The End

Tomorrow I will turn 34. This post will be the last one for this blog. It's 6:30 am. It might take me all day to say the things I want to say before I go.

Or it might just be a five sentence post.

Who am I kidding? It will take me all day, even if it's not a very long post. Even if I don't get to say everything I want to say.

While I let the unknown take over for a little while there, I'm beginning to feel like I'm on my way back to the comforts of a well-designed life. If you had told me a year ago that I would be living outside of Istanbul in an idyllic suburb and working part-time as a preschool teacher and writing in my free time and lining my eyes with black eyeliner and wearing blush almost every day (more makeup than I wore during my days in sales!!), I would look at you with the blank stare I used to give my mother whenever she interrupted a marathon reading session.

So the unknown gave me a life I didn't imagine (I'm still imagining a bookstore in Bodrum where you can drink coffee and red wine, smoke cigarettes and eat chocolate chip/oatmeal bars all day.) Nevertheless, I'm living it and despite the sporadic hairloss, I'm content.

I'll be a novice preschool teacher for a while, a struggling writer, a not-so-Martha Stewart housewife who forgets to season, a not-so-hot wife who hates the gym, a not-so there daughter who doesn't call or a friend who doesn't remember birthdays.

However, while I'm living my not-so-perfect life, I will aim to notice people's eye color, the rhythm of their speech, the fragrance of each morning, the intensity of each raindrop and even whether I rest my wet umbrella to the right or left of my shoes before I enter the apartment.

In Eat Less Cottage Cheese and More Ice Cream, American humorist Erma Bombeck reflects: "If I had my life to live over again I would have talked less and listened more. But mostly, given another shot at life, I would seize every minute of it...look at it and really see it...try it on...live it...really exhaust it...and never give that minute back until there was nothing left of it."

So that's my goal. Whatever crisis life throws my way, the goal is to muddle through it in the same way I tackled this past year: being more aware, more engaged, more in-touch.

The final thought of the day was actually posted by Paulo Cuelho on his blog earlier today:

The Sufi tradition tells the story of a king who was surrounded by wise men. One morning, as they talked, the king was quieter than usual.

"What is wrong, Your Highness?" - asked one of the wise men.

"I’m confused," replied the king. "At times I am overcome by melancholy, and feel powerless to fulfill my duties. At others, I am dizzy with all power I have. I’d like a talisman to help me be at peace with myself."

The wise men - surprised by such a request - spent long months in discussion. In the end, they went to the king with a gift.

"We have engraved magic words on the talisman. Read them out loud whenever you are too confident, or very sad," they said.

The king looked at the object he had ordered. It was a simple silver and gold ring, but with an inscription:

"This will pass."

So it will.

The Evil That is Stress

It's a fairly stress-free Sunday morning. I'm on my third cup of coffee so the energy level is optimum. My brother (who's visiting from Sydney) and the husband are enjoying a mutually-egotistical photo session fueled by the Rolling Stones' Sympathy for the Devil. "Please allow me to introduce myself," he sings as my rock stars, desperately trying to restrain their joyful giggles. Cool guys don't smile, let alone giggle. Each is really happy that he found someone to indulge his individual desire to capture the greatness on camera. I'm thrilled to have been spared the torture. "Yes, husband. You're so hot, husband."

I say stress-free but recently I realized that I have the worst kind of stress. It's the kind that hides from all the self-analysis, the kind that quietly lurks in the frustrations of every day life such as trying to make it somewhere on time or keeping a clean house or cooking a well-balanced meal for the kid. You look at me and you see a laid-back mom, a good wife, a supportive friend, a smart colleague. It's an illusion. I'm a stressed-out control-freak. The proof is in the hair.

For about seven years now I've suffered from alopecia areata, periodically losing my hair in quarter-sized patches. It takes a while but the hair always grows back though in completely white baby strands. The hair loss is possibly an autoimmune reaction, researchers say, and most likely hereditary. The same researchers claim there has been no proven link between stress and alopecia, yet I'm convinced my shedding sessions are closely related to life's little bumps and bruises. I'm having a particularly stubborn attack these days and if you asked me how I'm feeling, I would say "I'm feeling happy with absolutely no real stress in my life!"

(Does the fact that I was interrupted twelve times while writing this post constitute 'real stress'?)

Do Your Ears Hang Low?

Today I met the kids. Nine of the ten two year olds in my class showed up for orientation. Six boys and three girls. We had two criers, two clingers, a biter and two hair pullers. Despite the chaos, it was a pretty good morning. They all went home with a crown they made at school and I came home after lunch completely spent.

So that's the news. I meant to have a relaxing summer and take my time researching what's next. Apparently I was meant to be a preschool teacher.

From Birds Without Wings

"There comes a point in life where each one of us who survives begins to feel like a ghost that has forgotten to die at the right time, and certainly most of us were more amusing when we were young. It seems that age folds the heart in on itself. Some of us walk detached, dreaming on the past, and some of us realise that we have lost the trick of standing in the sun. For many of us the thought of the future is a cause for irritation rather than optimism, as if we have had enough of new things, and wish only for the long sleep that rounds the edges of our lives. I feel this weariness myself."

Well, I don't but this--"It seems that age folds the heart in on itself."-- is so beautifully written that I thought I'd share.

I just started reading Birds Without Wings by Louis de Bernieres. A major love affair is peaking its all-consuming head from behind the first page.

Modern Life

It's a hot summer day in Istanbul and I wish it were a hot summer day in New York. I'm laptopping it on the balcony and The New York Times is killing me! Carefree shopping stories with virgin interior decorators, Bill Cunningham on scarf-wearers in August, "news" of restaurants in Beijing being encouraged to take dog off their menus during the Olympics (not hot dogs but actual dog meat...yuck!). I remember what summers were like in an office -- arriving late, leaving early, looking busy while reading the paper filled with such carefree stories, sneaking out for venti iced coffees with sweaty cups. Arriving home with hours to spare before the sun went down, we would enjoy drinks on the rooftop, walks along the Hudson, ice cream at the gelato place in the WFC.

Yesterday, we watched home videos of the kid when she was two. There was one particular wrestling session at the park that made me nostalgic for what we had there. Then again both the husband and I look like crap in the video (compared with what we look like now) and I remember how tired I always was from running both the job and the household. Losing the afternoon to gems like Modern Love was never an option when we lived in New York.

The husband has been traveling for work to exotic locales like Georgia, Moldova and Kazakhstan so I decided to spend a few days "camping" with his relatives down south. We just got back. Unfortunately there are very few pictures to share as both digital cameras are missing their battery chargers. I did bring back a great tan and five pounds though. That'll hold me off for a while.

