Best used by...

Max and I agree on almost everything. Our thoughts on spirituality, political persuasions, financial goals, and priorities seem so similar, I have, on occasion, wondered whether we share a strange psychic connection of heart and mind. However just the other day, I learned this cannot possibly be the case when my husband and I found ourselves in a rare, but serious, disagreement--the likes of which we have never before experienced.

We did not argue per se, but the events certainly put our live-and-let-live philosophy to the test--at least as far as I was concerned. In fact, I was so stunned by Max's view on this particular topic, it caused me to question his judgment in general.

What sparked such discord, you ask?

It was the "best used by date" inscribed on all the canned and pre-packaged foods, which I was getting ready to toss in the trash. Max, on the other hand, wondered why I was tossing away perfectly fine food.

To me, "best used by" is equivalent to the surgeon general's warning on cigarette packages. It's the skull and crossbones of the Food and Drug Administration, a creative euphemism for 'if you eat this after such and such day you will grow an extra pinky toe.' But to Max, the words "best used by" indicate suggestion only.

"It's best if the food is eaten by the date, but certainly not bad," he said.

"No, no, no!" I exclaimed. "It's no different than any other expiration date. Trust me, you don't want risk it."

Undeterred and to prove his point, Max decide to heat up a can of chicken noodle soup that had a best-used-by date of January 2009.

"You're not really going to EAT that?!?!" I exclaimed in a shrill and most dramatic tone! "You might DIE!!!"

But Max not only ate the soup, he chuckled even as he finished the last spoonful. "You see? It tasted perfectly fine," he insisted.

I was not convinced and am still keeping a watchful eye out for any strange growths on his feet. You never know.

Tell me what you think. Who's right? Are the words "best by used by" a helpful suggestion from food manufactures or an almost apocalyptic warning placed on cans to guard the health and well being of the entire world?

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?

Change I can believe in

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!

Family of two

A few weeks back, Max and I sat in quaint little lounge along the shores of Thessaloniki. My cousin, Penny, who was born and raised in Greece, joined us on our date. My pregnancy inevitably became part of our conversation during the course of the evening.

"Max and I hope that I can deliver a healthy baby " I said. "But if something goes wrong and I miscarry, we will be ok."

"We're a happy family, just the two of us," Max chimed in. "I married Diane because I wanted her to be my wife. To have children with her, would only be the icing on the cake.

"And there is always adoption," I added.

Penny's eyes welled up with tears. This sort of philosophy regarding children and marriage is almost unheard of if her culture.

"I like how you feel about this. You words are beautiful to me," she began. "But, to be honest, it's almost unbelievable to my ears. Here in Greece, most couples would say, 'if you can't give me a child, then what's the point?' And adoption isn't often considered."

I know Penny's claims aren't far from the truth. In countries like Greece and Egypt, having children is held with the utmost importance. My own Greek father, in the distant past, went as far as to question the femininity of a woman without a family. And while his viewpoint has softened over the years, he still doesn't quite "get" couples who say they are happy without children. I suppose it's hard to for him to break away from how he was raised.

Which is yet another reason why my husband amazes me. Even though he is an Egyptian man, raised in Greece, Max doesn't hold the same beliefs and cultural norms as others like him. I believe him when he tells me that he didn't marry me just to have his babies or that he is happy with his family of two. Moreover, unlike some of his relatives, Max is very open, if not enthusiastic, about the possibility of adoption.

Really, where did this guy come from? How did I get so lucky to snag him?

So while my husband and I are saddened and disappointed by our recent loss, we still revel in our love for one another, finding both solace and strength in the depths of our commitment. We've decided to just put any baby-making pursuits on hold for the next several months, and reevaluate only when the time feels right.

Lord of the Rings

In my case, the old adage proved true: Love finds you when you least expect it.

I wasn't looking for my next great love because I mistakenly thought I'd already found it. I had taken up salsa dancing a couple years earlier and fell hard for its sometimes sensuous, always complicated, moves and upbeat tempo. It became my passion and addiction. I spent thousands of dollars on lessons ( a futile attempt to improve) and danced till the wee hours of the morning four nights a week.

