Today was a good day.
Last few months have been days of crisis after crisis. Going to work and staring at the screen and coming back home without having gotten my scripts to work. Spending hours trying to make sense of everything that just refuses to cooperate. Not responding to email or phone calls while the do-to list keeps increasing. Some jerk stealing my credit card and using it to put expensive crafts supplies. Classes where I would love to do the homework only if my brain would cooperate.
Wednesday, I realized one of the biggest reasons of my unhappiness at work. Thursday, I got it resolved. I had a very important meeting today, which went so well it was beyond my expectations. And to top it all off, I fixed my script.
I responded to the three most outstanding and most dreaded emails I’d had since November. My friends Judy and Priscilla, whom I hadn’t seen in three years, came to New York so we got to meet and have a long chat. My Italian Literature teacher recommended several books that I’ve been looking forward to read. I got the notary signature/stamp on my affidavit due to the fraudulent charges on my credit card.
As more and more issues got resolved, I felt more energized and fixed even more stuff. Amazing how something small can set off a chain reaction.
Sometimes the universe just aligns to fit your needs and all you need to do is be thankful.
Thank You.
Previously? Silence.
For some inexplicable reason I seem to be overcome with a mood best described by the word “blah.”
I don’t feel motivated to do anything. A few weeks ago, I was playing around with a new design and came up with something different for this page, but I haven’t had the time, or more correctly the motivation, to implement it across all my pages.
The last few weeks at work have been almost counterproductive. Going to work has become more frustrating than not. I sit in front of the computer and stare at the screen. I’ve been working on the same 3-page perl script and three sql queries for the last month. Concentration simply refuses to cooperate. If by some major luck, something starts making sense long enough for me to realize what direction to take it in, my nerves decide to react forcefully, making me stand up, therefore, knocking out any productivity I dared have.
In a strange twist of luck, I am still coherent during my classes, but I crash every minute in between. I fall asleep in the subway on the way to classes, I plop myself on the couch the second I enter my house. The TiVo and I have gotten real close. I seem to be stuck on Canto XXV of The Inferno for over ten days, now. And the deadline to finish was today. My library books are sitting on a shelf, waiting for their due date. I haven’t even picked up my saxophone in the last five days.
My mother’s here from Istanbul for the week and I can’t walk around with her. The freezing weather makes it ideal for us to take long tours of The Met or Guggenheim but my nervous system has its own ideas of what I should and should not be doing. I’m just tired, worn out and unable to think straight.
In case the writings here have lately been sporadic and lacking in intensity, now you know why. (If you think the writings here have always lacked that umph, my page is prolly not your cup of tea, anyhow.)
Previously? Vive La Difference
Just in case it wasn’t enough that I’ve been on my back with severe back pain and have tingling sensations on my left leg where I also seem to be entertaining a minor loss of feeling, the powers that be decided that I should also have a cold.
It seems I have swallowed not one, but three porcupines. I am alternating between shivering and sweating. At least there’s the side benefit of the weight I lose each time I make the trip between the couch and the heater.
So I did what every reasonable woman would, I dyed my hair.
I am officially blonde.
I could tell you the entire tale of how I was orange just before that, but I won’t. Be thankful.
As the hairdresser dried my hair, I kept staring at the image reflecting back from the mirror. A few encounters with scissors and several hours of sitting with my head covered in aluminum and Ta Da! I’m a brand new person.
Suddenly everything seems possible. Of course I’ll use the conditioner on my hair. I’ll get a facial. I’ll start taking care of my skin. I’ll even get a manicure. I’ll put make-up on every morning like a good blonde. I’ll even blow-dry my hair.
Suddenly all is possible.
And, as Heather said earlier this week, I’m fine.
Really.
Previously? Chocolate.
Why can’t I be one of those people who can live on four hours of sleep a night?
I spent most of last weekend putting my sister’s present together, which meant that I got very little sleep. Specifically, on Saturday night I slept around four hours and I had six hours or more on Friday, Sunday and last night. Even with all that balanced sleep surrounding one night of not so great sleep, I couldn’t keep my mind from wandering all weekend and all day yesterday. I dozed off several times during my architecture class.
