Driving Toward Istanbul

It was only 60 miles, but i drove The Girl closer to Istanbul last night.  She was spending the night with The Boy, and then catching a flight home today.

Home.

Yep.  It’s her home now.  She’s been living there since July.  Her bed is there.  Most of her friends are there.

The only incentives i offer?  A large brown dog and a surly orange cat.

Her dad bought the ticket.  Since he’s busy with work and hates travel, it seemed a reasonable solution.  She spent a few days with The Boy in the big university town, hanging out with her best gal pal there.  The Boy drove them north to visit their dad for a few days.

They arrived at my place last Thursday night.  As always, there was an ‘over/under’ bet involved.  This time?  They bet on Mr. Pickles abilities as a guard dog.

The Girl:  How long do you think we’ll be in the house before he wakes up?

The Boy:  Two minutes.

The Girl:  I’ll take “over”.

The Boy actually won this round, as the sleepy old brown dog shot out of my bed like a rocket as soon as the front door opened.  Even the cat went to investigate.  The Boy had been chauffeur for the week, driving her where she needed to go.  He needed to get back to work.  And by then, they’d had more than enough “brother-sister bonding time”.

Four days.  We made the most of it…

Friday night was “My Drunk Kitchen” night.  The Girl and her best gal pal went with me to a big downtown hipster bash, and we stopped for supplies on the way home.  i made “Froot Loop Russians”* while they baked S’more brownies from scratch.  It was a good night.

Saturday morning?  Off to the local market for crepes, cheese, veggies and people-watching.  She got in lots of shopping – access to a car, rather than public transportation, made it far easier for picking up gifts, and essentials.

The Girl:  I’m buying America.  I need to find things to bring back that are inherently American.  Do you think they’d have Busch beer coozies at the gas station?  Belt buckle beer bottle openers?

Studley and i took her out to dinner at a Turkish restaurant that night – in case she was missing the cuisine of home.  i’d been using my pigeon Turkish on the poor servers at this restaurant since my trip in December, and was excited to show them how cool my daughter was, being comfortably conversant in their native language.

We never stop being proud of our children.  Or coming up with new ways to embarrass them…

We stopped at the liquor store on the way back home.  Mostly to get more Froot Loop vodka, as she knew she wouldn’t be able to get that in Turkey.  Still jazzed from the chance to let her show off her language skills, i continued to brag on her to Studley.

daisyfae:  That’s my kid!

Studley:  Yup!  You made her!

daisyfae:  She came out of my vagina.

The Girl:  It was a c-section.  Technically, out of your stomach.

liquor store clerk: Do you want all this in a bag?

daisyfae:  Nah.  We’re just going to drink it in the parking lot.

These kids are remarkably tough to embarrass…

We both sort of dreaded it, but Sunday was the visit to The Park.  She wanted to see Mom, but it was when i told her that the entire Clampett Clan would be descending upon the ol’ Hibachi Grill and Buffet** that we both cringed.

The Girl:  I really want to see Granny.  And Aunt S is ok.  Would be great to see Uncle T, too.  But DQ?  BJ?  Their spawn?

We made it through.  She had a good time talking with Granny.  And Granny loved her gifts… And the time with a functional grandchild.  Who doesn’t ask her for money.

We also listened to BJs tales of training for “Mixed Martial Arts” cage fighting.  Of their newest 4-wheeler toy.  Their four-year old saying “I’m gonna fart on you and give you pink eye”.

Yay.

The Girl managed to get all the liquor her gifts packed up, and we drove eastward last night.  Met up with The Boy at his place around 11:30 when he got home from work.

Seeing as i’d missed Easter for both of them, i was prepared.  There is a history of coming up with ridiculously blasphemous easter basket inclusions.  This year?  i think i outdid myself.

The Boy found this in his kitchen when he came in from a long day at the factory.

i left shortly afterwards.  Drove westward in the rain.  Only cried for the first 20 miles.  i’m getting better…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

* From the “I can’t make this up” files.  Three Olives Loopy Vodka.  If you mix it with milk?  Tastes like the leftover stuff in the bowl after you finish your Froot Loops.  We were hammered before the brownies came out of the oven…

** Pronounced “boo-FAY”.

Merry Christmas

i have many tales to tell. But not just yet…

The Boy and i have started our journey home, and The Girl is back at her apartment, recovering from our visit.

Through the years, it became a family tradition as we erected* the Christmas tree, for me to stand back and say (in my best June Cleaver voice) “It’s the most BEAUTIFUL Christmas tree EVER!”. The kids would play along with this saying “Yes, Mother! It really IS the most beautiful Christmas tree we’ve ever had!”

This year? We spent Christmas Eve in a very nice hotel room, thousands of miles away from the unopened box in the storage room at home that holds two decades worth of Christmas ornaments.

