I remember the day I went to pick out my budgie. The man at the bird store told me that only the males had the potential to speak. When I asked him which one was a male, he said that these were all babies and that I wouldn’t be able to tell for many months. He also said that by then I’d be so in love with the bird that it wouldn’t matter. So I picked the little parakeet according to his color. As opposed to the common yellow/green ones, mine was originally white and lilac. In the four years I’ve owed what I later found out to be a male bird, his colors went from pale purple to a soft blue with darker patches around his cheeks. He’s also developed a small yellow section on his head. My favorite part is his eyelids. They match the baby blue color of his back and they make me smile each time I catch a glimpse.
Even though he’s a male, my birdie can’t speak any words but I sure do love him like crazy.
As a little kid, I had huge ears that stuck out through my thin, straight hair. (We call them ladle ears in Turkish, but Jake says there is no English saying for someone with big ears that stick out.) Each time we were in the bathroom together, getting ready for school, my sister would tease me and say that I shouldn’t put my hair up cause it made my ears stick out even more. Over the years, my ears stayed the same size while the rest of my body grew. My hair also got thicker and wavier. I’m quite sure, my ears don’t stick out as much anymore, but I still don’t wear my hair in a ponytail.
Since I need help relaxing and since I thought it would be tons of fun, I decided to take pottery classes. Saturday morning was my first session. I put so much effort into holding the clay properly that my fingers made strong imprints on the clay, prolonging the process called ‘centering’ which is when you need to smoothen out the clay’s outer surface. My teacher kept teasing me and asking me where all my frustration came from and whether we could do something to get rid of it. I figured telling him that that’s why I took pottery to begin with would be futile.
Previously? Friendship.
They say it’s hard to find a bad-day friend. One you go to when you’re miserable day after day. One who holds your hand throughout the difficult times and one who offers the shoulder on which you can lean. As we’ve established before, they are considered to often be right. As we’ve also established, I often tend to disagree with them.
While I agree that hard day friends are more difficult to find than friends who ask you how you’re doing but don’t even bother to listen to your response, they aren’t the most precious kind of friends.
So who is?
I think that the best friends are the ones with whom you can share your good days. I mean your really good days.
“Misery loves company.” So the saying goes. I believe this one to be mostly true. When you’re really sad, having another sad friend gives you the opportunity to commiserate and bitch and moan till the wee hours of the morning.
Even if your friend were not miserable, most close friends would easily take a large chuck of time out of their day and calm you down, give you advice, or just listen to you. They will tell you that all will be okay, they will sit there for many hours and hold your hand. They will do anything they can. Cause everyone’s has bad days, most people know what to do when someone else is having one. Some of them might be scared to do the right thing and ignore you mainly from sheer discomfort of being unable to utter the magic words.
Now let’s take a day when you have amazing news. It could be something social like your boyfriend just proposed to you. You’re bubbling up with excitement and you want to share. You pick up the phone to call your best friend Terry. Just as you’re on the last digit, you stop. Terry just broke up with her boyfriend (or not to be that extreme let’s say Sheryl has been trying to find a boyfriend, or she just had a fight with her boyfriend.) Can you still call her? Will she be able to share your joy?
What if an agent just accepted your novel? Or you got promoted? Or you won the lottery?
When I have friends who I know will celebrate the great news with me, I know I’ve got a good friend.
Previously? La-la Land.
What’s wrong with me?
You mean more than the usual?
Ha ha. Seriously, I think I’m losing my mind.
I’m sure you’re exaggerating. You seem to be of sound mind to me.
Yeah? I came to work on Wednesday and within ten minutes I couldn’t remember whether I took my medication or not. I sat there, staring at the bottle, hoping it would tell me if I’d already swallowed one.
That’s perfectly normal. People forget things all the time.
The same thing happened on Thursday morning.
Hmm.
Also, I seem to be crying a lot.
You always cry a lot. You cry at Goldie Hawn movies, for goodness sake!
Yes, but I don’t usually cry at work. Yesterday, I broke down and wept three times at work.
It’s just the medication, I’m sure it’s making you edgy.
I spend most of the night staring at the darkness and watching the clock. During the few hours that I pass out, I have vivid nightmares that haunt me even after I wake up.
You just need to calm down and have some fun.
You’re joking right? I can’t sit for longer than fifteen minutes before my leg feels like millions of needles are pricking it. As soon as my back touches anything, it’s like someone is rubbing sandpaper against my skin.
You can still lie in bed and read. You claim you love reading so much, here’s your chance to do tons of it.
I can’t concentrate at all. My mind is all but mush. I can’t do my work, I can’t read more than a page of anything.
Watch TV then. Play video games.
I’m considering going back home.
Good idea, maybe you can lie down a bit and put some heat on your back.