Though, in my defense, the teacher is a really soft-spoken, slow moving woman who turns off the lights to show slides in a warm room. All those coupled with the 7:30pm class time should be enough to put any normal human to sleep. I spent the last four days like a zombie, walking from class to class. The funny thing is, I am awake and aware during most of my classes, but any free moment is like a permission to crash.
The final jolt came when I fell asleep during my volunteer job today. I mean, I really slept. Can’t even be sure I didn’t snore. (Thankfully my officemates are deaf and prolly didn’t hear my snorts.) I was knocked out for only 20 minutes or so and I woke up on my own, but it was quite embarrassing, to say the least. (As an even funnier side note, my boss, John, had changed the screen saver on the computer to say “Karen, Wake up!” which was totally appropriate today!)
After that sleeping episode, I had to go through two more classes and neither was in English. Pure torture.
People tell me to stop taking so many classes or doing so many things, but that’s not the point. I don’t want to stop doing a million things; I want a body that can support the active mind I have. I want to be able to sleep three to four hours a night, so I can have more time to study and read. I hate that I need sleep so badly.
My neuroscience teacher says that you can actually go insane from lack of sleep. Hmm I wonder who thought that was a good design decision?
Previously? Paranoid.
I’m exhausted as I walk through the door. It’s only 8:30am and I have no idea how I will make it through three classes and five hours of volunteer work that’s supposed to follow my appointment.
I get out of the tiny elevator on the eleventh floor and walk down the long, windy corridor in search of the suite number. Even though I can tell the door is not locked, I knock and a voice tells me to walk right in, so I do. As I make my way down a shorter corridor I marvel at the sense of liberty I get from the high ceilings. I should move down to SoHo, I think.
She’s not like I expected at all. I don’t really know what I was expecting, but I do know this is not it. She appears to be in her twenties, American, tall, thin, and pretty. She’s wearing fashionable frames. She’s nice but not in a touchy-feely way. She’s not fake either. Genuine niceness, such a rare quality these days.
I sit at her desk and notice the small glass ball filled with water. Tiny, red fish swim in it. “Do they really live without having their water changed?” I ask.
“Yes, it’s an entire ecosystem in there,” she says. “I didn’t believe it when I saw it either but they live like that for six years.” That’s an eternity for fish, in my experience. I smile at the beauty and complexity of nature and survival.
Japanese and Chinese characters cover most of the decoration. For a second, I wish I were still in Japan and then I remember how lonely I was and how sick I’ve been and I feel glad to be home.
She asks me questions about my medical history and lifestyle. As always, the word “stress” comes up more often than it should. I tell her that I’ve come to accept that I like living on stress and she nods. I don’t even bother to imagine what she must be thinking. I can’t be the only weirdo she’s ever seen; we do live in New York City after all.
She makes me stick out my tongue and checks my pulse on both hands simultaneously. She then takes me to a small room, containing only a chair and a massage table. She tells me to take of my socks and pants and lie on my stomach. As she sticks the needles in my body, she warns me about the small pinch. In some cases, my body jerks involuntarily. It’s not really painful but I can certainly feel most of the needles in my body.
She leaves me be for a few minutes and then comes back to take them out. She mentions that I might feel elevated pain or numbness and that it’s normal for the first time. We make an appointment to see each other again on Monday and I walk away, worrying about the pain that’s still shooting up and down my leg.
I run to the corner of the street and jump in a cab, away from the calm of her suite to the madness that is my life.
Previously? Knowing the Future.
Crack.
When I was a teenager, my friend Karen’s knees would crack each time she bent down. My mother’s knees did the same. I remember thinking how neat the sound was and how I wished my knees would do the same. Cracking your fingers is just not the same as the fragile sound that escapes your as knee joints bang against each other involuntarily.
Even though, I knew that the sound was an outcome of bone ends touching each other (well I don’t really know that to be a fact, actually) and, that in the long term, this sound was a bad omen for the future of your bone, none of that took away from the coolness of it.
One the morning of February 1, 2001, I got a glimpse of the feeling behind the noise. As I picked up my arm to help myself off my bed, several bones made me aware of their presence. On the way over to the bathroom, with each movement of my left leg, I became immersed in the symphony of my joints conducted by what I assume must be my herniated disc.