During the afternoon, The Boy and i were camped in the hotel room, waiting for The Girl to finish working for the day. Since i am a frequent visitor at this particular hotel chain, i had been granted access to the Executive Lounge. With an open bar. The mini-fridge up there was loaded with Carlsberg and Tuborg Gold!

Sipping free beer as we prepared for a siesta, The Boy asked if i’d ever seen a Heineken Christmas Tree. Googling it, we agreed that it might be possible to construct one. It would require some ingenuity, but we had a fridge full of free beer and an afternoon to kill…

We did it. By exploiting some odds and ends we swiped borrowed from the hotel bar, we built a tree. Even rigged the desk lamp to light it from below.

We were joined for the night by two of The Girl’s friends – they’d stayed too late to catch the last buses home, so we shuffled the sleeping arrangements and made some room on the floor for the menfolk.

Midnight arrived, and we toasted our Christmas in Turkey.

“It’s the most beautiful Christmas tree ever.”

And it was…

* nhur, nhur, nhur…. “erected”…

Baby’s Day Out

We’ve been camping in Izmir, Turkey for about four days. The Boy and i crashing on sofas in the living room in the fairly small apartment The Girl shares with one of her fellow teachers here. Although she was able to get a substantial chunk of time off work to babysit entertain us, she had to go to work this afternoon.

She’s been a fabulous guide for the past two weeks, showing us some amazing sites while teaching the basics of life in Turkey. The plan for today? The Boy and i would have a “down day” in the apartment while she and her roomie went to work. Plus, it’s definitely time to do some laundry.

The Girl was scared shitless about leaving us alone.

This morning, she fussed over every detail. How to open the doors. Which keys go where. How to lock the doors. How to close the doors without making a terrible noise and annoying the neighbors. How to run the washing machine.

Our plan was to go to the grocery store next door, buy some basics, and spend the afternoon cleaning the apartment top to bottom. She coached us again on how to say “I don’t speak Turkish”, and that the cashier would ask if we wanted a store loyalty card. Reminded us how to say “No”.

As she was preparing to leave, The Boy and i noted that we felt like latch-key children, being left on their own for the first time.

The Girl: Yeah… Kinda like two giant toddlers who like beer and cigarettes.

As she left, we prepared our game plan, and grocery list, for the day. Venturing out, we were going over roles and responsibilities. It’s my job to work the conversational bits, and he’s got the key/door thing down.

The Boy: Between the two of us, we’re like one functional person.

daisyfae: Almost…

But we did it. Remembering the type of cheese The Girl likes. Sorting through the aisle of cleaning supplies and figuring out which is for windows and which is for countertops (cleverly marked with pictures of windows and countertops, by the way). Me asking for cigarettes at the checkout… Picked up a store loyalty card, and was even able to take advantage of a special on bananas! 2kg* for 1 Turkish Lire!

The Boy fixed lunch while i started cleaning. “Start at the top and work your way down”. Didn’t take too long, and we were pretty proud of the results. Plenty of time to shower and relax before we make our way to the bus stop, and wait for the 209 this evening… Hopefully finding our way to her office to meet her after work for drinks!

Two very enterprising toddlers at Ephesus yesterday. Home to some seriously old shit…

* And that’s a metric shit ton of bananas, by the way…

Turkish delight

When my children were entering their ‘double digit’ years, i had an opportunity to take them to Germany to visit a niece living there. Wanting them to learn to be citizens of the world, it was a good opportunity to take them overseas.

My ex-husband was not particularly interested in going, so it was just the three of us. With assistance from my niece, i did the planning and logistics. Flying into Frankfurt, i rented a car. And the adventure began… It was up to me to get us there, and back.

Doing my crash course in “German for Tourists” in the weeks before the trip, i was reasonably prepared for navigating in a foreign country. Didn’t hurt that i’d been there a few times before. It also didn’t hurt that in southwestern Germany, most people speak English. Together, we worked on a few important vocabulary words. Mostly, the kids would tail behind me like ducklings, eyes wide open, taking it all in.

The next year, they wanted to do it again, so we went to England. On that trip – without a significant language barrier – we did a lot more improvisation. Four days in London as we decided where to go next. A conversation with a taxi driver led us to a train station, and a few days exploring Devon and Cornwall.

Our spring holidays continued, with visits to San Francisco, Santa Barbara, and Arizona before they were out of high school and far too cool old to travel with their mother. It was great fun to share some of my favorite places with my own spawn.

Arriving in Istanbul early Thursday morning, The Boy and i made it through the airport and found our driver at baggage claim. The Girl had arrived Wednesday, and was waiting at the hotel. After a short siesta, we headed out into the city.

