Absense makes the heart grow fonder

This is the first day in three weeks that I have been alone and I have to admit I am loving every solitary minute. June (and half of July) flew by in a whirlwind. Half a dozen over-night guests, a series of dinner parties, and lots and lots of touring this fair city's numerous and famous sights made for a jam-packed month. I had a good time, but am ready for a couple weeks of quiet before welcoming a second wave of visitors in August.

Today, Max boarded a plane to Milan, our other home technically, but one that I have not visited since an initial house-hunting trip months ago. My husband and I had originally agreed that I would join him in Milan this week, but at the last minute I had a change of heart.

"Sweetie, would you mind if I stayed behind in Barcelona? The house hasn't been cleaned in weeks and I don't feel right leaving it in shambles."

(Translation: I love you, but need some quiet time.)

Max, always the easy-going half of our pair, let me off the hook without a hint of guilt. While many would think me crazy for giving up a trip to Italy and my mother actually berated me over the phone (with a "you should go with your husband as often as possible because it's bad for your marriage not to" snipe), Max understands my needs and encourages me to do for myself and be a little selfish when I feel the need. God, I love that man!

"It's complicated"

Perhaps it's a side effect of all the Vitamin D that I am soaking up through glorious Spanish sun exposure, but I actually have the urge to write.

All is well in Barcelona. I am enjoying a semblance of normal life as part of a couple again--waking up next to someone other than Charlie, preparing a real dinner as opposed to microwaving a Weight Watchers entree, and snuggling on the couch with my favorite fellow while watching a movie downloaded through iTunes. But I'm not only here to keep the home fires burning. There is actually a purpose to my brief Catalan adventure.

I had to be fingerprinted.

I sort of wish I had a tawdry tale to go along with with act of being escorted down to the police station and having all 10 fingers literally blacked with ink, because the worst thing I've ever done in all my life was to skip school one time with my mother's full knowledge and permission.

But sad to say, my time visiting the slammer, sitting in the waiting area with unsavory characters, and being escorted into a small CSI-like laboratory was for "official government purposes" only. It's part of what Max and I both have to do in order to get our visas to live in Spain permanently. Don't ask me why.

Getting through the maze of governmental requirements and documentation would be impossible without the help of a skilled professional. And after months and months of waiting, Max and I finally met with Alvero, a third-party contractor assigned to help us get moved permanently.

We had hoped Alvero might be able to shed light on what paperwork would need to be completed and, more importantly, how long the process would take, but this was not to be. With every question we posed, our skilled professional had only one response:

"It's complicated," he said.

It sure is. In addition to being finger printed, we also had to sign documents in the presence of a notary giving our permissions to have FBI background checks completed. While I attempted to sign the permissions with my best, most readable, John Hancock, I couldn't help but wonder if the time I skipped school would possibly show up on my profile.

This is not unfounded paranoia. I feel as though the slightest problem could cause a delay in this already painfully slow process. For instance, my name changes because of marriage and divorce have generated extra paperwork. And even though I've provided copies of expired passports, which document my series of failed marriages and ever-evolving name, I've been told that the U.S. consulate will be called to verify that name changes can and do happen because of marriage and divorce. This call, alone, will probably set us back a week or two--at least that is what it feels like.

But for now, I'll try not to worry about what is or is not happening and how long it will take before Max and I can truly get on to the business of life as normal. I'm here, enjoying time with my husband, and cooking a little fresh cod for dinner this evening.

It's better than nothing.

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!

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!

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.

A Year Ago Today

Not to be indelicate…

Open my personal daytimer to any month and you will find a certain week, flagged as particular, personally marked with hand-written stars. If you are a woman reading this post, I don’t have to tell you why one week out of every month is significant. You already know and may even have devised a similar system for keeping track of your constant companion, the curse of Lilith.

After last month’s miscarriage, I wasn’t sure when I’d be able to start penciling in my period once again. For some women, menstruation returns within 28 days--as if nothing ever happened their bodies. For others, it takes longer and serves as a painful reminder of what could have been.

For obvious reasons and because Dr. Sych advised me to wait at least three, full, cycles before trying to conceive, I was hoping to fall in the lucky, first class of women. After all, I’m now 40.5-years old. My biological, and most definitely analog, clock continues to tick down. Every month is precious and should not to be wasted.

So, needless to say, I was relieved when I pulled out the old, pencil sharpener right on schedule. This means we only have to wait two more months before trying to get pregnant again. But until that day comes, Max and I have had to concern ourselves with something we haven’t had to worry about for a long time—that is, NOT getting pregnant.

Yes, I'm taking safe, not necessarily the most free and spontaneous, sex, people.