Whatever

Today, I got fired for the first time in my life. I'll quote from the four-sentence email: "It seems, in light of our expanding website, that we are letting go of all our freelance writers and have instead hired an additional person in house. Sad." Yes, it was an email. Understandably, my editor wished to save the $5.00 she might have spent on the international phone call in order to pay the in-house writer she hired. I'm guessing this is the reality of a freelance writer and I have no choice but to get used to it.

Considering the day I've had, the news might have been the last straw. Surprisingly, it wasn't. I am able to hold it together.

To a Life Short-Lived

In the headlines today is Radovan Karadzic, former leader of the Bosnian Serbs and president of the Serbian Republic in the early 1990s. He was captured in Belgrade yesterday, having spent 12 years in semi-hiding under a false identity, and is expected to face trial in The Hague. Karadzic was once heard saying the war against the Bosnian Muslims was not "ethnic cleansing" but "an opportunity for them to go live with other Muslims, away from the Serbs."

What's missing from the news, of course, is stories of war-torn families whose lives were forever altered during the war in Bosnia. Whether Muslims or Christians, many have lost their brothers, sisters, fathers, homes, land and other possessions, and still overcame unfathomable obstacles while creating new lives for themselves.

A friend, Katerina Brdjanovic was one such young woman. I met her through a friend while I was at Mount Holyoke and immediately came to think of her as a sister. She was young, beautiful, very smart, very kind, extremely good with children, selfless and truly appreciative of the new opportunities she was being given in her new life. She had lost her brother to the war in Bosnia and her father to diabetes when she arrived in the U.S. to finish high school at the Presentation of Mary Academy in Methuen, Massachusetts. I met her in 1997, her first year in the States, and even drove up from New York to attend her graduation party one night, only to drive back the next morning, not an easy task for me considering how I drive. Such was the love and generosity she inspired in others. She continued her education at Saint Anselm College, with a scholarship of course, and spent her summers working at orphanages in Romania and serving as a translator for Nobody's Children, a non-profit organization responsible for her new and wonderful life in the U.S.

Tomorrow is the eighth anniversary of Katerina's death from a freaky car accident in Croatia at the age of 20. After she died, her host mother gave Katerina's precious teddy bear to me. I don't know why, as I'm pretty sure she wasn't aware of my carefully hidden teddy bear collection or my secret obsession for second-hand toys. She said she wanted to give me something to remember her by. I packed the bear in a closet and moved it three times over the years until it was time to start packing for Turkey. Even with a daughter who's truly obssessed with stuffed animals, I could never bring myself to hold or even look at Katerina's teddy so it stayed in the dark for almost eight years. It just made me too sad to think of the life that was not even a quarter-lived and had such promise.

So the bear found a new home in a Baptist Church Sunday school in Brooklyn shortly before the seventy-four boxes got packed and shipped to Turkey. I thought I would keep it a secret forever, that I couldn't bare to keep it any longer and had to give it away.

Yet here we are, confession #who cares, I'm admitting the atrocities committed against Katerina's teddy bear. (As you can see, I never needed it to keep remembering that amazing young woman.) I hope Radovan Karadzic finds making confessions as purifying as I do so that he's convicted of his crimes and spends the rest of his life in prison.

Tired No More

I logged in to write about the latest confession, the fact that I claim to be a lady of leisure but am secretly "working," writing articles and posts in exchange for money, putting together business plans for soon-to-exist magazines and web sites, helping a documentary filmmaker get seed money for a biographical piece whose script I might actually write. Then I realized, not only did I lose track of which confession # this would be but that noone cares if I work or not. In fact, I don't even care that much anymore about where my head is in this midlife crisis or the completely meaningless search for what's next. The turtle dude said it best in the Kung Fu Panda movie we saw today: "Yesterday is history, tomorrow is mystery, but today is a gift. That's why it's called the present."

Today I truly ENJOYED about forty minutes at the gym -- forty minutes all to myself. I blasted my music (busted the headphones, oh well) and thought about nothing but the pace and the lyrics of KT Tunstall's Hold On:

"...Hold on to what you’ve been given lately
Hold on to what you know you’ve got
Hold on to what you’ve been given lately
Hold on cos the world will turn if you’re ready or not

...I was tired of January
I was tired of June
I felt a change coming
I was tired of January
Tired of June
I felt a change a coming
I felt a change a coming
I felt a change a coming
I felt a change a coming
I felt a change a coming soon..."

Every Great Love Has a Story to Tell

We went car shopping today and test drove a Suzuki, an Opel and a Volvo. I couldn't have imagined that I would care about which car we might get this summer but I actually do. Later in the afternoon, the kid and the husband went to the pool while I enjoyed a writing session on the balcony. I'm finally venturing into fiction, a novel, complete with Microsoft Word manuscript templated formatting, inspired by Simone de Beauvoir's Memoirs of a Dutiful Daughter, which I started reading earlier today. I was hoping for an existential first chapter but so far, the words read like a romance novel. I'm desperately searching for a nom de plume as I cannot possibly publish this cold mush under my own.

After a page and a half, I'm now on my way to the hair salon downstairs to get a blow out.

Every Day is a Saturday

It is perfectly fitting that the go-to bottle of choice should be called Cumartesi (Saturday), with a devilishly entertaining cork featuring caricatures of what I'm assuming are its founders and a web site called Bize Her Gun Cumartesi (Every Day is a Saturday for Us). At this very moment, I'm trying out their white, in preparation for the official start of summer this weekend. The husband and his buddies went to see Hulk and the kid is peacefully sweating out the day's heat in her bed, possibly practicing her jump into the pool in her dreams. I'm alone with my book and a half-full glass enjoying the post-rain breeze on the balcony.

A Tourist in Istanbul

Life Outside the Operating Room

Most of my days are spent in and around the apartment complex we now call home. The kid and I enjoy leisurely breakfasts in front of the tv or on the balcony, squabble over when to go to the pool and which store to frequent for our daily bread. Whenever I can, I steal fifteen-minute increments to read Because I Said So, a collection of essays by thirty-three mothers who confide in me about everything from poverty to poetry. I sprinkle a few mindless household tasks on our lazy days, dream of trips to IKEA and scheme to convince the husband to serve as my chauffeur.