After a half-a-day of cracking, I decided it might be a good idea to call my physical therapist. I must have been right cause he asked me to come over immediately. Apparently, the sounds coupled with the tingling sensation and pain traveling the length of my left leg isn’t a particularly good sign.
So I rip myself away from the fascinating world of SQL queries and limp to the therapist. He pulls my legs, uses the sonogram and the heating machine, cracks my pelvis joint so loudly that I’m not sure I will ever be able to procreate, and makes me lie in several uncomfortable positions. And then he gives up. He asks me whether the pain is gone and all I can think of is how now both of my legs are hurting. Helplessly, we part to reconvene the following morning.
On my way back to work, the symphony continues.
Crackle. Pop.
After another hour of idly staring at my beautiful, black flat screen, I pick up my coat and join the commuters of the 6 train.
Now that I can fully appreciate it, I decided I don’t really want my knees to make that sound. Where did I get off wanting to be cool anyway?
Previously? Phone Call
I’ve always been a curious person. My mother used to tell me that as a kid I asked questions non-stop. Her friends asked her why she kept replying to me instead of telling me to lay off the questions. But she never did. She is a real patient mother.
I don’t do something unless I can see the logic behind it. In my household, all rules were explained as opposed to forcefully applied. Since I was a pretty responsible little kid, I never had a curfew. I went to an all women’s high school where I was on debate teams. I’ve just always been in a position where I feel comfortable backing up my actions and choices and thoughts. Mostly cause I spend time thinking of my choices and have reasons for my decisions. It could even be safe to say that I spend too much time thinking about them.
For this reason, when challenged I tend to be too head strong. I feel like I can justify myself and I expect others to back up their arguments, too. When Jake and I fight and I say something, I can always spew out a million examples to make sure he understands where I’m coming from. But I’m sure he hates it.
At work, timid people think I am overwhelming cause I like to explore an issue before I make a decision and I am generally adamant about my opinion and like for others to prove me wrong before I change my mind. For confident and intelligent people, that’s not a problem. They tell me what a moron I am and why my idea is totally wrong. I really like that. I have no problem being told that I don’t know the right answers, I just want the other person to prove me wrong. I want them to have thought about it, too. I want them to challenge me not to tell me what to do for the sake of it. If the highest manager in my area says I have to do something and I think it’s a stupid suggestion, I don’t shy away from telling him. I’m not usually rude about it, but I also don’t nod and go to a corner and do as he said. And it says so much about my boss that he doesn’t fire me. Actually he’s mentioned that he likes that about me.
The problem is that I don’t like the idea of the other people (the ones who don’t feel comfortable yelling back at me) to think that I am not open to listening to their suggestions. Cause I am. The only way one can learn is by listening to other people. I just want them to explain how and why they reached that opinion and in most cases they either don’t know or they don’t want to share.
Or maybe I’ve managed to scare the crap out of them.
Previously? Changes Abound
If you read six’s page, you may have noticed his recent note on self acceptance and telling other people your opinions.
As in most things, I have quite a few things to say about that.
I’ve always been opinionated. I used to think that certain choices just feel right to me, but when questioned, I seem to have no problem coming up with well thought out reasons to back up my beliefs. So it seems I do think about things.
I am not exactly sure of the ways in which I come up with my opinions and beliefs. Some of them are intuition, others are from having read on issues and some are from having talked to friends who have opinions. I find the final way the most effective.
There is nothing more challenging and more rewarding than talking to an intelligent friend whose opinions differ from yours. When I was in college, I had a friend who disagreed with me on just about everything. He was really bright and had sound reasons for his beliefs. We spent hours talking about abortion and marriage and many other controversial issues.
His reasons made me think, in some cases they made me reconsider. In others, they made me hang on to my beliefs even more. But the best part is that our conversations challenged me. They made me see these issues from a different perspective.
When I was in high school we used to have to debate in class on topics where we didn’t agree with the opinion we were arguing for. The teacher thought it was important to realize that there are two sides to every story and nothing is ever black or white. She was a good teacher.