No, I mean home home.
You mean Turkey home?
Yep.
Okay, I didn’t realize things were this severe. I think it’s time to go see someone. Preferably a professional.
That’s what I’ve been telling you all along.
Previously? Weird
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.
They say it takes all kinds to make the world go around. I don’t know who they are but they always know what they’re talking about, don’t they?
I have two major points, both relating to the same idea and I’ll try to be quick since it’s already late and I need to sleep real soon if my back is to ever heal.
People always told me that a good marriage is based on shared likes and dislikes. I have never been married but I’ve had several long-term relationships and I couldn’t disagree more. I’ve always been fascinated by men who are my total opposites. Never much of a drinker, I’ve petty much completely given up drinking in the last nine years and all my boyfriends have been drinkers. (Actually two of them were alcoholics but that’s another story for another time) I’m both shy and outgoing, both at inconvenient times, but my favorite thing to do would be to curl up with a book. I tend to go out with men who are socially liked and active. I don’t mean to imply that I get attracted to my opposites, cause I don’t. There are many attributes my boyfriends and I share. (This entire theory goes for friendships, too. Actually, even more so.) The thing is I like to meet people who are different than I am. I like to hang out with people who have different perspectives on a certain issue than I might. I like to be around people whose passions differ widely from mine. If I only hung out with people who thought and acted just like I did, how much fun would life be? It’s only through conversations with people who avidly disagree with me that I learn to stretch my mind. I like people who challenge me. Not to imply that I like someone who has opposite beliefs to mine but has nothing to back his or her beliefs up. But if the person has a point and he or she is intelligent and coherent enough about it, I’m fascinated and thrilled to converse. I love the fact that my boyfriends and friends have opened me up to new thoughts, new hobbies and sometimes even new worlds.
Just like I disagree with the hang-out-only-with-people-like-you people, I also agree with those who say that the web is full of crap. Who are you to judge what’s crap and what’s not? Even if you are qualified in recognizing good design or correct grammar, just because a page is not designed or written up to your standards doesn’t mean it doesn’t deserve to exist. If you don’t like a page, don’t visit it. If you like it, recommend it to others whom you think might also like it. I think people only judge others to feel good. If you and someone else agree that a page is crap, you two must be cool, right? I just think that the neat thing about the web (and New York and America in my opinion) is that there are a million different kinds of people who use it and they each express themselves in their own way. I think each of those pages has a valid existence and I’m glad each person has a place to share his or her thoughts/feelings/opinions publicly if they so choose. Even if I might totally disagree with that person or find their expression distasteful, that’s my opinion and I have a right to have one. I’m not saying don’t have opinions, I’m just saying use your energy to concentrate on improving/building/living your life and leave others alone and let them do whatever they want to without bashing them publicly and making them feel not-good-enough and scaring them away from ever expressing themselves again.
So it wasn’t short. But I promise both points are related in that all sorts of people exist in the world with their own likes and dislikes and that’s what makes this world a great place.
I might be influenced by my own childhood experiences, but I think that the world and the web is big enough for all of us and next time you see someone with a differing opinion to yours, maybe you should listen before you judge.
You might learn something.
Previously? Secrets.
I’m really bad at keeping secrets.
No, not the kind a friend whispers in your ear and asks you not to repeat. Actually, I’m pretty good at keeping those.
I’ve kept a diary since I was eleven years old and until college the little book with its tiny lock was the only one who knew my crushes, my thoughts and my insecurities. My friends would complain that they told me their entire life story and I never shared a word. They were right and I felt bad, especially for my really close friends. But the words refused to come out. During those times, when a friend informed me of her most recent crush she didn’t even need to ask me not to repeat it.
I’ve always believed that people are bad at keeping secrets. Most people inherently feel the need to share. So when they have new information, they bubble with the excitement and will burst unless they do something about it. I used to write it in my diary and poof! It was out of my system.
As I grew older and stopped carrying ten-pound notebooks with a broken lock, I started to open up more and more. I still felt morally uncomfortable sharing other people’s secrets, but mine became less important. (As for my needs-to-be-out-of-your-system theory, I, at some point, decided that whatever my friend chose to tell me was between us and deserved utmost respect. If she or he chose to share it with others, it was her or his choice but I refused to repeat it, even if it bubbled up. Hmm, that says so much about the validity of my theory, eh?)
Anyhow going to back to my secrets and my point, I decided opening up wasn’t such a bad idea. Most importantly if I ever did something that was relevant to another person; I became totally unable to hold on to that information. This often applies to my boyfriends (meaning the category in general, not that I currently have more than one), but is not limited to them.