Although she complains that after living in the country for six months, her Turkish should be better, The Girl is out front this time. Ordering meals, explaining the history of the Turks, navigating from a map in her iPod, translating ancient Ottoman hieroglyphics.

And teaching us important words and phrases…

“Hello”

“Good Morning”

“Thank You”

“Three beers, please”

Tonight, at the Grand Bazaar, The Boy fell in love with an incredibly goofy lovely hat. Taking advantage of closing time, and her newly acquired skills, she was able to haggle with the vendor. From his original offer of 110 Turkish Lire, she got him down to 70. And The Boy joyfully collected his wares.

Tomorrow? Another day out. Since it will be raining, she’s taking us to the Blue Mosque, and then off to see the art museums on the Asian side of the city.

i will continue to follow behind like a duckling. Practicing my new vocabulary. Eyes wide open. Taking it all in.

not Constantinople…

And away we go…

i’ll be a bit scarce in your comment boxes* over the next bit…

happy holidays. may you not strangle your loved ones, or strangers in shopping malls. may you enjoy the down time at the office, fucking off for pay. may you eat yourself into a sugar coma and gain no weight.

and may we avoid finding out the joys of a Turkish prison…

*not a euphemism. probably. well… except for you. and you know who you are.

The “Dream Team”

Although it’s become passé, i’ve long been a fan of the Zombie Apocalypse as a practical metaphor for disaster preparedness. Even the stodgy Center for Disease Control built a zombie survival plan to better market the need to take a modicum of responsibility for your own sorry arse when the shit hits the fan…

As we spent time on the gun range recently, and caught up on “stuff”, The Boy appeared to be at least mildly impressed with my interest in shoring up my skills in the survival department.

Backpacking, SCUBA, motorcycling,  Now adding horseback riding lessons to the mix. Already a “one and a half banana” mechanic with machines, rudimentary plumbing and electrical wiring. A master with duct tape. Power tools (including chainsaws) do not intimidate me. i might actually be useful should the undead rise from the dirt.

It bothered me a bit – thinking about The Girl. The Boy is armed, rugged and ruthless. The Girl’s got an amazing brain, is a trained linguist, and has a powerful intellect…

Travel-wise? None better! She escaped a fight in a Turkish brothel, rode trains in India, took an impromptu trip down a Chinese river and survived seven hours on camel-back en route to the Great Pyramids – all before she was 20 years old.

As a kid, she was the least comfortable with our outdoor adventures, and wasn’t a fan of “roughing it”.  Will her Ninja-like travel skills be enough?

i really want her on the team.  “Survival of the Species” and all that shit. When genetic proliferation is at stake, i can’t exactly go back to the drawing board. My two existing spawn are all i’ve got to support my quest for DNA-based immortality.

Recounting my conversation with The Boy to Studley, as he drove us back from our horseback riding lessons, i remembered a moment from a few years back.  And found a glimmer of hope…

[sound bite signifying flashback goes here...]

It was 2004. i was battling mono. Passed out at home, with a fever of 105 F. The Girl was in town for a few days, and had borrowed my car to purchase art supplies from a warehouse in a rough part of town.

In a fever-ravaged haze, i picked up the phone as she called…

The Girl: I hit a curb when i went into the art supply house! I have a flat!

daisyfae: i have a fever and no car. Call the auto club. i can’t do a damn thing to help. Is there a spare tire?

The Girl: Let me check. I’ll call you back.

She called me back within ten minutes.

The Girl: Yes, there’s a spare. I called the auto club - they’ll be here in about an hour.

daisyfae: Wait in the store, or in the car if you don’t feel comfortable.  It’s getting dark.

The Girl: I’m fine. Some creepy dude asked me for change when I was looking for the spare. I told him to fuck off. “Can’t you see I’m having issues here?!?”

She’s on the team…

Failing “Mother School”. Again.

It started when The Girl was only 14 years old.  There was a brilliant young man at work who was seeking greener professional pastures.  Despite all of my attempts to keep The Boy Genius in town, he eventually moved on, and was recently married.  Despite the fact that i’d offered my daughter’s hand in betrothal.

She was, perhaps, a bit young…

More recently, i have become enamoured with a troupe of young celtic punk gypsy funk musicians – who happen to be gorgeous.  One young man in particular has stolen my maternal heart.  Over the weekend i had the opportunity to work the local Celtic Festival as a volunteer – serving drinks, schlepping equipment on and off stage, announcing bands, and generally doing whatever* needed doing.

With some assistance from my wingman, i had an opportunity to chat with this young man after their final set.  During a meandering conversation about life, the universe and everything, i casually mentioned that i would be quite willing to betroth my daughter to him. 

