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

The future is so bright...

We've got to wear shades!

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?

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.

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.

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?

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.

Awww!

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

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

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

Glass Half Full

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Meet the Parents

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bridzilla

You’d think that doing a wedding “your way ”--sans the big dress, huge guest list, and all the formality--would make the whole build up to the big day a little less stressful, right?

Wrong! Even though I am trying to fight the tension creeping up the back of my neck, it’s there nonetheless. And, we are still three, long months away from the big day.

Max and I almost had our first fight, because Bridzilla (that would be me) reared her ugly head when he suggested we move our date to accommodate two military friends, who are being transferred July 1. It happened during a phone conversation with his buddies.

“I understand that you won’t be able to make the party, but maybe Diane and I can go ahead and get married before you leave. We’re just planning to go to the courthouse, anyway. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.”

Maybe under ordinary circumstances, Diane wouldn’t mind. But with a looming, parental lecture ahead, Bridzilla went ballistic moments after she heard Max hang up the phone.

“Max, I can’t believe you would just change EVERYTHING without even talking to me? HOW COULD YOU?!?!?!”

The poor guy looked like a deer caught in headlights.

“Sweetie, what have I changed? Had we committed to an actual wedding date?” he asked.

Calm reason in the face of hysteria proved to be the wrong strategy in dealing with Bridzilla.

“You just aren’t thinking! We CANT get married on June 30th! Sonya is on vacation from June 23rd to July 1, which means that we’d have to move the wedding date to at least the 22nd-- three weeks before the party. WHO HAS A RECEPTION THREE WEEKS AFTER THEIR WEDDING!?!?!”

Actually, I knew plenty of folks who’d thrown post-wedding parties weeks after their big day, but that wasn’t the point. In reality, my reaction had nothing to do with the wedding or after party. Rather, it all stemmed from the sad reality that I was, and had been, making life-changing plans and sharing this happy news with everyone—except the two people who should matter most…

my parents.

I can’t do this anymore. I can’t do it to them; I can’t do it to me.

The time has come to share my joy with my family

…and let the chips fall where they may.

I’ll start with my sister this week, and head to Virginia this weekend.

What’s in a name?

I guess if there is a down side to my marrying Max, it would be this: I don’t like his last name. At least when coupled with my first name, it has a funny ring to it.

I’m quite happy with Mandy, thank you very much. Although Max doesn’t insist that I take his name, he finds one teeny tiny problem with my current one. It actually belongs to my ex-husband. I never got around to changing it after our divorce. The pairing, Diane and Mandy, has a nice sound to it. And since I had been using it professionally for over 10 years, changing it seemed like a bad idea at the time.

“Why don’t you take your maiden name back? I like your maiden name.” Max asked trying to be helpful.

He is a dear to suggest it, but quite honestly, Gerasimov, my original surname and of Russian origin, doesn’t really float my boat either. In fact, having a five-syllable, completely ethnic last name brought my siblings and I nothing but trouble back in rural Franklin County, Virginia, our home and land of Brown, Jones, Williams, Smith, and Flora. It wasn’t easy to spell; it wasn’t easy to pronounce. In high school, I wouldn’t have a chance at being popular with a name like Gerasimov. Class officer? Homecoming Queen? Who’d vote for me with a name like this?

Of course, Gerasimov surpassed, by leaps and bounds, my first husband’s surname, Weeble. Yes, I know-- “Weebles wobble, but they don’t fall down.” If I heard it once, I heard it a million times. The name, alone, proves I that married foolishly because it certainly wasn’t an improvement over my family name. Most importantly, while Weebles don't fall down, their marriages can certainly fall apart. Mercifully, I only lived as a Weeble for five years.

So with this marriage, Max’s name will be my fourth name in 20 years. And even though by taking it I’ll probably be asked if I know someone who’s being unlawfully held in Guantanamo Bay right now—it’s worth it. I may hate the name, but I love the man that comes along with it.

The clinic

Forty-five minutes in a nondescript waiting room afforded me ample time to experience sense of surrealism. In all my life, I never pictured myself here--a center for reproductive medicine.

Like an expectant father at his first appointment, Max waited anxiously by my side. This appointment was important to him. He understood the risks dating a late-30 something woman with a less-than-stellar medical history. But in the end, he decided that I meant more than any chance at fatherhood. And for this, I felt I owed it to him to be sure.

Even though this was only a consultation, I came prepared with the surgical records from the multiple myomectomy I had undergone in 2004. Before the procedure, my uterus was the size of a woman in her 14th week of pregnancy. I wasn't pregnant, but carried sizeable, twin fibroid tumors instead. And even though the surgery to remove the unwanted went well, I felt certain that with the tumors also went my chances at motherhood.

"Not so," said Dr. Mulvaney, a 6'4", 350-pound OB/GYN with hands the size of baseball gloves. I knew the minute I saw him that this was the doctor who had delivered my friend's second child. There could only be one doctor in town with mitts like those.

"Based on what I've read in the surgical notes, your fibroids were located on the back of your uterus and probably didn't affect the cavity," continued the good doctor, his kind but booming voice revealing island roots. "We can run a test to be sure, but I don't see anything that suggests you couldn't get pregnant or carry a baby to term."

Max was about to do a victory dance, when Mulvaney thwarted the celebration.