On Thursday nights, you could find me at the Red Room, a tapas restaurant every other night of the week, but a Latin hot spot on this night. The thought of actually meeting someone, let alone a non-salsa-obsessed dancer, seemed out of the realm of possibility. I knew everyone who showed up on Thursday nights...

or so I thought.

I was dancing with one of my usual partners when Max walked in the door. Our eyes met, but he continued to his table, where a number of Latinas awaited him. I, on the other hand, continued dancing. Given the setting and his companions, I mistakenly assumed Max was also Latin, perhaps Puerto RIcan or even Cuban.

After a night of fierce dancing, I made my way off the floor to rehydrate. When I got to the bar, I looked down to find a cocktail menu and, instead, noticed a ring on a man's hand. The emblem carved on the ring, for me, was unmistakable--Alexander the Great, the young, famous Greek general, who had ruled the known world and led Greece to it's golden years until his untimely death at 34-year old. He was a Macedonian and hailed from the same part of Greece as my father.

"Oh, wow. Alexander the Great," I exclaimed. I looked up to see whose hand I was admiring, and there stood Max.

"How do you know that?'" he asked, clearly surprised to find someone who recognized his hero.

"Because I'm Greek."

"You're Greek?" Max seemed a little surprised that I, a blonde hair, blue eyed Salsera in North Carolina, claimed Greek origins, but he happily pounced on our common interest.

"I grew up in Greece," he continued.

And so, a new dance began...

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.

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!

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?

You bought what?

Man bag. Thumb up or thumb down?

Paper Shmaper

For a first anniversary, a gal does well if she gets a card from her fellow.

I got this.

But do you know what is even better? Receiving this lovely, handmade necklace and, at the same time, hearing Max say, "marrying you has been my greatest accomplishment."

I can guess what you're thinking. Ugh! Please! Enough already!

Tomorrow. I'll come down from my high tomorrow. Promise.

Lest Ye Be Judged

Live and let live. Throughout his life, Max has believed it is important to accept other people as they are, although they may have a different way of life. He reasons this is not only logical and fair, but also the moral and right way to conduct himself. We live the life we choose and must respect others’ right to do the same.

Max’s guiding principal of respect and tolerance were honed throughout his life. Born to Egyptian parents in Cairo, he never lived in the country of his origin and had to learn to quickly adapt to other cultures. His father work for an American company in the Sudan, where a young Max went to Catholic school and learned English. When the political situation in the country soured, the family transferred to Athens, Greece. From the ages of 9 – 22, Max attended American schools in Greece alongside youth from all over the word, of every color and creed, the children of expatriates and diplomats.

Whether it was the international exposure or his curious and questioning mind, Max began to have doubts about the Islamic faith that his family held as dear. Instead, his guiding belief in the principal of ‘live and let live’ became even more firmly rooted. Although he respected the traditions of his parents, Max stopped practicing Islam by the time he became a graduate student in Chicago.

Max met Ken, an outgoing, friendly American student, during this period while attending graduate school. The two became best friends and maintained a close relationship for years. When Ken got married, Max was a groomsmen in his wedding. Later Ken joined the Air Force, and Max made a point to visit him wherever he was stationed. The topic of religion started to come up only after Ken joined a small Christian church in Florida. Max respectfully listened. He felt happy his friend had found something, which brought meaning and comfort. But when Ken started to proselytize, Max explained he didn’t feel compelled to join or follow any religion.

Two Christmases ago before he was stationed in Germany, Ken gave Max a book called “God Loves You My Muslim Brother.” Max was troubled by the gift and never opened it. When Ken would press on the topic of religion, Max would eventually ask the topic be dropped.

But Ken hasn’t dropped it. Last week he told Max that the Koran encourages Muslims to be terrorists. Max was stunned, but not rendered speechless.

“Ken, you know me. You know my family. Why would you ever think this?”

“An Egyptian man and former Muslim spoke at church on Sunday,” Ken replied.

“Do you believe everything you read and hear? Max asked. “People can take a random passage in any book of faith and interpret it any way they want to. You know that I do not follow Islam, Ken. But I can tell you with absolute certainty that this man does not describe my parent’s faith. My parents our sickened by the extreme factions of Islam.”

Later, Ken followed up on his conversation with an e-mail explaining how the Bible has never been mistranslated. My husband never bothered to respond.