My mother used to tell me that everything doesn’t need to be public. Some things are better not spoken. I disagree. I must, cause I can never follow that advice. I can never hide anything from my boyfriend. Even if I have a crush on some other guy or I’m about to have dinner with an ex. I keep telling myself that it’s no big deal and if I tell him, he’ll think it is and that I shouldn’t tell him and then the moment he walks into the room, I blurt it all out.
The truth is that I think it’s a big deal when I choose not to tell him (assuming I’d do such a thing). If I feel the need to keep it from him, I must have a reason. Do I secretly hope something will happen between this guy and me? Am I still hung over the ex? The only reason I’d choose not to share the event with my boyfriend is if I believe I’m doing something wrong. I just think that there is no point in playing games. If either one of us is going to cheat then what’s the point of continuing our relationship? Obviously it’s lost whatever it had.
This habit has been enhanced by a remarkably understanding man who is my current boyfriend. Honesty has made our relationship solid and lasting.
Now when I feel the urge to lie, I ask myself what that says about my relationship with the other person.
In my case, that there isn’t much of a relationship to begin with.
Previously? Nitpicking.
I used to think that the little things mattered most. A card during anniversaries, a phone call on my birthday, flowers on Valentine’s day, stuff like that. I figured that shows how strongly the person really feels about you. I mean if someone takes the time to remember special memories, that person must love you, right?
Well, my ex boyfriend was all that and more when it came to little gestures. On one of the Valentine’s Days during the time we dated in college, he got three of the kids on his dorm to wear suits and sing to me, on their knees, “You Lost That Loving Feeling.” He gave me roses on our anniversary each month, as many roses as the months we’d been dating. When he graduated and got accepted to a graduate school far away, he made a small audio chip in a heart-shaped candy box. Each time I pressed the button, I could hear his voice, telling me how much he loved me and how badly he missed me. It might be corny, but it was also sweet. He was romantic and he remembered every special date.
Sounds lovely, doesn’t it?
Until you look at the other side of the coin.
The same guy had an alcohol problem and used to abuse me verbally and physically when he drank. We went to a few Alcoholics Anonymous meetings, but it never worked. He had too much anger. He wasn’t willing to give up the drinking. It’s hard enough to give up when you feel ready. It’s impossible when you do it for someone else. For a long time, I made excuses and said that it was my fault for pushing him and making him mad. But we won’t talk about that. Not now.
Anyhow, my point is that since I had that experience, I’ve reconsidered my priorities. Sure it’s nice to get flowers on my birthday or for no reason at all, but it’s crucial to stay on top of the big things first. Now, when I hear my friends talking about how the guy might not open the door for her or how he didn’t get the most romantic present for their anniversary, I hope that they will never have to worry about having real problems.
I know that if you’re mostly a reasonable person, while reading this you’ll be telling yourself, “Dork, of course I know that it’s most important to be with a guy who doesn’t abuse you.” But how often do you keep that in perspective?
We only get picky when we have the luxury to do so.
Previously? Chicken.
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!
My friend Natalia and I had some coffee Thursday night after work to figure out which classes we wanted to take. She just came back from a ski vacation at the Alps. She mentioned the people she met and how interesting they were. That’s when I noticed her pattern. Each time she described someone she liked she consistently used the adjective ‘interesting’.
I do the same thing. When Jake tells me about someone new he met at work, the first thing I ask is, “Is he nice?” I don’t care if the guy is a billionaire, drop dead gorgeous or triple Ph.D. candidate. I just want him to be nice. We’re talking real nice, not the fake kind I mentioned a few days ago, the kind that smiles to your face while stabbing you on the back.
As I told Natalia my preferences, she said, “Yes, I like nice people, too, but imagine a real sweet person that’s not interesting at all. Even if she’s the sweetest, that won’t be enough for me.” Word.
The thing is if I had to pick between a totally boring but kind person and a really interesting cocky prick, I must say I’d easily choose the sweet person. I don’t think I could move past the fact that the guy is a jerk to even notice that he’s fascinating.
A look at my past would easily justify my obsession with kindness. Let’s just say I’ve had my share of mean and uncaring people. Enough of them to conclude that all that matters to me is a genuine kind soul.
At the same time, I can totally see Natalia’s point of view. Everyone has different priorities. If I had had another past, I might even feel similarly.
I have a wide variety of friends. At a glance they seem to have nothing in common. But if you looked closer, you’d notice the pattern.
Previously? Sick, Sick, Sick.
So I’m still sick. Too many days to count at this point. If you’ve been here before you might already be sick of my whining, but to be totally honest it’s hard for me to think of much else.
When I’m at work, since sitting is the worst thing for a back with a slipped disc, I’m supposed to get up every twenty minutes or so. The thing is, thanks to my acute pain, it takes around fifteen minutes for me to concentrate hard enough to get stuff done. If I were to get up every twenty minutes, I would get absolutely nothing done. So work is a total mess. I am pissed that I’m not accomplishing work and I am pissed that I’m in pain. The more pissed I get, the more pain I have; it’s a fun cycle.