"The real concern is your age," he said. At this point, Ms. Mandy, you're racing against the clock. As he explained the fertility statistics of women over 40, I could feel Max doing calculations in his head. We had 10 months before my ovaries exploded.

After deciding on a course of action--a couple blood tests, an ultrasound, and Hysterosalpinogram for me, and a sperm analysis for Max-- we left the clinic completely overwhelmed and a little discombobulated. And before we made it to the car, Max started second-guessing our plans for a fall or winter wedding.

"Maybe we should move things up?" As Max began undoing all the plans we'd made, my heart began pounding as certain ambivalences I feel about motherhood rushed through my veins. In all his excitment, Max unintentionally had me feeling backed against a wall. But instead of a defensive posture, I broke down in tears. We drove the rest of the way in silence. And after arriving home, I crawled in bed and took a two-hour nap.

Later that evening, Max apologized for his behavior.

"I don't want to be the only one who wants this," he said.

"It is not that I don't want to have a child with you," I replied. "I feel as though we already have a lot ahead of us. We have to get through telling my parents about this relationship, preparing for a wedding, and moving to some unknown foreign country. I can't imagine setting up house, negotiating our new life together...and starting a family. It would be too much for me."

Max said that he agreed and completely understood my feelings and fears. We would leave plans unchanged, and take our chances. "The time has to be right for both of us," he said reassuringly.

I felt comforted by our conversations. And even though we have no immediate plans to try to get pregnant, I have decided to go through the fertility testing suggested by Doctor Mulvaney. In the meantime, Max will learn more about his future job responsibilities and our relocation, and I will (hopefully) get a better handle on my fears and ambivalence toward motherhood. Despite Max's reassurances, I understand that time really isn't on our side. It's the 9th inning. Even with Dr. Mulvaney's golden gloves and Max's excellent coaching, I'm still standing in the batter box and looking at a full count.

The world is our oyster?

It seems more and more likely that by this time next year, my life will bear little resemblance to the one I lead now. I will probably be married and living somewhere outside the United States.

These are both exciting prospects. Still, not knowing exactly where Max and I might land has become a bit wearisome. It's hard to prepare when you don’t have all the necessary facts at hand.

This week, company higher-ups are meeting to plan the promotions and moves for select candidates. Max is on the list of contenders. We know this because a director approached Max with these questions.

"We need to know if you are still willing to move ANYWHERE. Your situation hasn't changed has it?" he asked.

"I'm still mobile," Max replied. Knowing this day was coming, we had already talked about the possibilities. I assured Max I'd go wherever he was assigned. It doesn't matter to me where we land, so long as we make this adventure together.

His director continued, "I'm having a hard time keeping you here. Everybody wants you."

Flattered as Max was, he told his boss that he wouldn't feel comfortable leaving his current position until the fourth quarter because there was just too much work to be done. So at least I know we'll be here a few more months. After that, it is anyone's guess.

Until we know the details, I can only dream of the possibilities-- Hieldelberg, Milan, San Paulo, Singapore Timbuktu? Who knows? I might as well be asking the Magic Eightball.

Max and I have to figure out whether to sell my house or rent it out. We can’t even begin to decide what to do with all our worldly possessions. These sorts of decisions are so dependant on the particulars of the country we are assigned, as well as what sort of package Max will be offered.

Yeah, change is great, but having to wait around for it is the pits.

No worries!

Amy D got it right...

Max finally broke the news to his parents about the American girlfriend, and much to his surprise, they were absolutely fine with it. Whew!

They asked all the usual questions. Where did we meet? What does she do for a living? What does she look like? How long have you known her? There was no arguing, no trying to talk Max out of dating me. Max's father and mother decided leave it to their son to determine who is right for him. In fact, their only request was to meet me before anything becomes "official." So, it looks like I am headed to Egypt this summer to meet my future in-laws.

Wow. Oh, wow.

Watching television everyday, you'd think that the entire world is divided--east against west, one religion against another. But in one modest home somewhere across the world, a mother looked at her son and made this promise. "If you love her, I will love her. She will be my daughter, no different than your sisters."

Why can't it always be this way?

I have news...

Max bought an engagement ring recent weeks with the hope of offering it to me in the future. When? We've decided that it's important to meet each other families before becoming engaged, not because we need our parents' approval, but because it feels like the decent and respectful thing to do.

Meeting Max's family won't be as easy as picking up the phone and heading over with a bucket of KFC. They live in Cairo, Egypt. As I type these words I wonder whether KFC is even a dining option there--not that the absence of Colonel Sanders is, in itself, a negative. Truth be told, I'm more of a Pharaoh's Pizza sort of girl anyway. (Sorry, I couldn’t resist the obvious joke.)

Max left for Egypt yesterday--his first trip to see his family in two years. This trip will also provide the first opportunity for him to tell his family about the American girlfriend. Hallmark doesn't make a card for this sort of announcement, so Max decided it was best to tell them in person. My being American won't necessarily be a negative to his family. However the fact that I come from a Christina tradition, have multiple ex-husbands, and am almost past childbearing years may more than even these most moderate of Muslims will be able to handle.

We shall see...

Max is optimistic, and has already booked our tickets to travel to Egypt for late summer. I am both excited and nervous about the prospects. Of course, this all means I have to reciprocate by telling my family about Max--and after this conversation the Middle East might seem like a peaceful place in comparison.

Stay tuned folks. It's gonna get interesting.