Max is a patient and open-minded man, but this last conversation has caused him to question whether he and Ken should remain friends. My husband doesn’t care that Ken is Christian. My family is Christian. We also have friends who are Protestant, Catholic, Jewish, Buddhist, Hindu, Jehovah’s Witnesses, Mormon, agnostic, and atheist. But Max feels that he couldn’t, or maybe even shouldn’t, remain friends with someone who could hold another group of people (not to mention those of his own family and background) in such poor regard. Ken’s words weren’t those of godly love; they were words of hate.

This would be an easy decision for me. If you have a gangrenous limb, you lop it off. If you are in a toxic relationship, you end it. But, this is Max’s decision to make. And he is wrestling with whether he should turn the other cheek once again, accept Ken for who he has become, or end a 17-year friendship. I’ve never seen my husband so sad and preoccupied. Live and let live, but at what cost?

Far, but not far enough

Most days, Max and I feel so very far away from it all. On rare occasion, we wish we could get a little further.

Last night provided one of those moments.

Max and I decided to start a salsa class in a nearby town. We figured it would be a little awkward, more than likely taught in German, and with a bunch of people we didn’t know. But we were only partially correct.

As it turns out, Max had no sooner taken off his coat than a woman squealed with the greatest enthusiasm.

“Oh my God! Max, what are YOU doing here in Germany?”

I’ve rarely ever seen Max taken aback, but on this occasion and for a split second, he was.

“Oh…hey. How are you, Theresa. Let me introduce you to my wife,” Max replied quickly.

I smiled, shook Theresa’s hand, and made pleasantries. I could also tell my presence didn’t register with her. She asked me if I lived in Germany. I told her Max and I had moved here together in December.

But our conversation was cut short because class began. During the next hour, my husband and I feverishly worked on learning a new turn pattern and thoroughly enjoyed the program. Before we knew it, the lesson was over.

After class, Max attempted to make a quick get away, but Theresa stood between him and the door. We quickly chatted once again. I learned she had done an internship with Max’s company four years earlier and returned to Germany once the program ended. She now worked as a full-fledged staff member in an office about 20 miles away. Still unclear who I was, Theresa asked if I also worked with the company.

“No, I gave up my career when we moved here,” I said.

“So, you live here, too?” she asked, completely clueless.

“Yes, Max and I are married, and we moved here together in December.” Did I have to spell it out for her again?

“Oh, you’re MARRIED,” she replied with a look of full recognition finally showing on her face. “How long have you been married?”

“We’re newlyweds,” I beamed. “We just got married in June.”

After this exchange, it didn’t take too many more sentences to finish our conversation. We exchanged goodbyes and headed to the car.

I decided to give my husband the time it took to walk to the Mini to fess up to the obvious. However, Max didn’t begin the conversation, and I quickly cut to the chase.

“So, you and Theresa dated.”

“Yes… about four years ago… for a few months before she returned to Germany. I haven’t seen her since.” Then, he felt compelled to add, “It was never anything serious.”

“…But you slept with her.” I responded

“Uh…yeah. How did you know?”

I chuckled at Max’s ignorance in these matters. It was obvious by Theresa’s reaction to both Max and to me that there had once been something between them. Women can discern these sorts of things, you know.

Amazingly in all our 2 ½ years together, Max and I had never run into any of our old flames. Moreover, back when we were dating we agreed not to discuss our ‘ex files’ too much. We reasoned what was in our pasts shouldn’t matter in our present. Besides, Max has a past; I have a past. Meeting Theresa, while awkward, didn’t faze me in the least. But I also thought it funny and ironic that it took moving thousands of miles for me to finally meet one of his old girlfriends, not to mention one that is in our five-week salsa class!

Easy rider

Three days after our wedding and on a whim, Max and I visited Kings Dominion theme park. Driving down Interstate 95, heading home from our “mini-moon,” we couldn’t resist the temptation. We love to ride roller coasters. Twisted, floorless, suspended or old-time wooden ones—it doesn’t matter what type so long as the coaster is fast and furious.

As we made our way from the Anaconda to the Berzerker, I couldn’t help but think how appropriate it was to be riding with my new husband and how analogous it might prove to be. While we had coasted through our relationship up to this day, I understood there would be times in our marriage when we felt as though we were facing an uphill climb. After all, it’s inevitable. Life is like a roller coaster with all its ups and downs.