Not missing a beat, the youngster replied “How many sheep do you have?”

daisyfae:  How many do you need?

Shortly thereafter, The Girl and her boyfriend, ZZ, joined us to use up some of our free beer tickets share a happy family moment at the festival.  Not to slight ZZ, who knows i adore him, i had to mention that once again i’d perhaps found a suitable husband for her.  A man wise enough to enquire about the value of the dowry.

The Girl:  So, how many sheep am I worth?  And by the way, would you quit selling me off to young men you’re attracted to?  That’s just creepy…

* i said “whatever”, not “whomever”.  you bunch of nasty little pervs…

Trading favors

As i came home from work, my daughter’s boyfriend, ZZ, came up the stairs with a rather serious look on his face.
 
ZZ:  Follow me.  There’s something I have to show you.
 
daisyfae [looking concerned]:  What happened?
 
ZZ:  Nothing – just follow me to the kitchen.
 
He then produced several styrofoam boxes from the refrigerator.
 
ZZ [smiling]: I bought you and The Girl dinner!  Veggie burger for her, and wings and potato wedges for you!
 
daisyfae [stuffing face]:  Om nom nom….
 
ZZ:  Didn’t know what sauces you liked, so I got honey barbecue and mild sauce.
 
daisyfae [continuing to stuff face with bird wings]:  So… om… mmmmm…. [slurp], what is it you want? [snarf]  Do you want to sleep with my daughter?
 
The Girl:  Hey, are you negotiating my virtue in exchange for a dozen hot wings and some tater wedges?
 
ZZ:  Isn’t that called a dowry?
 
daisyfae: They are pretty good wings…
 
After i successfully bashed through dinner, The Girl and ZZ were preparing to head out for some grocery shopping.
 
ZZ:  Do you want us to bring back ice cream?
 
daisyfae:  What?  Are you trying to buy my favor?  BenAndJerry’sNewYorkSuperfudgeChocolateChunk.  What is it you want from me?
 
The Girl:  He’s trying to get into your pants.  Ice cream worked on me…

If we couldn’t laugh…

Another birthday.  Just a little over a week into June, and it’s already been a long month.  Despite some difficult moments over the past few weeks, my kids came through with another epic birthday card.

Note: i am not - at present - a grandmother.

Inside view:

For reference, my son has signed all cards with his first and last name since he was a small boy.

The presentation was topped off by them both rubbing their bellies: “Hmmm…. feels like a little soccer player” and “Guess who’s fireman wasn’t wearing a hat?”

Thanks, kids.  You turned out ok, despite my piss-poor parenting skills.  i’m a happy ol’ lady tonight.

If we couldn’t laugh, we would all go insane…

They go round and round…

My first reaction was mild irritation.  Why couldn’t i have cleared the oncoming school bus before the red flashing lights came on, forcing me to stop?  Since i was returning to the office following a mid-afternoon appointment, i decided I wasn’t really in a hurry, and went back to sorting the ‘to-do’ list in my head.
 
An older man stood patiently at the end of the driveway, waiting for the bus to dispatch a child.  Slightly rounded of spine, he was maybe in his mid- to late-sixties.  i looked again to see if it was a “special needs” bus for disabled students – wondering just how long i’d be sitting there if the wheelchair ramp had to deploy.  Relieved as the emerging child bounded down the bus steps.  He was a gangly thing, somewhere around 10 years old.
 
My irritation was soon replaced  by amusement.
 
As soon as the boy hopped from the last step, the old man turned and sprinted toward the front door – a foot race!  The kid went full out, cutting Grandpa no slack.  But Grandpa showed game, using his height advantage and stretching to full stride.  They were neck-and-neck, as the bus pulled away from the curb, blocking my view of the finish line.  i rolled onwards. 
 
For the remainder of the drive, my ‘to-do’ list was nowhere to be found – replaced by a flood of memories. 
 
The way it felt to step off the bus on a sunny spring day and race down a driveway that seemed to be miles long.  Watching my son and his friends execute games with complex rules only they understood in little-boy war games.  Putzing around the house, seeing my daughter spend hours at her “art table”, humming tunes to herself as she made magic with glitter, glue and odd piles of colored paper.  In the backyard, my Dad patiently teaching me how to throw a football in a perfect spiral.  The endless feel of a summer afternoon, floating on a raft in Lake Erie while my son tried out his new swim gear – perfecting the art of blowing snorkel-water on his old lady.  Squeals from the family room at midnight, as my daughter and her friends giggled their way through a sleep-over party.
 
Memories of my childhood.  Memories of their childhood.  Swirled together – the same way i still mush up my cake and ice cream at birthday parties.
 
Simply from a glimpse into the daily ritual of a man and his grandson…  i was uncharacteristically cheerful all afternoon.