As I write these words, I'm enjoying a breezy morning on the balcony, nestled in the single corner that affords a bit of shade. At 9:24 am, the sun is already burning but I don't complain as I don't wish it to ever go away. Visions of beach towels drying on the railing and yesterday's bathing suits hanging on the backs of chairs remind me of how lucky I am. Any minute now I will be interrupted by the kid wanting breakfast. She's been watching the Disney Channel since we got up about an hour ago and I'm painfully aware of how bad it is for her to be watching so much tv. Yet, I just don't want to give up these few solitary minutes I have managed to log in to write, fueled by the incredible humility I feel every morning.

What's crisis-worthy about this life is that unless I'm reading or writing, I don't know what to do with myself. I feel like I need a hobby, a job or a new project to fill in the gaps. Parenting a self-disciplining five-year old is not brain surgery, neither is making the beds in the morning or the massive amounts of laundry I need to tackle weekly. Yet, I need to operate. I always need to be researching, diagnosing, strategizing, operating and curing. What's crisis-worthy is that this life is incredibly disease-free. Or so it seems.

I'm afraid my need to always be solving problems may just create the next big crisis.

In the meantime, we had our first guest from New York, who enjoyed shopping sprees at the Grand Bazaar, antiques in Cukurcuma, a boat tour up the Bosphorus, lazy days by the pool, midnight feasts in Ortakoy, only to crash on a blow-up mattress at the end of the day in a room with no working light fixture. She didn't complain much, even when the kid's squeeky voice echoed in the empty hallways searching for her, as she tried to enjoy a cooling morning shower in a bathtub with no shower curtain. I know it was a good trip. It made me happy to share a part of this life with someone from my past. It made me happy to play host, to fluff up her pillows, place miniature soaps stolen from a Las Vegas hotel on top of the pile of towels I set out for her. Seeing my idyllic life through the eyes of a New Yorker who sells ad space for magazines (just like I used to) made me realize how far I traveled since March. This life is not for everybody. With or without a kid, this life is exactly what I needed during this stage of my life. I'll just have to learn to live disease free.

In the meantime, I'm happy to say I called my father to wish him a Happy Father's Day. A first in sixteen years.

The Battle Within

It's the monthly countdown to you-know-what and once again, my hormones are wreaking havoc in my brain. The emotional baggage, the tears, the heart palpitations, the incredible sadness. Luckily, I made a friend today (so the husband was spared!) who was willing to let it all rage, throughout the day as well as during a 9:30 pm Sex and The City: The Movie screening. (Not a great movie to watch while PMSing but a dreamy escape otherwise.) She told me that dramatic hormonal changes experienced in your thirties could be a sign of early menapouse which reminded me that my mother went through it at the ripe age of 39. Great! One more thing to add to my list of worries during this year of midlife crisis.

Last night, the husband and I overpaid a babysitter to attend a corporately-sponsored screening of Troya, a performance reminiscent of Riverdance, most of which was about the joyous multi-ethnic dancing one did following some of the most legendary battles fought on the shores of the Aegean. As one could only do in 1250 B.C. of course. The only dancing I'll be doing this summer is at a friend's wedding and I doubt this battle within will get resolved by then.

A Literary Tea Party

I put the kettle on and am anxiously waiting for our first real guest. My friend and her daughter are coming over for five o'clock tea. The bakery down the street will deliver spinach pie, su boregi and mini brownies. We'll tour the apartment, marvel at the view from the balcony, admire the brand new bedroom set that was delivered today and possibly exchange some recipes. She's pregnant with her second so I'm sure there'll be some baby talk as well.

The funny thing is, I met her five years ago when I was five months pregnant with mine. She wanted to launch a baby magazine in Turkey and I was the token Turk at the publishing company where I worked (in New York) who helped coordinate the licensing deal. Based on our shared passion for magazines, our friendship grew stronger over the years, always imagining the next big magazine we were going to launch together. Maybe it'll be about cookies and tea.

Open Invitation

This is an open invitation to all of my friends to freely use our place as their own beach resort & spa as long as we live here. You know who you are and where we live. It's truly unbelievable that my life will revolve around sunbathing, swimming, playdates and sangria parties on the terrace all summer. I won't miss the smelly New York summer for sure (though I still miss my friends), the sweaty commute to work every day, arctic conditions of our office, the grind. No more worrying about whether I'm working long and hard enough in order to make my quota for the month. I will instead worry about prickly heat (which I suffer from as we speak) and strawberry season being over too soon. I will make friends with all the Polish nannies and learn a new language. I will swim laps every day and sculpt a kick ass body by the end of the summer boasting a golden tan on a lean body. I will read, read, read and read some more.

The move went pretty smoothly last Thursday. Between all the chores, including shopping for a bedroom set, a washing machine, beds and lights, we've been able to sneak a few hours at the pool every day. My seventy four boxes arrived yesterday and I already unpacked about fifteen. The kid's happy to have her toys back and I my corkscrew. We finally got the DSL connected yesterday so that I can resume playing Scramble and Word Twist on Facebook. (I didn't say this was Roman Holiday! We do, after all, live in 2008!)

The Countdown

This is it. It's 10:48 pm and we just decided we're going to move tomorrow morning. We called the movers and they can  come at 10:30 in the morning. I don't have a single box or suitcase packed. I feel as if my contractions have started and I still have to finish the nursery, wash the layette and pack my suitcase. Luckily I don't have to do any of that. Frankly, I don't care if everything gets moved in garbage bags. All I know is that I will wake up in my new home on Friday morning and go for a swim.

Homage to Cihangir

In addition to being home to many writers, artists and filmmakers, Cihangir , the neighborhood that's been home to us since we arrived in March, is known for its street cats. So much so that there are poems written about them, canvases filled with their images and even lawsuits filed in their name by neighborhood citizens who wish to protect the four-legged residents from the local authorities. Just like any other Cihangir dweller, we have been feeding several cats in our garden since we arrived. About two weeks ago, one of them had six kittens, who now live in a turned-sideways flower pot in which I was hoping to grow geranium this Spring. Oh well.

In just a few short days, we will move out of this apartment and leave Cihangir behind.

Our apartment sits on a slope overlooking the strait as well as the rooftops of Mimar Sinan University. We have to climb 93 steps from where we park the car to get to our door. Our street is known as Ali Kaptan Sokak and leads one to Cihangir Mosque, just a short walk from where we live now, built in 1559 and named after then Sultan Suleyman's 22 year-old son who was killed in war in Aleppo.

The neighborhood rapidly grew and gained popularity during the 17th century but suffered major fires in 1765 and again in 1874. The many mosques and public bath houses of Cihangir seem to have survived all major disasters of the past five centuries and are now surrounded by 50-120 year old apartment buildings where the rich and famous live alongside of the heirs of the original residents.

