It must be hard being a parent.

Here's a recent theory I'm developing. The imperative word being "developing." The impression I'm getting is that parents observe their children and try and fit them into certain ideas that they have in their minds.

For example, if their kid is a good student and the parents weren't, they imagine a path where the kid goes to a good school, gets good grades, graduates and then moves on to a successful job, gets married and you know the rest. Now, if the said kid decides to take a year off midway through college to travel (or something similar) the parent's idealized world has just fallen into pieces. This was not in the plan. What is this kid doing? The parent gets worried and decides the kid's screwing up the future.

If the kid is significantly different than the parents, then it's even harder to figure out what's best for the child so I think the parents struggle even harder. It's hard to give advice when you can't relate. You want to be helpful and you want to guide but how can you advise on something you don't understand?

When the plan goes awry, the parent panics. What if the kid's ruining his life? What if this is a mistake that's going to cost a lot? What if it's the wrong choice?

The fact is, the kid is also an individual and as soon as he thinks he's ready to make some decisions, he wants to make them. The idea, or illusion, of having control of your life and your path is really important to a young adult. It's also crucial to learn to make mistakes as part of making decisions. If the kid never makes a mistake until he's much older, the mistake will have bigger consequences and often a harder impact.

I have a friend whose parents sheltered her for a long time and such she never realized how mean people can be until she came to college. Trust me when I say that it's much harder to swallow the truth at twenty. I learned the same fact at like six or seven when my classmates were mean and it hurt but I had years to get over it and build a shield for future protection.

I imagine it must be hard to let your kids do what they want to. The urge to protect must be overwhelming. The even more annoying fact is you have no idea what's right and what's wrong for the kid. Every person is an individual with his or her mind, luck, wishes and hopes. It's nearly impossible to tell someone what the right move for that person is. The best thing to do is try and teach the right morals and a solid thought process to the child and hope that he uses it well. And also to trust.

The rest is up to them.

Previously? Savages.

I went wedding-dress shopping today.

My mom, my sister, one of her little boys, Jeff, and I filled in the car and drove to the other side of town. Jeff was coughing a bit and my sister's doctor is in the same neighborhood as the dress shop so she tagged along. Since his brother got to go to kindergarten instead of the doctor's, Jeff was feeling bummy and didn't talk to us in the car.

After we made it to the dress shop, he decided he wanted some candy. He didn't want to wait till we left the wedding store, he said and since we knew it was going to be a while in the store my mom went across the street and bought him some mints and some chocolate. The cute little two-and-a-half year-old sat quietly and chunched on his mints while we looked through collections of white dresses.

A half hour later, I put on the dress that we liked the most and turned to Jeff, who was now munching on a chocolate bar, I asked if he liked my dress. 'Yes,' he replied. 'Should I buy it?' I asked. 'Yes,' he replied. 'Will you give me a kiss?' I asked. He nodded and to the anxiety of my mom and the sales woman walked over to me in my white dress with his chocolate bar and gave me a kiss on each cheek.

He did not touch any of the dresses and when his bar was finished, he raised his hands and told my sister that her hands needed to be washed.

Not all kids make a mess.

I got a kiss from my nephew, found a pretty dress, arranged my invitations and even found comfy and pretty white shoes.

Today was a good day.

Oh, and the flight over was just fine. It feels good to be home.

Previously? That Time.

It's that time again.

It might seem to you as if I go home very often, but to me, if feels like years have passed since the last time I saw my little nephews. My sister. My parents. My brother-in-law. My friends.

This time it's even more special than usual. This time we have a celebration. This time we have Jake's parents and his siblings. This time we get to take our relationship to the next level. To a more permanent one. This time I get to shop for wedding dresses. This time I get to prepare invitations and maybe even party favors.

All of that fills me with anxiety and excitement. But mostly happiness.

This will also be the first time I've been in a plane since the day before my birthday. I don't even want to say the date that seems to roll off people's tongue's so easily lately. It hasn't been that long and I personally haven't adjusted all that well just yet. At least not well enough to have made it part of my vocabulary.

I've never been afraid of riding on a plane. When I was little, my mom would hold my hand on the plane, her palms sweating right into mine. I would tell her that there's nothing to fear, the chances of something going wrong are very low.

I'm uttering the same words to myself now.

I'm not sure things are back to normal. I'm not sure they ever will be. But I am sure that for as long as my family lives that far away, I will regularly have to get on a plane and travel over the Atlantic Ocean. I don't intend to let anyone stop me from being able to do that.

Especially not when it means I get to hug the two little boys I miss the most.

