When I asked my Japanese classmate, a former consultant, what she wanted to do when we graduate, she replied that she wanted my life.  But in her words, 

“I want to be a housewife, just like you”

I think it took me a few minutes to process that one.  And then I realized that she was being somewhat humorous, and was saying that she hopes to get married and “settle down” in a house as a wife.  You know, a housewife.  She has achieved much in her life and this position was the next one on her life goals list.

My status as a married person has much more significance to certain cultures than others.  As I was explaining this morning to another classmate about how sometimes we go all out for dinner at our place, and sometimes it is just bread and cheese, she was really perplexed.  

“You serve your husband bread and cheese for dinner?” she asked.

“Umm…yeah.  I mean, we kinda prepare it together”,  I replied.

“Yeah, where I come from in Zambia, that is just a less direct way to ask for a divorce.  A woman who is married is expected to cook a good meal for her family, regardless of her job or school or even if she is sick.  What does your family think about this?”

And I explained to her that my older family members are probably not proud of my role in the kitchen, but that our marriage is built on a foundation much stronger than domestic abilities.  I did reassure her that occasionally I make the effort for a good home cooked meal, and that he does the same as well, but I got the feeling that she was worried I would be fired from my job.  

Later on, as Pedram and I were eating delivery pizza together, I asked him if he married me because of my culinary skills.  His reply?

“You knew how to cook before we were married?”

Exactly. 

Happy Anniversary Cheri.

Washington DC

What is new this year?  New apartment, new city, new country, new job, heck, even Rusby has a new tail.

Havana, Cuba

Maybe this has happened in the past and I just didn’t think about it, but I feel this year more and more people are looking to us for relationship advice.  How crazy cool is that?  And when it happens, I talk and talk and talk, giving endless stories and ancedotes and tales about our interesting fights and our consulatation process, how it has evolved, and how we make big decisions together now.

Eastern Townships, Quebec

And then I turn to you, you who hasn’t said a word, and say, “remember Pedram?  Remember that??”  And you will say something to the effect of “Relationships are hard – that is the only thing I can say.”

And I think back to the time when we were going through a difficult period, and I was worried about the strength of our relationships, and you reassured me that we have become so entertwined that the weave our of relationship could withstand any obstacle.  That through our commitment to each other and the relationship as a whole, the fabric of our marriage is so strong, it can only get stronger, never disintegrate, regardless of what life throws at us.

Remember that Pedram?  Remember??

Tulum, Mexico

And this year, with our six months apart and the endless challenges that are being hurdled our way, it does indeed seem much stronger.

Perhaps before I told my friends that I have laid exposed my heart to Pedram and it scares me to death.

But now I say that I have laid exposed my heart to Pedram with complete trust, and it makes me content.

Happy Anniversary.  Four years, three countries, one dog, endless stories.  Remember Pedram? Remember?

Love you,

Mahsa

Happy Anniversary to us.

Three years is a good amount of time, right?  Long enough that we have figured some stuff out, and the rest we are not sweating cause it we actually know how to have productive arguments now.  It is as if we are climbing Mt. Everest, and I feel confident that we have all the equipment for the long hike — eventhough there will be undoubtedly some avalanches and storms in our future.  And hopefully a friendly sherpa to help me carry my bags.  Or that we are going on a long scuba dive to discover treasure, and the oxygen tank is full to fuel our adventure.  And I have something that scares away great white sharks.  I am not sure why all of my metaphors are so dramatic.

We’ve spent a good amount of time with my family this year, although if you asked me it is never enough time.  And in addition to gaining 10 pounds each time from my mom’s cooking, I’ve picked up some pearls of wisdom from being with so many couples with 30+ years of successful marriage.  There is this word, “chash” in farsi that we hear all the time in Seattle, meaning “okay” but in a better sense.  Like when my mom asked my dad to make her tea, and he says “chash”, even though he is tired, it is his way of saying, “whatever you say”.  Or when my aunt asks her husband to take some pictures, he replies “chash” without questioning her idea.  And during each of these times, I would turn to you, and repeat, with all seriousness, “did you hear that — chash!”, in hopes that you would also adopt this term as an automatic reply to everything I say.  Cause for me, the foundation of these relationship is one persons ability to always reply with “chash”.

I think we learned it best, however, when we were in the Adirondacks and we had breakfast with a couple who had been married for 43 years.  The man of the relationship waiting patiently for us to ask him his secret to success.  And when we finally asked, half cringing, half interested, he bellowed “The secret is:  ALWAYS SAY I AM SORRY, DEAR”  And then she rolled her eyes and he laughed for a good 5 minutes, and I leaned in and asked — “no seriously, is that the secret?  And how did you get him to learn this?”