Success in our relationship would depend on how we handled these highs and lows. Would we be reluctant riders with gripped hands and clenched teeth, just praying to get through the moment? Or would we face the challenge head on, like a determined rider who throws his arms up above his head and smiles in the face of adversity? On this day, Max and I rode like champions (although this photo from a keychain kept as a momento wouldn’t necessarily prove my claim). We left the park feeling a happy high from our wedding, the glorious weekend, and the promise of the ride ahead.

Seven quick months have passed and, except that we’ve nested in a different country, nothing has changed. Max and I are still coasting through this life of ours. And today, I am even more confident we will handle whatever challenge is thrown our way.

Bicycle Built For Few

Being a good wife means never telling your husband he couldn’t put a bike together even if the folks at For Dummies wrote the instruction book.

A few months ago, my sweet husband surprised me with a replica of a vintage bicycle, which came unassembled alongside a booklet of do-it-yourself instructions. Max isn’t exactly a handyman even though he owns a decent drill bit set. The fact he’s mechanically challenged doesn’t stop him from trying, however. When the bike showed up via UPS, my husband dug out his sorry excuse for a toolbox and spent the next two hours assembling it.

When he finished, the bicycle looked beautiful—a black, shiny cycle from yesteryear, the sort of thing Mary Poppins might have ridden if she hadn’t used the magic umbrella to fly herself around.

Once my new toy was assembled, I decided to ride over to the farmer’s market, located only a mile from my house. But as I pedaled, something felt amiss. I returned the bike to Max, who worked on it another hour. Despite his efforts, the ride still wasn’t smooth, and I decided to put it away for another day.

A couple months have since past. Now that Max and I are moving to Germany and will be sharing a single car between us, I thought of my fancy, new bicycle and how nice it might be to use it to run short errands around town. However, I didn’t trust my husband’s ability to make the bike right. How could I get it to a professional without hurting Max’s feelings? As it turns out, his mountain bike needed a new tire; so I offered to take both into the shop for a once over.

Four days passed before I got a call pick up the bikes.

When I went to pay for the service, the owner of the shop explained what he went through to make my bike ride-able. Apparently, Max had made a series of stupid mistakes. The owner got such a kick out the errors that he actually took pictures and posted them to a Yahoo group, which other shop owners around the country view for grins and giggles. I laughed with the owner and felt tempted to get the URL, but decided against it. It would be all too easy to poke a fun at my honey using this information.

When I returned home, Max met me at the door to unload the cargo.

“What was wrong with your bike?” he asked.

“Oh, nothing much,” I replied. “You just didn’t have the right tool to tighten things enough.”

Telling a little white lie was an easy choice. Sometimes, it’s best to be kind. Max may never be a skilled handyman, but he is a Renaissance man in every other way. Besides, I’d easily take my husband over any other Yahoo out there.

New Friday Podcast

Better late than never? Even though I am still battling a nasty head cold, I decided to live up to my commitment and provide a Friday podcast. This was original written for Martinis For One, back in the day when I was a single gal with all its ups and downs. The podcast talks about the downs, more specifically, the aftermath of a break-up.

Attention Deficit

Charlie hates my new Mac, seeing it as a rival, yet another thing to take my attention away from him. Whenever I pull out my computer I get this look from my dog.

And when sad puppy eyes don’t work, he decides to get in my face.

This morning Charlie was particularly needy. I woke up early--a futile attempt to squeeze extra minutes into the day, working my way down Egan’s blogroll, searching for new reads to add to my dwindling list. But as soon as I reached for the computer, Charlie started barking.

“Not now, nut job.” I said.

“Bark, bark bark.” The dog is relentless when he wants attention.

This is the sort of morning when I especially miss my husband, who has been in Germany all month, transitioning to his new job, and narrowing the search for our new abode. If Max were here, home with me, I could blog to my heart’s content. He would take Charlie out for a morning walk, so I could do as I pleased. Then once my guys returned, Max would bring me a cup of coffee, so I wouldn’t have to leave the bed.

I haven’t had coffee in bed all month. Come to think of it, I haven’t had anything in bed the whole month—except for a whiny dog and tolerant MacBook.