I will try and update frequently from home, but as always, no guarantees, so in the meantime feel free to browse the archives, leave some fun comments, or contact me personally.

And keep smiling.

Previously? Smut or Substance.

This time tomorrow, I'll be over the Atlantic Ocean.

I've already written about my feelings when it gets this close to going home.

I've already written about hugging my nephews.

I'm sitting here and trying to come up with a pithy entry. Something that will make you think during the next few days that I won't be updating the site. Something to keep you entertained. Something to keep you busy.

But all my thoughts fail me.

This is about the time when my feelings have completely taken over everything else. I go through my daily motions and do what I need to, but the whole time there's this loud voice inside my head and all it says is:

"You're going home!"

It's not quiet. It's yelling. It's not subtle. It's a continuous loop. It's there during all my waking hours. It even creeps into my dreams.

I've packed all my presents, Jake's clothes, my clothes, 4 library books on education, Derek's book into a piece of luggage. Add to that a bag pack full of printouts on education reform, Trail Fever by Michael Lewis, The Language Instinct by Pinker, my laptop and my Japanese homework and our passports and tickets. We're set to go!

All this for nine days.

I hate packing. I want to take everything with me. All my books. My cameras. My laptop. More clothes than I could wear in a month. Mostly cause I hate to have to choose. I want it all so I don't need to make any decisions. What if I finish all six books in one day and I have nothing left for the rest of the week. That's what I think. Even after the last eleven trips where I barely finished a book, I take six with me just in case.

Just in case what? Your guess is as good as mine.

I simply suck at packing.

I apologize for the lack of depth in this post. But the voice in my head won't let me do anything. All it can think of is lying on the couch in our balcony, playing with my nephews. Hugging my nephews. Hugging my nephews. Hugging my nephews.

My mom, my dad, my sister, my brother in law, my grandmas. But most importantly, my nephews.

See? This is why I should stop writing now!

I promise to have something much deeper to say as soon as I arrive in Burgaz.

Btw, I am in the process of putting together a new idea and I need volunteers. If you're interested email me.

Previously? Courage and Fear.

I hate roller coasters.

That wasn't always the case.

Thirteen years ago, my parents took my sister and me to Disney World. My father had been telling us stories about Disney World for years, all made up. He'd tell us that there would be buttons by our bedside and when we pressed them Smarties would fall down.

Our trip started in Paris and involved New York, Florida, Miami, and ended back in Paris. It was the best trip I ever took with my family. We went on every ride and made sure to maximize each day. I even got to celebrate my birthday in two different states. I remember quite a few of the rides but one of the most memorable is Space Mountain.

We didn't know what we were getting into, we just eyed the extremely long line and figured it must be the best ride in the park. As we got closer to the ride, my parents got suspicious from the screaming and suggested that maybe we should go to another place. My sister and I whined about how long we'd already waited and how there was no way we were turning back now. And we didn't. Our turn came and our car took two couples, one in front of the other. I opened my legs and my sister sat in front of me with my arms wrapped around her chest. My mom did the same to my dad.

If you've ever ridden Space Mountain, you'd know that the place is completely dark. You cannot even see your own hand. When we got off the ride, my mom said that for a second she was confidant that my dad's heart had stopped as we did a huge dive. But I liked Space Mountain. It wasn't scary. At least that's not how I remember it.

By the time I made it back to United States, six years later, I had somehow done a complete 180. My boyfriend coaxed me to ride Steel Phantom and it was one of the worst experiences of my life. My head kept banging to the sides and I couldn't understand the point of it. When Jake and I visited Florida, we rerode the Space Mountain and I hated it.

I'm not really sure what happened between 14 and 18, but scary events don't seem to produce the exciting dose of adrenaline in me.

I don't understand the joy of sitting on a piece of steel and having your body throttled around. Why is it such a rush? How come cutting it close is such a thrill? Does it make you cool if you die of something moronic like mountain climbing without proper equipment? Is it all to compensate for some other area of lacking? Or maybe it's me who's undercompensating. Maybe I'm running away from some bigger fear. I really don't know the answers. All I know is that I hate motorcycles. I can't stand roller coasters. I never felt the need to go bungee jumping. I don't even watch scary movies. Nothing scary turns me on.

Except for jumping out of a plane.

But that's a completely different story.

Previously? Noises.

"Sweetie, I really think we should move into a two bedroom."

"What?"

"It's just that this house is so small and we really should be looking for a two bedroom."

"But we only come home to sleep."

"We're here all weekend long."

"When we're not at work."