But all joking aside, thank you for all you do to make this relationship so steady, the rock that maintains the foundation of Pedhasa, a temple to which I bow my head in gratitude.  Thank you for waking up early to walk Rusby on Saturday and Sunday mornings, allowing me to sleep in.  Thanks for pedaling your bike slower so we can ride to work together in the mornings.  Thank you for your patience with me when I am wide awake at night, and want to talk about n’importe quoi.  Thank you for helping me get back into yoga.

Thank you for understanding the art of consultation, and walking me through it when I need it.  Thank your for the uplifting conversations, the sing and dance sessions, and for the many many sink load of dishes you’ve washed when I have one of my cooking frenzies.  Thank you for ensuring that I am never, ever bored, and that there is a lesson in everything.

When I was younger, I would admire my father above all other men, often claiming to my mom that I would hope to marry a man like him.  You chide me for my little girl dependence on my dad, my need to call him to verify the best refrigerator brand, or for the lyrics to Que Sera, Sera.  You have to understand that my dad is the picture of perfection to me, even with all his flaws. Yet my father, like you, is a very unique individual.  Three years ago, before we wedded, I reflected on this and felt a great satisfaction that although you are very different from my dad, you have so many amazing attributes that I love.

However, it is clear to me that there is one that is very similar between the two of you — your generosity — in time, in love, in caring and understanding.  And perhaps subconsciously I knew this, and this is the reason we work so well together.  And when I look at these successful relationships in my family, and know that you and I are so different, there is a part of me that knows that I am, in many ways, married to man as generous and loving as my father.  And I pray one day, when my daughter tells me that she will marry someone like her father, that she will be so lucky.

Happy Anniversary to us.  I hope there is more and more cake and adventures in our future.

Love,

M.

PS – Repeat after me, “chash azizam”, and “chash joonam” and “ghorboonet, chash”

PPS – can we just take a moment and figure out exactly what is going on below?

Every year around this time, on Tuesdays and Wednesdays, I have the same conversation with Pedram in different forms:

Last year:

Pedram:  What do you want to do for dinner tonight?

Me:  I don’t know, something easy.  Let’s just order pizza and hang out at home.

Pedram:  You sure you don’t want a burger?  I want a burger, it sounds so good to me right now.

Me:  Nah, not in the mood for a burger.

Pedram:  Don’t you want to go to the pub?  De Valera at Flagey?  You had so much fun there last week.  They have more than just burgers, they have great…uhhh…soft drinks!

Me:  Ewww…the pub?  No, it stinks in there, and they have no good food, and everyone is crammed in there and yelling things.

Pedram:  Are you sure you don’t want a burger?

Me:  What is going on?

This year:

Me:  Let’s go home together after work, I don’t want to go by myself.

Pedram:  But I might come home early.

Me:  What?  Why would you do that? How early?  An hour?

Pedram:  Ummm…maybe earlier than that.

Me:  Whatever.  Fine, how about tomorrow?

Pedram:  I might be home early as well tomorrow, sorry.

Then I remember — early spring means Championship League.  Which means that Pedram’s schedule, depending on what continent we are on, is dedicated to watching European soccer.  If we are in Brussels, with no TV, then we will be spending Tuesday and Wednesday evenings at the local stinky pub.  If we are in Montreal, with TV, then his work day will be interrupted to accommodate soccer schedules.

With the World Cup around the corner, I am interested to see how much work he really will get done this summer…

I recently got a request to learn more about the things I appreciate about Pedram, other than his conscious respectful decision to keep the porcelain bowl spotless, and I automatically thought of a few things I wish he would change, like his incessant desire to leave me alone at home for 9 days alone with the needy dog.  I do NOT appreciate how he cannot resist finishing all the desserts in the house without leaving any for me.  Or his inability to not comment when I wash dishes and they are not spotless.  If only he saw how I washed the dishes last night, they were definitely not spotless — ha!

I digress from my intention to make this a positive post.  One of the things I do appreciate about my husband is his character, which is sometimes the hardest thing to describe about him.  He isn’t romantic, at least not in the definition of modern times, such as flowers or chocolates or surprise love poems in my lunch box.  He doesn’t serenade me before I go to bed, he doesn’t profess his love to me in public, and he doesn’t even always tell me what I want to hear.  Not that I would necessarily need that — he recently wrote an endearing post on my facebook page and I called him a liar.