And wherever you go in Cihangir, you have to climb. Some residents have to tackle over 200 steps on their way home each day. We had our share of the torture over the last two months, with frequent trips to our favorite neighborhood spots like Mavi Kum Bookstore and Kaktus Cafe, whose owner claims to care for about 110 cats in the neighborhood. We can barely handle the six kittens we have!

The Neverending Move

"Mom, check out the little girl standing next to you!"

The kid thinks she's whispering but in fact even the driver can hear on the crowded city bus. (Crowded is an understatement -- this one reminds me of the enormous jar of pickled cucumbers I see in store windows everywhere in Gokturk.) She's loud but luckily, only in English, so noone's offended.

"I know. I saw her before."

"Where?"

"What do you mean?"

"Where did you see her before?" She's showing signs of a near-meltdown -- is it the midday heat or the side effects of this neverending move to Turkey?

"Nowhere. I meant, I saw her before you told me."

"You mean 'I saw her already!'"

"Yes, that's what I mean."

"You should have said 'I saw her already."

"You're right. That's what I should have said."

"If you say 'I saw her before," I will think you saw her before today."

"I understand honey. I should have said 'I saw her already.'"

The frustration in her voice is now routine. If she gets any less sleep than the twelve hours her little body requires, I'm in for it the next day. Unfortunately, with the impending move, we've all had to sacrifice from sleep. So we bicker. Sometimes all day long.

Our relationship has definitely changed in the past two months. I graduated from the fun-loving working mother whose time and love are extremely valuable to the always-there primary caretaker who's almost always responsible for everything that goes wrong in her life. Frankly, I wouldn't have it any other way.

Still, I'm counting the days until summer camp starts!

Meanwhile, I spent twelve hours cleaning the new apartment yesterday and will still have to hire a cleaning lady to make it livable. (I should have kept my day job!)

The crew:

The work:

The piece de resistance (the view from our balcony):

Landing Gear Deployed

It's been a whirlwind week. (Leave it to me to have a whirlwind week the very week I was supposed to take a break from all the craziness that had become my new life.)

I remember a particular midterms week in college when I crash-studied for the exams of the econ classes I barely attended, staying up several nights in a row wired on coffee and NoDoz. At the end of the madness, and after taking the midterms in three-day-old sweatpants, I went to bed with a smile on my face and had the best sleep of my college career. The next morning, I didn't remember a word of what I had read all week and decided to change my major to history. That's one of the reasons I had to take a job in magazines when I graduated, and not in finance.

It's been that kind of a week.

Two full days of looking at apartments in Gokturk (Kemer Country), two school tours, a four-hour job interview at a publishing house, a fancy launch party for LG's new television, a major fight with the dear husband (most probably because I'm getting my period and have become the ultimate bitch), a kid's birthday party, the overworked dh moving offices and leaving for New York for a three-day trip, dinner guests one night and an overnight guest another. Most days, we would leave the house at 8 a.m. and not return until midnight. And finally, after picking up the keys to our new place yesterday, I had one of the best sleeps I've had since I arrived. And this morning, I didn't remember much of the craziness that took place the past week. I'm happily spending my fifth mother's day doing laundry, cooking and tidying up.

Yes, we finally have a home. I signed the contract yesterday and will need this week to get it cleaned, have the locks changed, the electricity and natural gas turned on and the movers arranged. We will hopefully be moved in by next Sunday so I can finally begin my life here. The 74 boxes have arrived and are waiting to be picked up at customs. Luckily the palatial four-bedroom we rented also has a storage unit in the basement so I won't have to unpack all of them at once and can start enjoying my new life right away -- like swimming laps in the Olympic outdoor pool or sweating calories in the fragrant gym.

Here's a quick peek at Kemerlife XXI where we rented a top-floor apartment. Click here.

And here's a link to what we think will be the kid's school. Click here.

And finally, much to my husband's disappointment, where I will NOT be working this summer. Click here or here.

Please Let It Rain!

It's threatening to be a nice day, with the sun peeking out from behind the clouds every fifteen minutes or so. I want it to rain all day instead. With a to do list that reads like a short story, I need to stay in and concentrate to get things done. I know that I said I was just going to let things be but I still have so much to do -- phone calls to make, tidying up to finish, suitcases to unpack (shameful I know!), newspapers to recycle, shirts to iron, dishes to wash and toys to organize. The Virgo in me wants a spotless house and a completed to do list. The sun HAS to stay behind the clouds.

We spent the weekend looking at aparments in Kemer Country, a community that reminds me so much of Battery Park City. It's outside of Istanbul proper, away from the chaos of the city, a designed community devoid of character. However the swimming pools, the fitness centers, the very modern and spacious apartments, the parks and the fresh air completely make up for lack of originality. And yes, there's a Starbucks.

Our favorite so far is Kemerlife, a spa-like dwelling designed by renowned architect Emre Arolat.

...

On the other hand, I don't want you to be fooled by these enthusiastic reports. The indecisiveness is at an all-time high. City or country, private school or public, full-time job or freelance writing, white or whole wheat -- the pressure to choose is still overwhelming. I just have a better attitude about it.

Life in the Small Continued

I'm getting requests that I post more often.

It's not that I don't have time to stop and notice the many things worthy of recording here about our new life in Istanbul. I have plenty of time for it. Every day, lots of times a day, I stop. I sit. Just sit. I think. My head's always filled with words, with conversations. There's plenty to write about. The obscurity of black birds flying into the apartment, neighborhood cats we feed with store-bought cat food, the varying melodies of the Islamic call to prayer (which the kid calls "opera"), and many more observations, realizations, interpretations, some judgements, some allowances.

It's just that what I am living right now can not be understood by many and I'm very much aware of that. After a school interview and a drive through a neighborhood in our consideration set, the hubby had to attend a focus group while Maya and I hung out at a local mini-mall for a couple of hours. When he picked us up three hours later, he admitted that he felt bad for leaving me alone with the kid and thought we'd be bored. The words I used to describe how fulfilling it was to browse a bookstore and sit at a Starbucks to enjoy our purchases and a cup of coffee (with just-for-you warmed milk, mind you!) couldn't adequately decipher what I'm feeling. I feel like I'm living my life in a magical realm. Neither its pains nor its pleasures can be understood by folks consumed with life itself.

These days I'm happy living the life in the small.