"This way when my family or your family comes to visit, they can stay in the other room and it won't create the mess it now does in the living room."

"Karen, it would be cheaper for us to pay their hotel each time. Do you really think we need another bedroom?"

Do I? Nope. Of course we don't need another bedroom and the amount of rent saved would easily allow us to go to Turkey once a month. I don't think we should move into a two-bedroom. My mom does.

"Maybe I should take a writing class?"

"What? You don't need a writing class, you just need to write more."

"But I write so badly."

"No you don't and a class won't help that anyway."

"But maybe I cant take a class that tells me what I'm doing wrong or one that helps me find my voice? A class where the teacher can tell me that I should keep trying or just cut my losses and move on."

"Karen, you're fooling yourself. You've already taken all the necessary classes."

Have I? Would a class really help? Nope. Why do I know? Cause I took it. Did I think it was going to help? Nope. But Jake did.

"It's really important that I learn how to speak French better, with a perfect accent."

"I shouldn't quit my job when they think so highly of me."

"Why would I move to California when I'm already so far away from home?"

"I can't be a real writer if I don't like James Joyce or Hemingway."

Who says? Why are other people's thoughts, words, priorities and judgements so important? Why do I hold myself to the expectations of others?

In the blur of other people's conversations and questioning, I've been having a hard time finding my own thoughts. And it's important that I do. It's my life. These are my days on this earth and it's my right to use them up as I wish. As long as I'm not harming others, I should be allowed to execute them according to my own wants.

And I will.

I'm learning to distinguish my voice within the noise.

Previously? Random.

I've always been fascinated with how little we know about our parents.

A few years ago, when I first started writing, I went around and asked my friends how their parents had met. Many of them had no idea. (Most of the ones who did, unfortunately had a really boring story, but that's another issue.)

I remember being appalled at how little we knew about the people who brought us into this world and with whom we spent many waking moments of our childhood and adolescence. I'd never thought to ask my grandmother what kind of a daughter my mom was or my father about his memories of boarding school.

As someone who lives really far away from her family, one of my biggest fears has always involved a rapidly spreading disease taking away one of my parents before I had a chance to say goodbye. I specifically didn't say "before I was ready" since I'm not sure I'd ever be prepared for the demise of either of my parents. But the fear of not even making it to Turkey in time used to overwhelm me enough to consider moving back home.

I decided that I wanted to get to know my parents better. Like many caregivers in one's life (i.e. teachers, psychologists, etc.) interaction with parents tends to start as a one-sided relationship. Obviously, in the beginning, you're too small and can't take care of yourself. Your parents are fully focused on you and you're often focused on their focusing on you. You don't spend too much energy trying to figure out what their life outside involves, as you often don't want them to have a life besides the one with you. I'm sure this doesn't apply to everyone. It did to me. I always cried when my parents went out at nights. I wouldn't care what they were going out to do, all I cared was that they were leaving me.

Over the years, my relationship with my parents changed and I found out a lot about their relationship with each other, the early days of their marriage, their family dynamics with their parents and siblings. But I still don't feel like I know my parents as well as I want to.

I often wonder what their aspirations were before they met each other. Did they have another significant other that they almost married? Did they fight as much as my sister and I with their siblings? Do they feel like they've achieved what they set out to do? Did they even set out to do something? Did they always only want to have two kids? What's their happiest childhood memory? What about the saddest?

I just wish I could have met my parents when they were kids. Would I have liked them? Were they too quiet? Too popular? Too geeky? I wish I could know more about their own childhood and pranks and naughty things they did that drove their parents crazy.

So I decided I wanted to take vacations with each parent separately. A week where all we talk about is their childhood. Their life. I feel like if I get to know them better, it won't hurt so much to know that they might not be around forever.

Which is bullshit since it will hurt like mad regardless.

But at least this way I won't feel like I've missed out on the chance of knowing the people whose genetic makeup merged to create me. This way a part of them will live through me and I can tell their stories to my children and my children's children.

This way I won't regret not knowing my parents.

Previously? Artistic Expressions.

They say girls have a soft spot for their dads.

I'm not sure of the accuracy of that sentiment but it definitely applied to my mom.

My grandfather passed away eleven years ago. He got an extremely rare disease that practically made his bones melt. He was fine one day and gone within a week. In the week after my grandfather's passing we had many visitors but my mom was mostly in a daze.

One of her clients approached her and said, "May God never give you as much pain as you can endure."

I still remember the surprised look my mom gave the woman. She thought the client was inappropriate and uncaring.

It took us years to fully understand the depth of the woman's wisdom.

Humans are capable of handling large doses of pain. Really large doses.