But in the hidden track that is our relationship, between the loud sonatas of our arguments and the whimsical steady rhythm of our ease with each other, through all the trombones blasting our fun trips, or jazz relaying our meditations, in the fine lines of the musical sheet of our marriage, there lay small details that make me appreciate him so much.

He has great manners in a way that is effortless.  He is respectful to elders, and shows patience towards children.  The way he helps me with my coat, the way he ensures I am having a good time in a crowded party, how he opens the door for me, all without ever feeling obligated to do so.  These are things that he was taught or learned from watching his elders, clearly, but that he also encompasses truly and fully, naturally.

It is the kindness he shows when he actively listens, even though there are a million things on his mind.  The way he supports me in my endeavors, making my priorities his priorities.  How easily he can have a conversation with people from different backgrounds with ease.  And I have a love/hate relationship with how many languages he speaks.

It is more than that though, it extends to the way he folds and organizes his clothes, the creases in his shirts, how he eats his food, it is all like a delicate sport.  He waits for me before starting a meal, a courtesy I rarely return.  He finishes my sentences in french when he sees that I am struggling.  He is attentive to my outfits, he carries my handbag when I need him to, the way he walks — never rushed, never clumsy.  I used to attribute this behavior to him being European, but the truth is, I married a gentleman.

You can’t learn it in a book, and in my humble opinion, you can beat it with any set of roses.  I always call him an old man, but maybe that is a part of his charm, the essence of him, which is hard to find in younger generations.  I don’t think it can easily be taught, but it really should be.  It is the difference between telling someone to give up their seat on the bus for an elderly person, and them just knowing that they should.  It is the right thing to do — and for me, it is very romantic.

Wow — that was much cheesier than I was planning on being.  Excuse me if you found that excessive.

When I think of other men that I admire in the same way — a few come to mind immediately.

My father, and how he treats all the women in his life, me, my mom, my sister, his mother, his sister.  He was the first feminist in my life, a model figure for that old style of charm and chivalry mixed with “don’t let anyone put you down cause you are a girl”.  I could write a book (maybe I should) about the things I learned from my dad, and another one for all the things he never intentionally taught me, but I learned by watching him.

My father in-law, for so many reason, but for sure how he dresses up for every occasion — always looking stylish and impeccable.  In a world where people wear sweatpants and sloppy jeans, he and his friends wear three piece suits to have coffee together, and they don’t slouch.   Ever.  I need to stop slouching.

Ryan, the husband of a close friend, who, in a sea of immature boys, represents class and character.  When we would go out, Ryan would always walk me to my car, without question, without even offering.  It just always felt genuine.

Seb — just cause I know he is reading.  Seb is a good guy.

I am blessed to have so many great men in my life.  I’d love to hear about any stories other people have to share about great men in their lives — and what they consider romantic.

It has been a busy busy time in our house, which is new to all of us.  Pedram and I have been running around, both stressed with work and other commitments, and Rusby is trying to figure out what happen to the “lets all chill on the couch and rub dog’s belly” time that we used to dedicate at least 10 minutes a night before.  This week he barely gets any belly rubbing time and alot more “please-poop-already-I-am-going-to-be-late!” exasperation.  Poor puppy.  I plan to spend the entire weekend rubbing his belly and feeding him pig ears.

When we are both busy, we have to plan to do household chores and walk the dog separately, with one person leaving the house at dawn, and in exchange the other can work well into the night.   I am sure many people have experienced this with roommates, the feeling like you know someone else lives in your house, but only from a mysterious plate in the sink, or the surprising thrill of finding the toothpaste in the bathroom replaced.

The days are endless, but at the same time too short, and oh-so tiring.  Then droopy eyed and exhausted, we crawl into bed, often too riled to sleep, to anxious about remaining tasks, updating each other about our lives, rambling to-dos for the next day.  And sometimes with one eye half open, I notice that something I had been ignoring for the last month, trying to forget it exists, has now spurned into a full-on infraction.  I am too weary to begin a rant explaining my position, too drained to put up a fight or do something about it myself.   Spent of all energy, I mumble a small request.

“hey buddy, do you want to shave this month?”

This is not the man I married

I often spend a few minutes in the morning talking to one of my co-workers, who has two little boys and every conversation includes her boys in some sense or another.  She is one of those selfless mothers, the kind who would sacrifice her own well being so that the men in her life are happy.  She wakes up and makes them elaborate lunches, but forgets to eat herself.  She saves her vacation days for when her children will inevitably become sick during the year.  Every small change in their looks, every small sigh her children make before sleeping, every small noodle to fall out of their mouths is a morning headline to be shared with all.