---

Of course the mad search for an apartment and a school continue. I took a break from my all-consuming desire to make a decision already and decided to let things be for a week. (Yes, only a week!) Karma is now my middle name and it got us connected to a set of wheels yesterday. We're now the proud owners of a cute BMW 116, even if for a short while.

How do you say good morning in TV?

My baby just woke up and after a brief cuddle session on the couch, the first word out of her mouth was "TV." I know; that's not even a word.

So I couldn't help but think about what I wrote for Kaboose. Oh well.

Guided by Intuition... or Not

I'm slowly getting addicted to Turkish TV. My latest guilty pleasure is a game show where the contestant opens chests to find money throughout the show. There's a lot more detail involved of course but basically, the entire concept is based on intuition and how much risk one is willing to take guided by it. The other night, a bus driver won enough money to pay off his debt, buy himself an apartment and spite his ex-wife who just left him. I had tears in my eyes.

What if your intuition is on vacation? Its cell phone turned off, it has no internet access on the remote island where it's vacationing and you have no desire to schlep all over creation to go looking for it (remember the 93 steps I need to take just to be able to go to the store for our daily bread?)

"A mother, with her intuition, will know just what to do. A mother has a feeling; she pays special attention, if someone is concealing, if someone's playing tricks. She rubs and scrubs and scours the secrets. Until the answer clicks," sings Carly Simon in Piglet's Big Movie. My intuition is most definitely on vacation.

The dictionary says intuition is the act of knowing or sensing without the use of rational processes and  that is exactly why I feel that my intuition has left me at the moment and I'm somewhat paralyzed by this reality. I'm, in fact, consumed by rational processes.

I saw nine apartments in the past few days, in entirely different neighborhoods, mostly on foot, and collapsed in exhaustion last night. I found only one of them tolerable, though very small, because it was the cleanest and in the most central neighborhood, within walking distance to everything I could possibly want to have near the apartment. There were so many things I liked about it and I thought my gut said "This is it!" Now that I'm thinking with a clear head, I know it to be entirely too small for us and lacking most of the things we're really looking for in an apartment.

I think my lack of recent and meaningful history with this city, with these people, with even the act of not working has made me lose my guiding force, my intuition. And knowing that what I think is my gut instinct is fooling me makes me hypothesize, research and test everything I do twice over, which, as you can imagine, is entirely too tiring.

So... it is a blindingly-sunny Spring day in Istanbul with lots of possibilities and all I want to do is join my intuition on vacation.

Mumbling In The Dark

The below post was jotted down on April 22nd:

Note to self: Do not vacation without the laptop ever again!

I'm in Izmir, in the apartment my mother shares with my grandmother, sitting criss-cross-applesauce on the twin bed the kid sleeps in when we come to visit. Normally, this would be my mother's room, her twin bed, her very blue bedspread, rug and curtain set. After the kid was born, a Barbie border replaced the framed prints on the walls and a toy basket the hamper. Such is the love that adorns children here. Such is the love that suffocates.

When I first entered through the front door yesterday, after four high-decibel days at my in-laws, I immediately felt at peace, reuniting with the quiet that I grew up with. But once night fell, the bad lighting, the extremely uncomfortable thrones my mother calls the sofas, and the really bad programming on her satellite-free TV all started to cramp my brain.

I'm working on The Inheritance of Loss by Kiran Desai and can barely read 2-3 pages at a time. This place has always made me feel somewhat lethargic. It's a miracle I graduated from high school!

...

"This really is a lemon tree!" the kid exclaimed pointing at the lemons growing outside this room's second-floor window. Even though her days are filled with fun-loving relatives who spoil her rotten and lots of new experiences, nights make her sad. Last night, right before she drifted off to sleep, she said she really missed New York. She said she's not "feeling well" in Turkey. When I asked her to explain, she said she's not "great" at making friends or at speaking Turkish. My heart aches when she says things like this but I try to stay strong for her as I know, in time, she won't remember how challenging things were in these early days.

...

It turns out she might have the mumps.

Finding Flow Turkish Style

I read Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi's Finding Flow ten years ago at the recommendation of my then boss. He first gave me a worn-out copy of an article his shrink had lent him. The article led me to the book, the book to my husband.

Maybe not literally, but I was in fact practicing the art of social flow when I met him, hoping to stop the over-analytical banter of my mind and truly enjoy the life of a twentysomething in New York. I was into jazz...very much into jazz.

"A good conversation is like a jam session in jazz, where one starts with conventional elements and the introduces spontaneous variations that create an exciting new composition." - M.C.

So imagine my surprise when the husband of almost nine years called our Saturday night outing "akmak" or "flowing." Apparently, going to Istiklal Cad. without any specific plans and ending up at 360 after a bite of tantuni is called flowing, i.e. spontaneous enjoyment of the city that has no rules and is simply ruled by street cats and seagulls.

Getting a babysitter was the best idea I've had since arriving here two weeks ago -- wearing four-inch heels and smoking a pack of fancy Marlboro Lights not so great. Nevertheless, I like jazz again. And Turkish pop and Turkish techno and whatever else this city has in store for me.

A Sunny Day Filled with Hope

I traded in one kind of to do list for another. Now my days are filled with school tours, babysitter interviews, insurance reps, grocery lists and heirloom recipes. Sounds mundane but each and every task is extremely overwhelming considering it still feels pretty strange over here. But when one begins one's day with a view like this, it seems nothing is insurmountable.

Looking for the Diva Inside

I'll admit I'm a bit shallow. If only I didn't keep forgetting how shallow I am. There's nothing that makes me feel better than a trip to a Turkish hair salon. I now know I shouldn't have delayed this bliss until Day 12 of our Istanbul adventure. It was deeply stupid of me!

A quick cab ride away from where we're living in Cihangir is the Ritz Carlton Taksim and inside, a true Turkish hair salon, complete with all-you-can-drink beverages. The haircolor/manicure/pedicure session took three hours out of my day, as well as major cash out of my pocket and some skin off my toes (it's not a Turkish pedicure until you bleed) but I consider it a small price to pay considering how good I look and feel now.

If only we had some friends to hang out with after our beauty pilgrimage. Unfortunately most of my friends work and don't have children, so Maya and I will have to start from scratch. There's a preschool visit and a babysitter interview in the works for this week. I also want to go check out a few neighborhoods on foot continuing my quest to find us a bigger place to live. I'm proud to say though that I've mastered the laundry, online grocery shopping and the 93 stairs one has to climb to get to our building from the street. Whether I can eventually call this place a home or not, at the very least, I'll have a tighter butt.