I spend hours of my day worrying about the stupidest things. I worry about work and performing well. Increasing the speed of a stored procedure. Laying out a usable interface. Debugging an executable that keeps hanging.

On the weekend I worry about the day ending. Not spending enough time writing my novel. That I still suck at the saxophone and that I'm out of milk.

I really do worry about the stupidest things. I get upset and I let it get to me.

Last thanksgiving I hurt my back, without doing anything. After a month of struggling with doctors and turning suicidal thanks to steroids, I found out that I had two herniated discs on my back. I spent the last seven months making twice weekly trips to the physical therapist, taking pills that ate the lining of my stomach, and getting poked by acupuncture needles that caused my body to react in the most unusual ways. I felt like crap. I got better. And I felt like crap again.

Last night, my neck started hurting. I felt like someone was sticking a wooden pole where my skull met my neck. As Jake told me about his day, my left side slowly started to fall asleep. It was as if thousands of ants walked up and down my arm.

I took some Vioxx and went to bed. I figured I must be exaggerating or hallucinating the pain.

Well, the morning greeted me with a big smile and even more pain. Less awareness on my left side, acute pain on the arm. Three hours of begging on the phone and my doctor said I should go over there. He said back pain doesn't move up the spine and had I been to a neurologist yet?

Not what I wanted to hear.

I go to the doctor, I wait in the office, I walk in, he pokes me with paperclips. He says it looks like I might have another slipped disc, this time on my neck.

Suddenly, everything else doesn't seem so worrisome anymore.

I only hope I don't have to have as much pain as I can endure.

Previously? Museum.

I used to be a very private person.

I always thought that my problems were my private business and that no one needed to know those things about me. My mother, on the other hand, believes on the public distribution of information. No matter what the issue was, she'd find a way to bring it up in conversation.

"I was talking to Stella today and she was talking about how she just had a breast reduction and how her doctor was so great...."

"Rita just told me about how her son had his herniation fixed. She says it's a real simple operation"

Whatever my concern might be, it just so happened that someone else would mention it to my mom that very day.

Yeah, Right.

We'd fight endlessly about how she couldn't possibly keep anything to herself. Privacy wasn't something my mom understood very clearly.

Recently I've been having a bit of a change of heart on this matter. I still believe in the importance and relevance of a right to privacy. If I want something kept a secret, my family and friends who happened, for one reason or another, to find out about it, should respect my wishes.

The part I've been rethinking is the desperate need for secrecy.

While we glorify individuality, I think we all, on some level, feel the need to be a part of something. People like to be able to relate to each other. We feel most alone when we think we're the only person who's been faced with an unfair disadvantage.

How come I'm the only person who develops cancer at the age of twenty?

Why do I have to wear braces as an adult? No one else does, I will look like a freak.

The thing is, you're not alone. You're never alone. You're not the only one who has cancer or wears braces as an adult. You're not the only one who lost a loved one or can't have a baby. You're not the only one who's been cheated on or married an already married person.

While everyone handles a situation in his or her own individual ways and there are no clear-cut solutions to a problem, sometimes all you need to know is that you're not the only one. And putting aside the emotional benefits, at times there are even practical reasons for sharing.

If you're suffering from an unusual illness, it might benefit you to share that with someone because they might know of a new cure that's being tested or a doctor whose specialty is your disease. Why not benefit from that? And you'll never know about all this information and sources around you unless you speak up.

While I still don't condone casually bringing up a subject you might be touchy about, I do think that using the people whom you trust around you and sharing isn't really a bad thing. It's surprising how much you'll find out just by saying a few words. It's amazing how many people are going through or have already gone through the very same thing.

If you knew they could help you, would you talk then? If your answer is yes, then remember that life is not an open notebook and nothing is for free. You must give some to get some.

And if your answer is no, I'd challenge you to give it a try next time. Start with just sharing it with one person. See what happens.

You might be surprised.

Previously? Not So Common.

I work on wall street where many people make more money in a month thanothers have in a lifetime. Some of these people pay a monthly rent that'sclose to my yearly salary.

Most of the above mentioned people, however, come in to work before dawn,some even as early at 4:30am. They stay here until 8,9, sometimes even 10 orway past midnight. (at the lower ranks of the firm there are many analyststhat simply go home to take a shower and come back, but these poor soulsearn very little for the enormous time commitment that they call a job.)These really high level managers never really get to see their children growup. How could they? They're never home.

Some of these men (as they almost always are) are more than happy to admitthat they like the money. They want the money. They want the prestige. Ihave no issues with such people.