On a side note, for being so devoted to other people’s well-being, she looks so amazing every morning.  Her outfits are perfectly put together, her hair and makeup, flawless.  I wish I was her.  Except without the selflessness and all the sacrifices.

One morning, I asked her how she was doing, and after listening to how the littlest one got a new sword and tried to impale her on it, I asked her, “don’t you wish you had a daughter?”  She replied that the two boys are already quite a handful, but she is ready for them to get married (ahem…they are 3 and 5), and their spouses will be her daughters.

We then had a conversation about how to raise little boys to be great men, wonderful husbands, and caring fathers.  We mostly shared stories about our own fathers, but eventually the conversation turned to our respective husbands.  She asked what attributes does my husband possess that she should pass on to her sons — and I thought of all the things I am grateful my mother-in-law taught Pedram.  He comes to my aid when spiders and centipedes are around, and then listens to my humanitarian rant and captures and releases them outdoors.  He takes out the garbage, and makes me tea in the mornings.  He is the most compassionate listener I have ever met.  He likes to going shopping with me.

A few hours later, she passed by my office on her way to the bathroom, and I remembered a very important one.

“He pees sitting down!”  I yelled out to the hallway.

Mothers, teach your sons to sit down when they pee.  Pedram’s mom once told me that when she realized that she was outnumbered by men in the household 3 to 1, she made that the golden rule in the house.  And I have, in the past, shared a bathroom with men who don’t sit, and leave the seat up, and forget to aim.  And eventhough that man was my brother, I was still considering sibling divorce.

I am grateful for alot of Pedram’s characteristics, and I often give thanks to his mom for teaching him well.  But this one is most important lesson he learned.

So please, teach your men to sit — it will make their future wives much much happier.

When Pedram got his Ph D., I would often call him Doctor, and then giggle for 10 minutes.  Sometimes I would introduce him as Dr. Pedram, and then burst into a fit of laughter.

But now Pedram is teaching a course at McGill, and the current joke is to refer to him as Professor, which just tickles me in every way possible.

The professor/doctor comes home from his class often frustrated by the mentality of current day-students.  “They are all unable to think for themselves!” he exclaims!  “They go to the internet for answers to simple questions.  They make simple mathematical calculation mistakes.”  Taking in account the generational gap between my husband and undergraduate students, as well as the cultural differences in education between Europe and North America, I thought I would give my two cents.  Cause I am both young and hip, and understand the educational systems between the continents.  Plus, the name of the class is “modeling” and I once watch Project Runway Marathon for an entire weekend and cut my bangs to look like Heidi Klum.

“Well”, Pedram states, “I asked the group about how much water is used by the city of Montreal each day.  The goal is to try to use your brain to come up with a target answer, but without or as little use of the internet as possible.”

My first thought is to go check wikipedia.  There must a person who already did this, and time is money, and I ain’t got time to re-invent the wheel.  But without my cheating tool at my fingertips, I have no idea where to go.  P encourages me to start by trying to mentally guesstimate how much water I use every time I flush the toilet.

One time, while I was studying in Senegal, we had an unexpected drought in my neighborhood, and it lasted much longer than I had anticipated.  My roommate and I would stare longingly at the fully flushing toilet at the University, and thought it would be a great idea to take some of the toilet water back home for a quick shower.  It was something like 10 cups.  Don’t judge me, I was definitely cleaner after that “shower”.  Ironically, the water came back that same night.

“10 cups!” I reply confidently.  “How do you know that?” Pedram asks.  I choose not to share my story.  He does not give me any points for my efforts.  I can see why he is annoyed.  His students have also not shared their methods of finding their answers.

“Gimme another one,”  I demand.  He asks me how many pairs of shoes can be made from one cow.  Although my leather collection of shoes is plenty, I do not have any experiences with cows from which I can pull from.  I have absolutely no idea.

He give me a hint.  “Start by thinking of the cow as a sphere.”  This hint confuses me, giving me endless bizarre images of cows in a barrel, or cows in the shape of a football.  We eventually start discussing the circumference of this spherical cow, and my lack of trigonometry skills frustrates him even more.  This type of modeling is definitely not for me.

So now I empathize with the students in his class, for having answers at their fingertips with google, but not being able to use them.  And for having to think of answers for such bizarre questions.  Although it would be cool to be one of those people who could calculate the number of dentists in the city of Montreal using nothing but long division as a tool, I am pretty sure that I would not perform well under the Professor.  (giggle giggle)