Fortunately, there is a steaming cup of hand-delivered coffee in my future. Max returns of Sunday, and Charlie and I will both be so relieved to have him home.

Max’s Harem

During our honeymoon cruise, Max and I spent every night salsa dancing at Boleros, a Latin lounge featured on select Royal Caribbean ships. And because we were regular fixtures there, we met many other passengers, who also frequented the club.

The Garcia’s (with a tall, elegant husband, beautiful wife, and three statuesque, 20-something, daughters) joined our group of newfound friends. But even though the entire clan hailed from Latin America, not a one knew how to dance salsa.

So it didn’t seem odd that on our last night, as Max and I danced away, husband Baltazar Garcia approached and asked if we’d be willing to give he and his family an impromptu lesson. We happily obliged.

At first, we tried to demonstrate the basic step and turns. However, when my husband and I saw the family struggling, we decided to switch off partners. Max danced with the mother and daughters; I danced with Baltazar.

Our impromptu lesson over, I headed back to our table of other friends. Cindy, also a newlywed, addressed me under her breath.

“You’re a better woman than I am,” she said sharply.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Those women (the Garcia daughters) are gorgeous. I wouldn’t let my husband near them,” she explained. “You’re not bothered if Max dances with another woman?’

“Not at all.” I responded. “I wouldn’t have married Max if I had any doubts about his character.”

And with those few words, the conversation ended. Cindy may have felt that I was being naïve, but I am wise to the problems of infidelity. She couldn’t know I’ve previously experienced two unfaithful husbands.

But what Cindy also didn’t know is I am use to seeing my husband socialize with beautiful women. He owned a modeling and talent agency several years ago and has maintained lasting friendships with both former employees and clients. And even if Max hadn’t been ‘in the industry,’ he would still have lots of women friends. In fact, half the people invited to our small wedding of twenty five were Max’s very best friends—and all female.

I often get asked if this bothers me. But to be honest, I consider it a sign of Max’s good character. He never dated or slept with any of his women friends. The relationships stayed plutonic before I was in his life. Why would I worry now? Max appreciates good conversation. He knows fine wine, likes to shop, and thinks the Houston Astros play football. In other words, he is every woman’s favorite, non-gay, male friend. It would be pointless of me to try and fight nature.

And why would I? My husband’s friends have all become my close personal friends,too. And my friends have also become Max’s friends’ friends. Sometimes, we all party together. And when we do, Max tags along— like the master of his own personal harem. But so long as I stay his “head wife,” I won’t have any issues. Would you?

Milestones

In previous posts, I’ve described what it’s like when Jules and I get together, and last night was another one of those occasions.

In fact, she’s upstairs sleeping in my guest bedroom as I type. Max and I refer to our top-floor suite as “Jules’ room” because she is by far our most frequent guest and may have used it more than we have. I’m not complaining. When I wake up with a hangover and Jules is still around it can mean only one thing: we had another great night.

Two empty bottles, remnants of a South African cabernet pinotage and an Argentinean malbec, provided fuel for our fodder. With Jules and me, it doesn’t take much to entertain. Conversation flowed, as always, and the topic at hand was...what else? Boys.

Jules finds herself in another relationship with someone who is recently separated. I say “another” because this is the third straight time she has dated a man just out of marriage. But, in fairness to Jules, the mid 30-something dating pool has plenty of swimmers on their second lap around. In fact, it’s a rare occasion when an age appropriate man hasn’t been married before.

Still, being the first woman after a man’s ex-wife isn’t an enviable position. Often she becomes the “transition girl,” or the woman the man dates before he’s emotionally ready to date.

“I don’t want to be that girl again!” Jules moans.

And who could blame her? When her last boyfriend, Job, ended their 6-month relationship with the “I just got out of a marriage and not ready for anything serious” line, Jules took it pretty hard. She’s been there, done that. And it looks like she’s doing it again.

“Because it worked so well for you in the past?” I ask sarcastically, knowing full well she wouldn’t dare waste a good wine by throwing the malbec at me.

“Call me crazy,” she replied. “But I can’t help but think there’s potential with Will. He’s in a much healthier place than Job.”