My beef is with the other set. The ones who claim they're doing it for theirfamily. The ones who spend up to sixteen hours of their day away from thevery family for which they're trying to provide opportunities.

I don't know who they think they're fooling but it's not me and I bet nottheir family either.

I don't mean to imply that money isn't important or that it doesn't allowfor amazing opportunities. But I think our society strongly undermines theimportance of shared time.

I grew up in a pretty decent household, money-wise. My parents were kindenough to get my sister and me almost anything we asked for. We neverreally wore brand names or had cars, but we didn't ever feel deprivedeither. While I spent countless hours playing with the toys my parentsbought me, some of my fondest childhood memories are from times we spenttogether as a family.

My father would spend days planning our birthdays. He was famous in theneighborhood for throwing the best birthday parties ever. My sister'sfriends to the day tell him how awesome the parties were. My mother wouldbribe me to ditch school so we could spend the day together and go shopping(all right, that might not be a good example setting, but it was qualitytime with my mom). One of my favorite vacations ever was when I was thirteenand we went to Disney World as a family. Another one a few years ago when Imet my sister and my mom in Rome and my dad joined us after three days. Orwhen I was in London for work and my mom came to hang out with me.

None of the presents I ever got is more valuable than the memories I havewith my family. Money might be able to buy presents and toys and vacationsand exotic trips but if your children don't get to spend them with you,you've deprived them of the thing they need most.

This doesn't go just for parenting. When was the last time you called a goodfriend and asked to hang out? We take the people around us for granted waytoo often. We think they'll always be there. What if your friend who lives afew streets down, and whom you never see but you always could cause he'sright there, decides he's moving across the country?

Why wait for an occasion? Call now. It doesn't matter what you do, only thatyou do it together.

Previously? Oxymoron.

Previously? Amerika.

Previously? Tick Tick Tick.

Previously? Wasted Emotions.

Previously? RIP DNA.

My mother never graduated from high school.

There is a word for people like my mom in Turkish but I've been struggling with finding an accurate translation. If I look up the word "becerikli" in a Turkish-English dictionary, it says skillful. But I don't think that's an accurate translation. We mostly use it to mean a combination of capable, skillful, street-smart and several other related concepts.

My mother has worked pretty much every day of my life. At times she worked eleven-hour days and at times, she only worked a few days a week. She's never worked in the traditional company setting. When I was a kid, she used to design jewelry and work as a consultant to individuals who wanted custom-made jewelry. She'd draw the design according to their tastes and then get it made for them. She worked with a bunch of jewelry makers, stone setters, etc. After I graduated high school, she reduced the hours she worked in order to learn to relax and enjoy life a bit more.

A few years ago, she started offering decorative advice to a few acquaintances. They would pay her to rearrange the furniture, paintings, etc. in a certain room to give it a new look. She was so good that word of mouth got her new clients. She moved from simple rearrangement to decorating. She went antique shopping. She decorated restaurants. She's gotten to a point where she ends up having to turn down offers cause she's too busy.

Yesterday, Jake and I walked over to Borders so that I could check out some GRE books. I've been contemplating getting a PhD. Most of the areas I'm interested in require a subject-GRE exam. As I leafed through the biology, literature and psychology exams, I got more and more discouraged. By the time we walked out of the bookstore, I'd almost given up on the idea of applying to college. What was the point? There was no way I was going to get accepted. I even told myself that after a BS and an MS, I had no knowledge to show for all that past education.

Several hours later, I started thinking about my mom and how she'd managed to have several successful careers without much education. Surely such careers were hard to start without the appropriate education background, but she'd done it. And if she could do it, why couldn't I? I told myself to stop feeling depressed and start making plans. I decided to do research about several jobs I'd love to do and figure out what background the people in those positions had. I also decided to look into different research projects offered by schools in areas I am interested. I figured even if I can't get into the program now, I might be able to get a job in the area and start learning.

I've always been proud of my mom for her tenacity and ability to do just about anything she wanted. But today, she taught me another valuable lesson. She taught me that life is not always conventional.

There are a plethora of paths to reach an end-goal.

Previously? Crappy Web.

"Have you talked to her yet?"

"To whom?"

"You know who I'm talking about."

"What?"

"Look if I wanted to be more straightforward, I would have. Try to think back to our conversations the last time we saw each other."

She's silent for a while. I can't tell if she's thinking or distracted by something else. After a few seconds, she says, "You mean my mom?"

"Right. You haven't talked to her, have you?"

"No."

"You're not going to?"

"No."

"But you can't keep repressing those feelings."