Dreaming of a True Love's Kiss

Life is real, very real. When you set sail with romantic notions, it rarely fails to disappoint you. It involves potholes, torn-up suitcases, complicated cell phone packages, laundry detergents that stain, rusty knives that break skin when chopping scallions, repetitive and monotonous tasks of everyday life such as bathing, tidying up, doing dishes, washing hands over and over and over again.

Yet in the midst of it all, dreams do really come true.

Mom left this afternoon. The kid and I walked to the nearest crosswalk after getting her into a cab for the trip to the airport, took a cab to Barbaros Blvd. and had iced coffee and orange juice with chocolate cake at Starbucks. After four days of exposure, she said her first full Turkish sentence: "Bizim evin orada Starbucks bar." There's a Starbucks by our house. Go figure. When asked about spending her days with me she said, "I think it's marbleous!!!" She got up from her seat, came around the table and gave me the tightest hug, the wettest kiss. I thought that was pretty marbleous.

Blues in the Night

Confession #8: I wasn't one hundred percent sure that I was ready when I said yes to this cross-continent move.

I don't know if I could have ever been ready if given the opportunity to ponder. I lived abroad for almost sixteen years; almost half of my life. The uncomfortable truth is, even though I'm back where I started, I'm no longer from here.

So needless to say, the first day and a half was hard. The goodbyes were hurried, last minutes of packing careless and unfinished. There was no time to reflect, take in the amazing view of the Hudson River, raise a glass to a life well lived, toast friends who became family. The trip was painless, even with thirteen suitcases, the arrival smooth. But somehow it doesn't fit.

I feel very much like an accessory in my own life right now: nice to have but not essential. My husband is happy to have his family with him but continues to live the life he set up for himself in the past year. My mother, who had come to New York to help out, is back home. My daughter is high on daddy's affection and the ability to stay up until midnight without major drama from mama. Mama is singing the blues.

The Witching Hour

The time stamp says it all. Eight suitcases packed, two to go. I have to make my third trip to Century 21 in the morning. I mean in about three hours. I'm sitting on the floor leaning against a wall as I type this. In front of me is an empty living room minus the eight red suitcases lined up like soldiers in front of the window. The kid is sleeping on the smelly couch. She couldn't stay up past ten o'clock tonight. I should have bought her the triple latte at Starbucks instead of the hot chocolate this afternoon. She could have packed a few more toys herself!

The famous walk-in closet once filled with seventy-four boxes is now filled with cast-offs the nanny will probably take home tomorrow. Why would anyone want the smelly pillows from the smelly couch is beyond me.

Tonight is my last night in New York as a New Yorker. Like Z said, from now on we'll be tourists when we visit. At least for a while (I keep telling myself.) Maybe it's only fitting that I stay up all night just once in the city that never sleeps.

A New Hope

It's the last hour of the day. I'm cuddled in bed with my daughter who's watching Star Wars Episode IV on the portable DVD player for the third time since yesterday. As I type, she's telling me how Han and Luke put on Stormtrooper uniforms and went under cover in order to save Leia. I'm pretending to listen. Star Wars bores me to death. I was happily enjoying a pinkalicious motherhood worrying more about how we would get the fragile dollhouse to our new home than learning the difference between a wookie and a droid.

She shouldn't even be up at this hour. Of course I know that. I also know that I shouldn't have told the nanny she could have all our furniture and that it was fine if she took it all before we left. So with five more days to go, we're left with a blow-up mattress on loan from a neighbor and an old smelly couch the nanny doesn't want. The almost-empty apartment feels a lot roomier than it did these past six years. I'm tempted to swear off ever setting foot into a furniture store. The kid likes it too, finding the obstacle-free terrain an excellent practice speedway to test the new scooter. She definitely has the best outlook on life. It doesn't even bother her when the biggest Star Wars fanatic of the gang tells her dad she's smarter than this one because ours doesn't believe that Star Wars is real. When I ask her if the comments bother her, she simply says, "No, her dad just agrees to make her happy. He knows it's not real." Nevertheless, we're watching Princess Leia get rescued for the third time. "I don't know who you are or where you came from. From now on, you do as I tell you. OK?"

Despite the squeeky droid chatter coming from the bed, I'm in awe of the calm that surrounds me. Today was my last day at work. The last swipe at security, the last lunch at the cafeteria (I think I still have three dollars and two cents left on my i.d. card), the last paycheck. They shut off my cell phone service. I turned in my Treo. One last hug, one last kiss, one last elevator ride and I didn't even look back. I meant to get a few pictures today, maybe even a few shots of Times Square and the building. It didn't happen. I'm not surprised, having lived the last two weeks in a hamster wheel. Overscheduling has become as habitual as brushing my teeth over the years; a tightly-knit calendar was essential for a successful balancing act. My TO DO LIST demands that I pencil in "Take photos at work!!" with an empty checkmark box next to it. It's my own damn fault that I didn't. Words will have to suffice: It was an extremely windy yet sunny Spring day in New York. The tourists in Times Square were fooled into jean jackets by the temperature forecasts and froze their butts off, while the natives bundled up in cashmere scarves having listened to the wind advisory. I got a haircut during lunch and picked up my boots from the shoe repair guys on 39th street. At work, we toasted my departure with VC and chocolate-covered strawberries. I left shortly after 6 pm and didn't look back.

Life in the Small

When you start seeing more empty jars of Stridex and Corona Light collect in the shared recycling bin than pricey bottles of red wine, you know it's time to move out.

Confession #7: I was the one who called the cops shortly after 1 am last Saturday.

The neighbors were playing loud music and singing along. Loudly. And they were drunk. And several couples were having the drunken hook-up conversation in our shared hallway, steps from my door. Did I say they were loud? I couldn't sleep. Granted I was happily updating my wish list on Amazon but still. I couldn't sleep. I called my husband in Dubai. I told him I was going to call the cops. He was rushing into a meeting, at ten in the morning his time (they work on Sundays in Dubai,) so hurriedly said, "you should honey." So I did. I called the cops on a newly married couple who had friends over for a Saturday night party.

I remember such a party that we hosted as newlyweds in September 2000. We played loud music. Really loud music. My husband showed unspeakable movies on the television "as background" to the loud music we were playing. I was amazed that we were able to fit more than fifty people into our tiny one bedroom. People had hook-up conversations in the hallways. They invaded the rooftop and released the balloons I had gotten for my birthday. We were drunk; very drunk but had the time of our lives that night. The clean up next day required more than one trip to the shared recycling bin.