Given our circumstances, birth control pills and abstinence weren’t good options, leaving Max and I, unfortunate, unprepared, and rushing off to the nearest gas station at 10 o’clock one night. Wouldn't you know--while my night stand contained a daytimer, pencil, and sharpener, it didn't offer any condoms.

We felt like teenagers again, trying to act casual as we made our way to the prophylactic rack. The only problem is it is impossible to appear nonchalant when looking at rubbers packaged in a language you don’t understand.

Far from prudish, even I became uncomfortable after standing in front of the display for new fewer than 20 minutes as we tried to make decision. It didn’t help the clerk kept glancing over in our direction.

“Oh, just grab anything.” I finally said exasperated.

Unfortunately, Max and I couldn’t really blame our language teacher for the ignorance we showed. When we got home, I checked my German textbook for the all-important “Condoms: Ribbed or Flavored?” chapter. It isn’t there.

The experience sort of killed my mood that evening, but at least we were stocked for the long haul. Oh, trust me--for a host of reasons, two months feels like the long, but well protected, haul.

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.

Routines

Today, as is usually my routine, I woke about around 9 am, enjoyed a two cups of espresso, listened to daily podcasts from Today, Hardball with Chris Matthews, and The Sitution Room with Wolf Blitzer, and worked on a Thursday ‘to do’ list, which included thrilling items such us:

* Blogging
* Organizing my wardrobe
* Finishing my German homework
* Scrubbing the toilets
* Taking the hairless one out for a long walk
* Ironing (maybe) a few of Max’s dress shirts

Truth be told, however, I don’t have to do anything on the list. These are not requirements, merely my own suggestions on how to keep the house straight while filling the day. If I preferred, I could grab the train to Mannheim, go out for lunch, shop till I drop, or do nothing at all. My life and my schedule are my own, and I like it this way.

Max, on the other hand, has settled into another demanding job. We had hoped Germany might provide a respite from the 12 and 13-hour workdays back in the U.S., but this has not been the case. As I slept this morning, Max woke up at 5:30a, walked Charlie, and headed to the office begin work at 7am. Last night, he arrived home at 8pm to enjoy a good old-fashioned, Texas-style barbeque that I had thrown in the crock pot, worked on bills, watched one episode of 24, and went to bed just to be able start this routine all over again. Moreover, the product Max manages comes with difficult challenges and, because it is the most important product in the division, is on the radar of executives throughout Europe. If Max succeeds and impresses the right people, he will have his choice of next assignments. So, the heat is on.

Max had to hit the ground running when it came to his new position and life in a different country, while I have been able to ease into a leisurely lifestyle.

It hardly seems fair.

But, I’ve got to hand it to my fellow. He has handled the stress and exhaustion like a champion. And on the weekends, when he should be sleeping in and resting, Max gets up to walk the dog and bring me coffee in bed. He still takes me out for dinner and dancing every week. Just like his work, as far as our relationship is concerned, he hasn’t slowed one bit.

My fellow amazes me. And I wonder whether, if the situation were reversed, I could do the same for him.

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.

If you buy it... it will come?

As I languish in the softening housing market, Max has been flourishing over in Germany. He officially starts his new job October 1 and will spend the next three weeks transitioning into his new role. On Thursday and Friday of this week, he will begin apartment scouting. And, if he finds a place that he feels we couldn’t live without, I’ve given Max permission to go ahead and secure a lease.

You might think this brave of me—giving my husband the ultimate authority to choose our new abode. But to me, knowing this will only be a 2-to-3 year assignment makes where we live seem less important. In fact, I only made two requirements known to my husband: that there be a food market and coffee shop (with wireless access, of course) within walking distance. If Max locates a flat that meets these requirements, I’m good to go.

You’d think with work and housing considerations taking such a high priority, Max wouldn’t be thinking of much else. But, he is. Most of our phone calls have revolved around what our new car purchase will be once we move because we can’t take either the BMW or the Element with us when we go. I had assumed, because we’ll be living in the land of BMW, Mercedes, and the fast-paced Autobahn, he would be thinking about a sports car purchase. But, alas, the man has another desire.

A 2008 Volvo Station Wagon

That’s right, folks. You are seeing my words correctly. Max wants to give up our BMW convertible for STATION WAGON!

“Excuse me?” I said. “But, WHAT are you thinking?”

“Well, Diane,” he began. “Since we’re hoping to get along with one car, don’t you think we should make it family-friendly?”

“But you know Charlie likes riding in the Beamer as much as we do.” I responded.