"I'm not. I don't care."

"Are you trying to fool yourself or me? Cause I'm not buying it."

"I don't think it's worth wasting my time talking to someone who's too shallow to get it."

"She's your mother."

"So?"

"How do you know she's too shallow? Wouldn't you be hurt if I thought you were too shallow? Maybe you're really worried that she'll understand and still not change. Cause then you can't tell yourself that she's doing it because she doesn't know."

"Maybe."

"I still think it's better to talk things out. Always better to know."

"Maybe I'm waiting for the right moment."

"Maybe. And maybe you make the moment."

She pauses again. "Maybe."

I don't want to push her anymore, "I love you."

"Me, too."

I put the phone down and hope the right moment comes soon.

Previously? Girlie.

I'm learning to play the saxophone. When I told my dad about the classes, he said, "Are you sure you want to play that? It's not really a girly instrument. Why not the piano?"

My first reaction was to laugh. I work in an investment bank and I am a computer programmer. Neither of which are 'girly' environments.

As a child, I was quite far away from a tomboy. To the day, I have never climbed a tree. I used to sew clothes for my Barbie dolls. I spent most of my time playing with them or reading. I cried often and I was extremely shy. So I spose I was a girly girl.

And then I started school. Since I suck at history and adore math, I leaned towards the sciences and math. I went to all-girls middle and high schools, so I never knew that girls weren't supposed to be good at math. Or at being leaders.

I moved from one 'boy-field' to another. I studied computers at a college where the ratio of women to men is 1 to 7. (thankfully, that's not the case anymore) I worked at Bell Labs and then joined the investment bank. Never even paid attention to the fact that I was surrounded by men. I guess I never read the memo explaining that since I was a female, I was supposed to feel inferior. So I just kept on doing what I liked, learning as much as possible.

I pretty much suck at all the 'girly' stuff, now. I can't cook and I hate to clean. I'm pretty messy and I hate shopping for clothes. I never remember to put creams on my skin. Makeup is an effort. I have never ever thought of my wedding day. I don't even know why TV and film producers think that all women dream of their wedding day. Almost all my good friends are men.

I guess I've been lucky that no one ever made me feel less important. No one said, "You're a woman, you don't know." And at this point, I'm confident hell would break loose if they do. I may have many hang-ups but being female has never been one. No one can tell me what I can or cannot do.

So after I was done laughing, I replied, "I love you, Daddy, but I want to learn the saxophone and not the piano."

Previously? Falling Sky.

No thanks to you, I decided what present to give my sister.

This present, which you most probably shall hear more about as it nears completion, includes collecting memories and pictures from family members and friends. One of the things I noticed while we did a similar thing for my mother was that you can easily see a pattern in people's words. If five or more people say that you're gentle and kind, odds are they're probably right.

As I go through the emails, I enjoy seeing other people's opinions of my sister. I like the similarities cause they define my sister's core traits. I also like to see the ones who are distinctly different. It makes me wonder why she has such a unique relationship with this person when compared to the others.

Since a large portion of the present is a long story by me, I figured I should dig into my bank of memories and pull out a few entertaining moments. To my dismay, I realized that I can't remember anything from before kindergarten.

I can recall how much I cried when my mother took me to my first day in kindergarten. I have strong memories of my first day of elementary school. But nothing before the age of five. With one exception. I remember when my sister taught me to read. She was lying on my parent's bed, reading a newspaper, and I asked her to show me how she read. Starting with the large headlines, she taught me each letter. I can't remember how old I was but I know it was before kindergarten.

I've seen many photographs of my childhood, a whole lot of them with my sister, so I know I'm not adopted. But, for the life of me, I can't remember anything from the first five years of my life. The symbolism of such a lack of memory must be strong but I have absolutely no idea what it means.

It's not that I had a sad childhood, we have home videos and photos proving otherwise, but I somehow erased that part of my brain. Maybe I overwrote it with information on how to create hash tables or linked lists.

What's the earliest childhood memory you can remember?

Previously? First Time

Heather's mention of Tarot card reading made me remember my childhood struggles with fortune telling. When I was fifteen or so, my sister and her friend went out dancing on a Saturday night.

At the early hours of the next morning, I woke up cause of a commotion in the living room. The girl that my sister went out with was in the hospital. The story goes that somewhere around two hours into the night, she went over to my sister and asked if my sister wanted to come along to another bar a few miles away. My sister shook her head, so this girl and a guy left the bar, saying they'd be back in a few hours. In OJ fashion, a third guy joined them in the car, but he was totally drunk. The driving guy wasn't so sober himself and there are several versions of this story, one being that he was really drunk and another that a car was chasing them and cornering them. Either way, the guy ended up smashing right into the wall of a tunnel with a sharp turn and the girl flew out of the window (at the time, you weren't required to put on a seatbelt in Turkey) and was plastered all over the wall.