So much has changed in seven years, hasn't it? Does it for everyone? Raising a five year-old, I feel like I have been able to maintain my childhood perspective and therefore, am a better mother for it. So how come I can't maintain the perspective of a twentysomething? How come I can't tolerate a bunch of twenty-five year olds who are trying to have fun in the only way they know how to have fun?

One of the dictionary meanings of perspective is the ability to perceive things in their comparative importance. This is exactly the kind of perspective I seem to have lost in the last ten years. And this is exactly the kind of perspective I'll be chasing across the Atlantic and through the twisted, topsy-turvy streets of Istanbul.

As part of an insider compliment, a friend recently called what I write about "life in the small." Aha! That is exactly the kind of life I'm looking for. Comparatively speaking, small is the new big. Don't you think?

Solitude is a Beautiful Thing

Author Elizabeth Berg wrote: "Most writers, by nature, need a lot of time by themselves. It's important to write alone, at least some of the time, but I think it's important for us to be alone a fair amount of the time, too. Then we can often get rid of a kind of internal scorecard that makes us compare ourselves to others, and that makes us do things according to the way we think others would have us do them. We need the chance to draw from our own unique selves, to act according to our own beliefs, without any interference from others. I believe that solitude, perhaps more than anything, breeds creativity, breeds originality."

It's been hard for my friends to accept that I may just want to be alone, by myself, for a while. Some of them question where I plan to live when I make the move, what I plan to do. "Won't you get bored? Won't you miss working?" they ask me. By "working" they mean wearing a suit and going to an office every day from 9 to 5. When I tell them I plan to write full time, I usually hear an "Oh..." or sometimes, nothing. Some of them refer to my career in sales and exclaim "But you're sooo good at iiiiiit!" with a slight whine the way my daughter gets in the Barbie aisle at the local pharmacy. I thank them with a smile and explain how I've always wanted to write and what better time then now. I think some worry that they may not have known me at all.

The truth is, they do know me but they only know a side of me. Then there are others out there, in cities and continents far far away, who know me very differently, more wholly. (Some of these people have been mulling over the idea of solitude themselves recently.) These are the people with whom I can be alone, myself. And that's a compliment.

"Solitude is a beautiful thing, but you need someone to tell you that solitude is a beautiful thing." -- Honoré de Balzac

Manhattan Storage Has Its Benefits

Exactly five years ago, just about now, I settled into bed wondering if I would actually get any sleep that night. I had spent the entire day doing laundry, folding an overwhelming amount of onesies, blankets, burp cloths and other baby paraphernalia, in preparation for the birth of my first child. Between sporadic contractions (which I hid from my mother who was visiting), I would urge my husband to dig the car out "just one more time" as the Blizzard of 2003 pummeled our Hudson River-front street in downtown New York.

At 12:35 am on February 18th my eyes burst open with the pain of the first real contraction. That's when I realized I had actually fallen asleep. My daughter was born much later that morning at Mount Sinai Hospital.

Right after her first birthday, this is what I wrote:

"I used to read a book a week. I'm not talking about chick lit, but serious books on the plight of gypsies or women’s lives in the Middle East. I used to take classes after work. Classes in photography, Spanish, ballroom dancing; all in the name of personal growth. I used to watch long-subject documentaries at Lincoln Center and wait in line for hours to snag last minute tickets to the latest Broadway shows; again all in the name of personal growth.

My mind grew over the years. From sharing a converted one bedroom in Manhattan to an alcove studio in Brooklyn and back to Manhattan for married bliss, the space I occupied in this world grew as well. I continued pursuing the pleasures of living in New York, now with a husband, and chased personal growth through wine-tastings on the North Fork, cooking classes at the Institute and pottery nights at Our Name is Mud.

A few short years after I got married my body started growing, so I stopped doing all these things. When my daughter finally arrived during the Blizzard of 2003, my heart was the biggest organ in my body. It ached with its bigness.

The first year of Maya’s life has ultimately been the pivotal learning experience of my thirty years. An entire year dedicated to one project and one project alone. I couldn’t have imagined what a life-altering experience it would be and that I would grow so much."

Finding reflective treasures in stored-away boxes is absolutely the best part of moving. When every square inch you pack has to travel across the Atlantic and cross an entire continent to get to your new house, you make sure what you're bringing with you belongs on the must-have list. You go through every single box thoroughly, even if it means that you will get sucked into letters, diaries, start organizing photos, sifting through saved magazines, newspaper articles. Finding the time to get lost in the past is a luxury I decided I must afford. Friends with whom I haven't kept in touch will suddenly start hearing from me.

Just yesterday, I was able to gift a poem written in 1991 to a friend who just turned 34. It was a poem she had written when she was 17 years old, hidden away in one of my journals from high school. It put a smile on both of our faces, brought gentle tears to our eyes. Being able to recapture youth, a youth well-lived, is divine. Life is beautiful!

The New Me

The title for the previous post was "Quitting the Rat Race." I wrote it last night, quickly titled and posted before I went to bed. Somehow all day long today, it kept gnawing at me. The title didn't feel right. "Trading Up" kept popping up in my head, a nod to the title of a book I recently had to read for work. The former seemed out of place, somewhat cliche. The latter fit, it was perfect. I vowed to change it as soon as I could, even though I knew I should follow Hearst's widely quoted publishing mantra: "Don't be afraid to make a mistake, your readers might like it."

I'm always looking for perfection and always in secret as I'm somewhat embarassed by the whole obsessive compulsive behavior. Last year I had the privilege of working with a talented business coach. Within a few minutes into our session, I remember blurting "I'm afraid of failing." And when Terry asked me "What would happen if you made a mistake?" I burst into tears. We weren't even talking about my marriage.

Confession #5: I'm morbidly afraid of making mistakes.

About a year ago, when asked "How would you like to be managed?" in a job interview, I answered "I don't like to be embarassed." The assurance I gave, that I would always be over-prepared for every business situation in order to avoid embarassing oversights or mistakes, got me the job.

In fact, I don't think I would be married today, if my darling husband hadn't whispered, "What's the big deal? If it doesn't work out, we'll get a divorce," in order to calm my paralyzing nerves minutes before we walked into the restaurant where we were to get married in front of a close group of friends and family.

Well, that is the old me. The new me would have eloped to Vegas the day he serenaded me with Elvis Presley's "Can't Help Falling In Love" at a local karaoke bar in Brooklyn shortly after our first kiss.

I know the obsession over the title of a post is not a promising start. Nevertheless, my desire to teach my daughter to take chances and not be afraid to make mistakes trumps any insecurities I might have been carrying around since childhood. She makes me want to be a better woman.