“Not for the dog, silly…for a baby…”

Oh that. I’d nearly forgotten. Since our trip Egypt (sharing a room with Chico) and Max being in Germany for the rest of the month, there hasn’t been much opportunity to try and make a baby.

But I guess Max is hopeful that if he buys a family-friendly, 2008 Volvo station wagon, a baby will surely follow—right after we send our forwarding address to Mr. Stork for good measure.

Besides, who determined that a convertible couldn't be a family car, anyway?

Lazy, hazy days of…

My daily grind is in a bit of a lull, proving little fodder for my blog. Max and I have returned to our ordinary and uneventful pre-wedding routine. We live a good life, so I am not complaining. And if anything, we needed a break from all the recent buzz and excitement a wedding brings.

These days, people ask me if being married feels different. Since Max and I had already carved out a life together, I didn’t expect it would. And as we have gotten back to business as usual, everything seems the same. But, surprisingly, it does feel different, somehow deeper and more certain.

I’ve been down this newlywed road a time or two, so I didn’t expect to feel the sense of freshness in our relationship. I would not have imagined, for example, that I’d experience giddiness the first time Max referred to me as his wife, but I did. And when I ask Max if he also experiences these novel sensations, he assures me the feelings are the same.

I realize that in a few short months this honeymoon phase will, if not be over, at least seem more ordinary. But until that time, I’ll savor these simple and quiet times with my new husband.

Gone to the dogs

Marriage doesn’t only affect two-legged creatures. My dog Charlie just had his name changed, too. His veterinary records now read “Charlie Mahmoud”. I realize it didn’t matter to Charlie what the vet’s office called him, but it did to me. However, it struck me as just a tad funny that my American Cocker Spaniel, who will also be moving with us to Germany, now has an Arabic name. Talk about the impact of globalization, huh?

Shape up or ship out

I consider myself an easy-going, flexible gal. To me, the detail of how something is accomplished seems less important than the end result. But when it comes to keeping house, I turn into a combination drill sergeant and Martha Stewart wannabe, becoming particular about not only what but also how things are done. This is especially true when I am preparing to entertain guests.

During the ordinary, day-to-day grind, Max plays the role of willing and helpful partner. He pitches in where he sees opportunity, washes dishes, cooks dinner, and always takes out the trash. But even he knows to vacate the premises in the hours leading up to an event being hosted at our house.

Unfortunately, Max couldn’t take his leave this weekend. With guests flying in from around the country to attend our Caribbean party, I was in full Sergeant Martha mode. We had invited twenty-five people over to enjoy a traditional Greek feast, and I was determined to cater the entire event myself. Spanikopita, pastitso, Mediterranean-style chicken and salmon, Greek salad, humus, tsaziki, melitzanosalata--Greek cooking is labor intensive. In fact, I started cooking Friday at noon and didn’t finish until 4pm Saturday.

This left poor Max to do housework. As I layered a phyllo dough crust for baklava, I heard the vacuum cleaner hum and marched upstairs to supervise. Sergeant Martha was very unhappy with what she discovered.

“Honey, WHAT are you doing?” This wasn’t a question, and Max knew it. He turned off the sweeper and looked at me like a midshipman who was failing a surprise inspection.

“Why are you vacuuming before you’ve dusted?” I continued. “It’s a useless activity because after you dust, the carpet is only going to get dirty again.”

I’m sure Max thought I was being ridiculous. But like any good swab jockey, he knew better than to talk back to an angry sergeant.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know there was an order to house cleaning.” Max replied, managing not to sound sarcastic.

“Of course there is! First you dust objects that rest on the furniture, then you wipe off the furniture, and only then do you vacuum the rugs.”

Max didn't question the logic. In fact, he was turning to fetch a dust cloth, when I noticed another deficiency in his efforts. He had made up our bed, but the sheet corners could be seen from underneath the comforter.

“You should use hospital corners when making a proper bed.”

At this point, Max had every right to two throw both the dust clothe and vacuum cleaner my way, but instead he patiently watched as I demonstrated how to make the bed. The drill sergeant in me could have continued to pick apart his efforts all afternoon, but fortunately for Max, I heard the oven timer go off. The pastitso was done.

Later that night, as the party winded down to just a few guests, Max joined me in the kitchen, where I had been stationed most of the night.

“Ensign Mahmoud reporting for duty, ma’am,” he joked.

“I’m sorry for barking orders at you, Sweetness. You wouldn't think of going AWOL on me, would you?”

Grabbing a towel to help dry the dishes, Max took a moment before responding. “Nah, never. In fact, I’m thinking of re-upping once my tour of duty is over.”

Max may not be the perfect housekeeper, but one thing is for sure: only Sergeant Martha needs shape up, or else ship out.