I’m not going to question Jules’ judgment. She’s a bright woman with her act together in many ways. But what I do know is once Jules and a man cross a certain line, her focus completely narrows on the man, even when she knows he’s not making himself wholly available to her. As a damaging result, she no longer puts herself in a position to meet other eligible men.

Jules thinks she’s just being “old fashioned,” but I call it a mistake.

“So, what am I suppose to do?” Jules asks this as a rhetorical question, but I answer it anyway.

“If you want to pursue a relationship with Will, go ahead. But at least set a few unspoken mile markers for him to meet.”

“Mile markers?” she asks.

“These markers are a sign that the relationship is progressing. If he meets the marker, you proceed. If he doesn’t, you can still proceed, but you also begin to open yourself to date other people.”

Maybe it was all the wine, but Jules felt my proposal was fair.

I then pulled out eight little sticky notes, lining them up on the table. On average it takes divorced men two years to remarry, so I decided Will should get 8 markers representing 3 months of time.

Jules decided on the goals. These were the signs of progress she would minimally expect to happen every 3 months. Remember, if these things don’t happen, Jules must take it as a sign that it is time to distance herself from Will.

And just because Jules reads this blog on occasion, I’ve decided to post her goals. It’s not as if we wrote these markers in blood, but I do want her to think about them from time to time as she and Will move forward.

Tell me if you think we were being unreasonable. Your comments as always are welcomed, but do be kind. :-)

After 3 months (of regularly dating): Jules and Will should have an agreement not to be dating other people

6 months: They should have taken a trip together

9 months: They should be regularly spending time with each other’s friends

12 months: He should have used the “L” word.

15 months: She should have met his child.

18 months: He should have introduced her to his family.

21 months: They should be talking about a future together.

24 months: More than talking, they should be taking concrete steps to solidify a future together.

Bikers & Bachelorettes

A constant rumbling anywhere you traveled throughout Myrtle Beach, South Carolina could only mean one thing. Motorcycle enthusiasts from around the world had converged on the Palmetto State for its annual Bike Week.

Actually, the event lasted two weeks, but who was counting? After only a couple days of crowds, congestion, and V-twin engines, this bachelorette was ready to hightail it back to Raleigh in a horse and buggy, if necessary, to escape the constant growl of 80,000 thousands Harleys. In fact, even as I sit here typing these words, I still hear a humming in my head--the same one I heard through the walls of my condominium during the wee hours of the morning as I attempted to sleep off a hangover.

Aside from the noise issues, however, I found the bikers to be a friendly and fashion-forward group. I saw more leather bustiers and chaps in one weekend than I have in an entire life, and was almost inspired to buy my own tanned-hide bra. Then I remembered I already owned one. It certainly was a packing faux pas to have not including it among my choices for weekend wears. Despite this oversight, however, my fellow bachelorettes made sure I stood out and was appropriately attired with a pink feather boa and shot glass necklace. At least, my girls avoided the penis paraphernalia. Small miracles never cease.

Speaking of the girls, we bachelorettes were six strong. We shopped; we drank. We flirted, danced, and sometimes used our feather boa on club floors for impromptu rounds of limbo with groups of penis-clad bachelorettes from around the country. Had I not known any better I would have sworn that Myrtle Beach also hosted a bachelorette event in conjunction with the bikers’ week. The numbers of brides-to-be were staggering.

Even though I was enjoying good times with a great group of girlfriends, I couldn’t help but wonder how my bachelor was fairing. Far from the carefree and revelrous life of a bachelorette, Max had joined a couple families in holding a large yard sale in an effort to pare down our two households into one. During a quiet moment as I browsed an assortment of “Smack That” thongs, I called him to know how the yard sale was going.

“I’ve sold just about everything,” Max boasted. And you’re never going to guess what I traded my old desk for...”

He didn’t give me a chance to guess, though I wouldn’t have supposed this swap in a million years.

“A bassinet and a car seat...” he continued.

“A what?!?!” I asked incredulously.

“A bassinet... It’s for a baby,” Max replied. “Both pieces are in excellent condition and I thought...”

“But I’m not even pregnant yet.” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing, which was both sweet and scary at the same time.

“I know, Diane. But we agreed to start trying right away and it seemed like a good deal.”

Max was so excited, and I wasn’t about to burst his bubble. What else could I say other than I'd check out his finds when I returned home on Sunday?

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.