhaps in the cities, especially with the younger generation, dress might be different. But here in this small, very German town, it seems as though it would be inappropriate. I wonder if this a cultural difference?
June Cleaver or Rosanne Barr? If you were a stay at home housewife, what would you wear?
High-water pajama bottoms or old sweatpants, slippers, a shirt, 3 sizes to big, and worn either right side or inside out—if I weren’t stepping outside my own courtyard, would it really matter?
And since my fingers are the only part of my body getting any real exercise these days, blogging to my heart’s content, bathing could be an every other day occurrence. And, wearing any trace of cosmetics could be done even less frequently, right?
If I had my druthers, yes. But I don’t.
You see, my landlord, Mr. Orth, both lives and works in part of our large, L-shaped house. We each have private entrances, and share the courtyard. This arrangement is not unusual in Germany.
But what is unusual is that Mr. Orth, a sweet and outgoing person, has made it a point to befriend Max and me. On New Year’s, three days after moving in, we joined him for dinner at an old castle overlooking the wine region. Saturday, we went to a party at his girlfriend’s house. We have coffee together twice a week. He’s even walked my dog when we are away.
This burgeoning relationship is a joy to be sure, but it makes it difficult for me to walk around like a bum. So, I take a shower every morning, put on a complete outfit, and dab a little foundation under my eyes to hide noticeable blemishes. On a really good day, I put on mascara and lip gloss. It’s a chore, really.
But I am not dressing only for Mr. Orth’s benefit. In this small town, I have hardly witnessed a woman who is not dressed for even the most mundane errands. Personally, I’d forego the hair and makeup, throw on a holey pair of sweats, and run to the grocery store. But here, I haven’t seen anyone roaming around in such fashion. Perhaps in the cities, especially with the younger generation, dress might be different. But here in this small, very German town, it seems as though it would be inappropriate. I wonder if this a cultural difference?
June Cleaver or Rosanne Barr? If you were a stay at home housewife, what would you wear?
1.21.2008
Attack of the dust bunnies
Evil lurks amongst us. Something so sinister, it dare not be mentioned.
Still, I must warn you of the calamity ahead, a blight of pandemic proportions. Turn away if you must, lest your eyes roll back into the brain’s crevices at the sight of the most grotesque, a modern-day Gorgon reminiscent of Medusa. Because this is, in fact, what inspires myth and legends.
My cursed friends, I present to you… the dust bunny.
Fearsome, I know. Living in a 1000-year old house certainly has the allure of time and history, but with its age comes microscopic layers of decay. For from dust it is, and to dust it will return.
In a seriousness, this Hausfrau could clean and vacuum everyday. As a matter of fact, I do. Nevertheless, ever morning I awake to find large clumps of dust greeting me, collecting in every nook and cranny of my abode. If I didn’t know any better, I would believe my dust bunnies are reproducing at a flesh bunny pace.
To prevent their formations, I actually go through four different levels of cleaning. First, I sweep in the hopes of picking up the dirt and grime tracked in from the day before. Then, I use a Swiffer duster to trap pet hair and dust. Finally, I follow up with a vacuum cleaner and mop until I’ve removed any spec of dust from the premises. And yet, the dust bunnies return with a vengance, sometimes only hours after I’ve cleaned.
The photograph, pictured above, was taken after I had gone through the first two levels of cleaning on my floors. This was the dust my vacuum captured from only one room. Can you believe it?
What can I do to belay this infestation? And, more importantly, if I can’t beat 'em, then what?
Still, I must warn you of the calamity ahead, a blight of pandemic proportions. Turn away if you must, lest your eyes roll back into the brain’s crevices at the sight of the most grotesque, a modern-day Gorgon reminiscent of Medusa. Because this is, in fact, what inspires myth and legends.
My cursed friends, I present to you… the dust bunny.
Fearsome, I know. Living in a 1000-year old house certainly has the allure of time and history, but with its age comes microscopic layers of decay. For from dust it is, and to dust it will return.
In a seriousness, this Hausfrau could clean and vacuum everyday. As a matter of fact, I do. Nevertheless, ever morning I awake to find large clumps of dust greeting me, collecting in every nook and cranny of my abode. If I didn’t know any better, I would believe my dust bunnies are reproducing at a flesh bunny pace.
To prevent their formations, I actually go through four different levels of cleaning. First, I sweep in the hopes of picking up the dirt and grime tracked in from the day before. Then, I use a Swiffer duster to trap pet hair and dust. Finally, I follow up with a vacuum cleaner and mop until I’ve removed any spec of dust from the premises. And yet, the dust bunnies return with a vengance, sometimes only hours after I’ve cleaned.
The photograph, pictured above, was taken after I had gone through the first two levels of cleaning on my floors. This was the dust my vacuum captured from only one room. Can you believe it?
What can I do to belay this infestation? And, more importantly, if I can’t beat 'em, then what?
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