The driver was only slightly hurt and the guy in the back walked away without injuries but also slept through the entire event. The driver then picks up the remains of the girl and hails a cab (says a lot about Turkey that a cab was willing to stop for a guy carrying a really bloody girl) and takes the girl to the nearest hospital. She lays in a coma for several weeks and then comes out of it long enough for the doctors to consider doing reconstructive surgery on the originally breathtaking girl's now non-existent face. But the next day, she lapses back into the coma and dies.

After she died, there were a lot of rumors circulating that this girl used to consistently go to a fortuneteller. Supposedly, this fortuneteller told her that very week that she was going to die during that week. While the likeliness of this story being true is slim to none, it still gave me the creeps.

To add to my disdain of palm readers and such, my neighbor went to see one with a bunch of her friends and they were all in the room together when this woman tells my neighbor that her father is cheating on her mother. Even if the fortuneteller was totally wrong, is this something you want to hear in front of your friends?

Putting my skepticism or lack thereof aside, I don't think I could possibly stand hearing potentially damaging news, from someone who is supposed to tell the future, and not dwell on it.

It's not that I'm not curious, I'm just really scared, I guess. Cause you know what? I have more than enough worries already.

Previously? Totality of Life.

“You don’t like anyone,” she says. I can’t tell whether it’s a disapproving tone or a matter-of-fact one.

“That’s not true!” I protest a little too strongly considering the lack of accusation in her voice. I start naming my friends. People I love, people I like and people I can stand. It’s not a short list, I do like many people. “It’s just your friends’ children whom I don’t like.”

She’s not hurt. She already knows. I’m not trying to blame her. It’s not her fault that her kid doesn’t fit in. I’m the weird one.

“She’s just not nice,” I continue, desperate for approval. “She looks down on people and talks behind their back.”

“It’s been ten years since you last talked to her. Is it possible that she changed?”

“People never change.” The words come out but I don’t know if I mean them. I do believe that people change. But I also believe that it requires extreme effort for that person. I know that these people are too uncaring or too stupid to change. I don’t tell her all this because I don’t know how to put it nicely. I don’t know how to say it without sounding judgmental.

The truth is I am judgmental. Especially when those people are the subject matter. I’m not willing to give them another chance. I don’t want to have anything to do with them anymore. Not ever again. I’m sure a psychologist would disapprove of such blockage of emotion, but I don’t care. I need time to heal and fifteen years hasn’t been enough.

She’s quiet as I remember the unpleasant moments of my childhood. “I don’t know why you feel so uncomfortable. You’re so much more successful than they.”

I shake my head. She doesn’t understand. I’m not even sure I understand. “It’s not about that. I don’t care if they’re successful. I want them to be successful. I’m the problem. I’m the one who has to get over it.” I’m the one who needs to stop shaking each time I see one of them. I’m the one who needs to stop turning into the ugly, weird girl they made fun of each time they greet me.

She’s quiet again. She’s not a quiet person. Neither of us is. I know she wants to say the right words. The ones that will pop me out of this self-deprecation. Be happy, she wants to order. Instead she says, “You have so much to be happy for.”

“I know. I’m happy,” I reply.

I am. Mostly.

Previously? The Unthinkable

Here's the deal. In my family we tend to give special gifts for big birthdays. For my father's fiftieth, my sister and I videotaped each of his friends talking about my dad and how they met and they told small anecdotes. Since my father has always been into making home movies, telling anecdotes and doens't like being the center of attention, it was the perfect gift for him.

My uncle has lived in several countries in Europe and has friends literally all over the world. For his fiftieth, we emailed and called his friends and got them to send us short letters written for his birthday. We then bound those letters into a book and gave it to my uncle.

When my grandmother turned eighty, my sister dug through old photos and got generations of pictures from our family and made a large, amazing collage.

Finally, for my mother's fiftieth, my sister called each of my mom's friends and asked them to write up a small note, telling us their feelings about our mom. We made a web page with fifty hearts, my mom loves hearts, and underneath each heart, we put either a note from a friend or a photo from a special date. (Like my sister and my birthdays, my parent's engagement, their wedding, etc.)