So if you have opinions, I say speak up. Learning starts with sharing. Wise people will never flame you for having a different view, especially when you have your reasons. And narrow-minded people will always judge you and tell you you’re a moron for thinking that way no matter how well constructed your reasoning. Such people are not worth worrying about.
I’m always up for others challenging my beliefs and choices. Anything that pushes me to explain myself helps me get to know myself better.
And you know what they always say: Know thyself.
Prevously? Trust.
I’ve always been really bad at letting go.
I’m not sure which specific childhood experience has spawned this personality trait, but I’ve had it pretty much for as long as I can remember. When I was little, I used to be one of those girls who hung on to her mother’s skirt and cried a lot. As I grew up, I yearned for a close friend, one who understood my way of thinking. Having starved for any friend at all, each time anyone became remotely interested in being my friend, I would stifle the life out of them. Guilt trips, paranoia, “why didn’t s/he call me?”, “how come they didn’t invite me along? Don’t they like me anymore?” All of these were a constant part of my daily life.
The behavior wasn’t aimed at only humans. Even our dog, Pepsi, knew I needed more hugs than a normal kid. And if you’re suffocating a dog (in the figurative sense) you seriously need help. (then again, you’d need even more help if you’re actually physically hurting the dog, if you ask me)
For the longest time, while I was acutely aware of this flaw, I didn’t think I’d ever learn to get over it. Each boyfriend had to suffer through my jealousy and my need to be called at all times. I’ve always believed that jealousy stems from lack of self-confidence. If you feel good about who you are, you tend to bug other people less. Even though I knew the actual reasons, I kept telling myself that all this suffocating was cause I cared so much.
Knowing I was so bad at letting go always made me worry about having children. I was sure that my kids would grow up to despise me and run away the minute they legally could. The same insecurities also caused me to hang around when I shouldn’t have in many cases. Holding on to a relationship which was physically and emotionally abusive or a friendship that reduced my already low self-image.
I don’t know if my self-confidence has improved (not substantially) or if I care less (not really, in most cases) but, for some reason, I’ve stopped holding on so tight. I don’t feel the need to have my friends call me every day. I don’t hold people to their words when they casually say “I’ll call you later.” I don’t need constant attention anymore.
I don’t mean to say that I am 100 percent cured. I still care, in some cases, way more than I should. I still have long-lasting moments of self doubt which cause me to snap at my boyfriend. But I’ve recently realized that I’ve loosened up a little, which means there is a chance I can totally get rid of this trait, eventually.
Maybe I can have kids, after all.
Previously? Blame Game.
Heather’s link to what she wants made me think about my first few months in the United States.
For some reason, I didn’t have many culture shocks. Even though Turkey is over 99percent white and over 99percent Muslim, I didn’t seem to have a severe issue with the differences. I did, on the other hand, have some embarrassing moments.
On my first day in Pittsburgh, my parents and I went to open a bank account. While my mother waited, Dad and I sat with the lady from Mellon Bank, talking about my different account options. In the middle of our exchange, some random guy, who was opening his own account, walks up to me and says, “I hear you’re new in town, so am I. Here’s my number. Call me and we can hang out.” Right in front of my father and the Mellon Bank woman. The lady from the bank looks at me and smiles. “I see you’re making some friends already.”
Cause I am a total weirdo, I did call the guy the next night. During the phone call, he must have used the word cool at least a zillion times. Up until that moment, the word cool meant something between warm and cold to me. It took me several months to acquire the colloquialisms they never teach you when you learn English. Most of my friends can tell quite entertaining (or embarrassing, as the case may be for me) stories from those days.
Back to my point. One of the only culture shock moments I had was in relation to the words on that T-shirt. Personal space. I come from a country where guys and girls all kiss each other hello. I mean guys kiss guys and girls kiss girls and girls kiss guys and vice versa. Not on the lips, mind you, but on the cheek. On both cheeks. I walk hand in hard with many of my friends. I hug them, I tell my close friends how much I love them. It’s not a sexual thing, it’s cultural, I guess. When I came here for college, I was totally shocked by what people consider a personal question. And by how much people resent your being ‘in their space’. For the longest time I couldn’t figure out what that space even is. It seemed to be an invisible barrier I was unable to see.