Each night, I come home and lie in bed. Work to subway, subway to bed. I haven’t gotten a word of reading done. I’m still not signed up for all my classes. I don’t care what I eat, whether I eat. Maybe this is what they call depression. Maybe I’m losing my mind. Maybe I’m just whining. Who the fuck knows.
What I do know is that I need to get work done. I need to go to my volunteer assignments. My sign language class starts Tuesday and I’ll fail if I miss classes. I need to sign up for my courses or I won’t be able to get in.
I know that people who know me and love me will say that none of those things matter and my health is the only important thing. I agree. I would give so much to have this pain stop. To be able to stand up again without cringing. To get a full night of sleep.
But I’m tired. I don’t want to be sick anymore. I want to be able to go on with my life. I want to learn to play the saxophone. I want to go kickboxing. I want to ski. I want to learn how to Waltz. I want to sit without crying. I want this crap to be over.
I am so goddamn tired of it.
Previously?
I enjoy the written word. I always have. When I was in college, I used to ask friends to write letters to me. Most of them, since they were such neat people, after telling me what a total whack job I was, actually wrote me really interesting letters. To the day, those are some of my most treasured college items.
I spent a good chunk of my day reading someone’s online diary or something along those lines. Now, I’ve never met this person. He doesn’t even know my name. I only know his cause it says it on his web page. Yet I spent several hours of my day, work day nonetheless, reading about his life. These entries were dated, too. Around last February.
After all that time, I wondered why I was interested in reading about details of his life. Why did I care about the affairs of this guy whom I will most likely never meet? I’m not even into published non-fiction, why did I enjoy this stranger’s writings so much?
Then I realized that this was just like those letters I used to ask people to write. As opposed to what they assumed, I didn’t want them to write about me or how they felt about me. I wanted to know what they were thinking and how they felt. I have always believed that people are more honest when they write. Lack of instant reaction helps ward off worries about the effects of your words. These writings have given me a glimpse into this guy’s soul. Or at least a part of his thoughts.
I love meeting new people. Getting to see how they think, what makes them tick and what choices they’ve made fascinate me. Every person I meet, on or offline, teaches me something new about myself. New people open my mind, broaden my horizons, and challenge my thought process.
The neat thing is, pages where people write about themselves give me a similar opportunity. While it’s a skewed and one-sided relationship, it’s still a peek into someone’s thoughts, feelings or life. I look at their hobbies, their passions and learn about new things. That’s why I prefer personal pages to ones that simply contain daily links.
Even though I might never tell him, I’m delighted about the insights I gained from today’s visit.
So I wanted to thank him.
Previously? Straight Shooter.
When I was in college my friend Mike used to say that I never knew how to keep my opinions to myself.
The thing is I spent most of my childhood surrounded by people who made an art form of talking behind people’s back. Actually, they brought it to new levels. Imagine three girls in a ski slope. Let’s name them Jill, Mary and Anne. Together, they’re a bunch of giggles and hugs. But, as Jill and Mary share a ride up the hill, they talk about Anne’s new boyfriend and how he’s sleeping around and how they think Anne is such a moron for not noticing what everyone knows. The next round, Mary and Anne take the ride up the hill as they talk about Jill’s new haircut and how she looks like a rat with her nose job. Finally, Anne and Jill, as they sit together, talk about how Mary will never have the fashion sense they do. I kid you not; these are the kids I had the fortune of growing up with.
Me? I was the lowest of the low. Nicknames? I got them all. Trust me.
Why didn’t I stop hanging around these people? Cuz I’m a wimp.
I have this amazing need to make sure everyone likes me. The thing is I know that it’s impossible to have everyone like you. I don’t like everyone.
After all these years and many better friends later, I still hate it when I hear someone talking behind my back. I hate being someone’s inside joke.
If you have a problem with me, just tell me. This is good for both of us. I get to find out what about me might be annoying you and I can choose to fix it or I can choose not to associate with you any longer. It all depends on what the thing is. You have benefits, too. If I fix it, all is good and if I don’t, well you don’t have to worry since I won’t be around.
I just don’t understand what good it does to tell someone else about issues you might have about me. If I snort when I laugh or blow my nose in a way that gets on your nerves, what’s your friend Lily gonna do to fix it?
What good does it do to bitch and moan behind my back and smile to my face?
That’s what I hate most. The fake people. It must be a present from my childhood friends. I’d so much rather know what I’m dealing with than have a million false smiley faces.
I may be crass, but when you’re my friend, you always get pure honesty.
Previously? Remorse.
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projects for twenty twenty-six
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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