My sister is turning thirty on Valentine's day. I had scheduled to be there, but my doctor says it's best if I don't fly; the trip takes eleven hours. Especially since I can't physically be there, I want to do something special for my sister's birthday. The thing is, even though I helped with the coding of the webpages, my sister came up with all of the above neat ideas. Now that I can't pick her brain, I am drawing a complete blank.

So I decided I would ask for help. If you have any ideas at all, please tell me.

There are only a few small details. Valentine's day is about three weeks away, so it can't take longer than that. Between now and then, I will not be able to go to Turkey so I can't take any new photos. I might be able to find a way to get my parents on my brother in law to send some already existing photos, but that's about it. The present can involve my sister's husband and/or her one-and-a-half year old twin sons, but I really want it to be focused on my sister. I'd prefer for it to be a present from the family, but if it's just from me, that's fine, too. (So it can be about sisterhood if you can think of a neat idea with that.) I have no other siblings, it's just my sister and me. It can be photos, it can be a book, notebook, craft, music, anything. As long as it's unique and personal. However, I prefer not to do something we've already done to a family member.

Feel free to ask me anything I might have left out. Feel free to spread the word. Ask anyone.

I really want to do something special for her.

Help me.

Previously? Know Thyself.

Two days ago a close friend of the family came to New York. My mother, as is often the case, sent me a package with her. She sent me the marrons glaces I mentioned earlier this week. She also sent me the following photograph of my sister, brother-in-law and my twin nephews.

When I look at that picture, my heart melts and I suddenly feel that all my selfish reasons for living a million miles away from my family are terrible. I want to be there. I want to see my nephews walk and talk. I want them to see my face and smile just the way their faces light up when my mother enters the room. I want to hug them every single day.

Sometimes my decisions are too hard to live with.

Previously?

I was going to write a long diatribe about this but I decided not to. I am not on any list and I don't personally know any of the people who are mentioned and I'm not sure I want to start some major thing, so I will keep my thoughts on the matter for now. But I might come back to it. If you have an opinion you want to share, you can post on the MetaFilter thread or mail me and I'll be happy to share my thoughts privately.

I have an oral exam in my sign language class on Monday. (Yes, I do see the humor in that sentence.) It's my final class for this level and my little story will decide whether I pass or fail. I am to come up with a 3-minute talk using the vocabulary learned in this class. The subjects we learned are; years (telling a life story thru years), different countries, describing shapes of objects, cooking related signs, and food related signs. If you can come up with a story using those, please please mail me. I will be eternally grateful.

Before?

Thoughts
After a fourteen-hour sleep, I feel much better. The most interesting part about visiting a country like Turkey is that it looks totally different each time you come. Even for me, especially for me. The perpetual construction causes the skyline to change dramatically and constantly. People adhere to the strict rules of fashion. A new American-sounding restaurant or cafe opens weekly. When I grew up, we never had most foreign foods. No such thing as cereal or bagels or M&Ms. Now, everything is here. When I first moved to the United States, eight years ago, one dollar was six thousand Turkish Lira and now it's over six hundred thousand Lira. These are just a few of the changes. For me it's fascinating each time. It's also sort of sad cause some of my favorite childhood places have disappeared.

My sister and her husband just bought a house. Besides the fact that there is no such thing as a mortgage here, it's also weird that they bought the house while it's being constructed. I mean so much so that it doesn't even have the toilets installed yet. It leaves most of the work to imagination.

It's wonderful to be near family. Even though I miss Jake a lot, I love getting to see my parents and my sister and the smiles on the tiny, sweet faces of my nephews. Kids are truly amazing. They are the definition of the word 'joy'.

Happy Yom Kippur to you. My fast has officially started. May it end quickly and well. Lots of sleeping, reading, and movie watching to do tomorrow.

Before?

Other than being quite seriously jetlagged, and being thoroughly thrilled that I got to see my twin nephews, I can't think of anything to say. I promise to make pithy comments tomorrow.

Before?

I also can’t wait to settle in the plane and have several hours to catch up on my reading and my homework and think about my novel. I hope they show decent movies. As much as I hate being cramped up in that small seat for so long, I love the sensation of being in the air. One of my dreams is to get to fly a plane. One day.

I thought last night’s debate was a lot more civil and mature and I’m amazed that the candidates even answered most of the questions. I’m not sure why I got so involved at this year’s elections since I can’t vote and I used to hate politics. I still hate it, I think, but I find it fascinating lately. Especially with how close this year’s race will end up.

The fall season is about to start and I still haven’t received my TiVo. As someone who can’t function without the TV set on, I am hoping and praying that it will arrive soon.

Well, my next post will be from Istanbul, hopefully. I will try to update daily there, too.

Before?