In the past few years, I’ve worked hard at recognizing the barrier, but I still have no idea why people need to have it so badly.
Previously? Mind Your Manners!
Last night, as I lay in bed after having pushed the “post and publish” button in blogger, I wondered why my post was so preachy. I don’t know if they all are but last night’s certainly sounded real close to it. The fact is, I am real touchy when it comes to issues like making fun of people.
When I was little, I had the misfortune of having a set of so-called friends who were all equally boring and beautiful. They all believed that the brand of your dress or shirt was much more important than the book you’re reading. Actually I don’t think they read at all. The thing is since they were all alike and I was the only one different, I ended up being made fun of. A lot.
Even though I was six then and I am twenty-six now, many of my self-doubts (and I have more than the usual amount) can be traced back to those days. While my mind can easily differentiate between their priorities and mine, deep down where most childhood memories are stored, I have a lot of anger for people who make fun of others. Even after all these years and many good friends later, when I see those people from my childhood, I cringe and go back to being the book reading, coke-bottle-bottom glass wearing, ugly girl.
Those people were one of the biggest reasons I decided to move to the United States. Even when I was twelve, I knew that I would always be judged as weird and eccentric in my home surroundings. Even though they love me and are terribly proud of me, I think my own parents think I am a little weird.
The thing is, America did what I thought it would do for me. I made it okay for me to be weird and it showed me that everyone is weird, in their own way. Well, at least in New York they are. (Please don’t be offended if you live in New York, I’ve come to realize that weird is not such a bad thing after all. It might even be awesome.) So now I am more secure (most days), I have friends who accept and even like me the way I am.
But the little girl who was teased mercilessly still lives somewhere in me and each time I hear someone bash someone else for liking a popular teen pop singer, or for having a web page that doesn’t measure up, or watching TV or anything else, I feel like kicking and yelling. I feel like standing up to those people like I should have so many years ago. Children especially, but people in general, have no idea how strongly their words might affect someone else. I just don’t understand the kind of pleasure one gets from putting someone else down.
I hope this explains things a bit better.
Previously? Variety is the name of the game.
My aunt called me today and we were talking about her husband’s son, David. He’s a kid from her husband’s previous marriage. An actor and a real nice kid. This guy works for a few months and once he’s got some money saved, he and his girlfriend go traveling around the world. They travel till their money runs out and then they do it all over again.
My aunt’s son, not a step but her own son, just quit a secure job where he held a solid title. He quit so that he and two friends could start their own company.
I said, “Good for them, this is the best time for them to take risks. They have no dependants, no obligations to anyone but their own selves.”
The thing is, I totally believe what I said. Assuming all goes well, I’ll most likely be trying to start a family in a few years. Few being two or three at this point, not five or ten. If I had any say, I would like to have my first kid by the time I’m thirty. This means I have about three years or so to play. This thought process is one of the reasons I decided to go part-time, but sometimes even that’s not enough.
Tonight Jake and I were talking about how nice it would be for us to spend two months in Burgaz. In the summer, my family lives on that tiny island which sits on the Marmara Sea. If you look at the pictures on the link you can easily see that this place is like a small piece of heaven. The island is so small that you can tour the entire circumference in about three hours, on foot. No cars are allowed on it, we only have horse carriages. The neat thing is, we already have a home on this island. It would be so nice if we could just escape to Burgaz for two months and read our books, swim, lie under the sun, and sleep.
Sounds wonderful, doesn’t it? Except, we won’t be able to go. Cause we’re not the type to just drop everything and leave. We both have quite secure jobs. My job is truly awesome in many ways and I don’t think I want to take the risk of losing it. We have a nice home, a little bird, and weekly obligations.
I can sit here and keep making excuses, but I think it all comes down to the same thing. We’re too chicken.
Previously? Nice!
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projects for twenty twenty-five
projects for twenty twenty-four
projects for twenty twenty-three
projects for twenty twenty-two
projects for twenty twenty-one
projects for twenty nineteen
projects for twenty eighteen
projects from twenty seventeen
monthly projects from previous years
some of my previous projects
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