Confession #6: While sorting through old files yesterday, I shredded the one-page divorce decree I've carried around since 1989. I don't think my mother ever knew that I had a copy of it. In it, the judge ordered the dissolution of my parents' marriage, sighting irreconcilable differences. I now know it was more complicated than that.

Trading Up

I baked my first Splendaful banana bread today. All I had to do was replace a cup of sugar with a cup of Splenda. It was that easy -- a smile-inducing solution to my move-ready kitchen's shortcomings. The banana bread itself was another solution to rotting bananas that I didn't want to waste. And rotting bananas the result of a fruit-phobic nanny who conveniently forgets to administer the daily servings as instructed.

The rotting bananas, along with the dustbunnies under the couch and the oil splatters on the stove will soon become my responsibility. I will trade in my business cards for recipe cards, hopefully learning to live a fully-engaged, somewhat green, and a much-needed slow life in the process.

I was still single, almost ten years ago, when I received what I now believe was the best parenting advice. One of my co-workers, who had an 18-month old daughter, was marveling at how long it took to walk to the corner deli with a toddler in tow. She was reminiscing about how they had to stop and look at every crack on the sidewalk, every stain on the walls, every flower sprouted beside a tree. Her daughter would pause and stare at every passerby, chirping a shrill "Hi!" on occasion, only to get distracted by the next crack on the sidewalk or a doorman in uniform. When I asked her if the whole thing didn't drive her crazy, she shrugged with a wide smile and said, "My weekends are so much better now that I live them through her eyes. I'd rather take 20 minutes to walk to the deli than miss out on all this. It's worth the investment!"

Addicted to Breaking News

I face my computer ninety percent of the time while I'm at work. With three active email accounts to check, two blogs to maintain, countless work-related forms to fill, it's a miracle that I'm still employed as an account director whose main responsibility is to talk to potential customers IN PERSON to prove our's is bigger and better than the other guy's. Most days I can barely do my job because I spend my entire day in front of the computer.

How did this happen? When has spending eight hours or more in front of the computer every day become routine and acceptable? When? Why? Is this how an addict realizes, perhaps in rehab, that at one point she lost control of her life?

In addition to my work email, I sign in and out of Hotmail and Gmail all day long, looking for the latest newsletters, friends' updates, Facebook messages and breaking news alerts. As if that's not enough, I glance at the culled news when I sign in to my Gmail homepage and when I sign out of Hotmail. I shouldn't care if "Stars shone during Fashion Week," or "If Election lives up to hype," but I do and I click and I read. A few paragraphs later I come to and quit Internet Explorer and go back to Outlook. I read emails, archive emails, delete emails, download attachments, forward documents, update my calendar, add a new contact. All day long, this is what I do.

What the hell!

This MVP Floats a Regal Tackle of Another Kind: Books

I briefly attended an impromptu Super Bowl party tonight. Shortly after the game started, the men quickly rallied around the flat-screen with their food and beer, while the women congregated in the kitchen, as always, sniffing the milk carton mid-conversation before filling up the baby's bottle or carelessly puncturing tops of juice boxes with the accompanying straws. Once in a while the women would poke their heads out to peak at the game or referee the latest squabble among the preschoolers abound, trying to prevent the inevitable "It's past my bedtime but I will not go to bed!" meltdown.

I could barely pay attention. All I could think about, as I walked around the apartment with a glass of wine in hand, was how I had to repack the twenty-something boxes of books I had taped up the night before. All because I had a major realization today: I really do want to make a fresh start. And, unfortunately, no dictionary meaning of "fresh start" includes twenty-something Fresh Direct boxes of used books.

What I envision when I make the move, is a clutter-free home that's easy to keep clean and free of adornation that suffocates. Instead, I'd like a clean and practical home that will allow me to travel freely and return to comfort, not dusting; one where you can clearly see yourself and be yourself and not get lost in a swallowing swamp of things. A house that's a simple background to all the love that will decorate it.

Unfortunately the biggest obstacle between me and this imagined haven is printed matter. The amount of books, photos, magazines, notebooks, journals, postcards, letters and binders filled with even more paper I've collected in the past fifteen years is, on one hand, awe-inspiring. I remember where and how I came to own each piece, how much of it I read or used, what it means to me. On the other hand, this haphazard collection feels like an insurmountable mountain of clutter.

I've been going through it for over a month now and today I realized that I got it all wrong. Although I've been able to gift, donate or sell a good chunk of the books and magazines in the past couple of weeks, I wasn't happy with the quantity of boxes I was amassing in my bedroom. Today, with help from an impartial friend, I broke the seal. I had to change the question I was asking from "why do I want to keep this book?" to "will I ever read this book again?" and "if I had to reference anything contained in this book, could I find it online?"

So I chucked my beloved Dictionary of Financial Terms and a couple of cook books with never-cracked spines. Many will-never-be-read-again novels found their way into the donation box, joined by will-never-read books on obscure periods in history. Zen Habits' Leo Babuata says that we often keep books as trophies or mounted animal heads to show how much we've read and how smart we are. I decided that I have too much of just plain old life to tackle ahead of me. I have to let go of a Netflix-like library that stresses me out.

The Giants won while I was sorting. I could care less so I watched the latest episode of The Biggest Loser instead, hoping to multitask some inspiration in order to lose the last twenty pounds of "baby weight" before I make the move.

Confession #3: I haven't been to the gym in six months, minus a fifteen-minute session on my friend's eliptical trainer over Christmas weekend.

Confession #4: Many inscribed books met their maker today as I made my way through what's left of the library. Two of them were given to me by my husband and beautifully signed. Sorry honey, I figured you'd prefer the clutter-free paradise I vow to build when we meet again.

Stop Junk Mail. Save Trees.

I started prepacking. Using the boxes from Fresh Direct to better understand the damage my shoes will have on my bank account when the time comes to ship them. I also canceled my Netflix subscription. Movies kept arriving in my mailbox dutifully and I kept feeling guilty for not having the time or the interest to watch them. Most often, they went back without even been taken out of their sleeve.

I also discovered Green Dimes. Every time I open my mailbox and find the latest Pottery Barn Kids or Crate & Barrel catalog, I make a mental note to call and cancel the subscription. Somehow that mental note never makes it past the threshold, joining the unwanted pile of junk mail in the recycling bin. By signing up with Green Dimes, I will finally get to save all the trees I've been meaning to save all those years. I marvel at the amazing mind of the ingenious entrepreneur that came up with the concept. "Only in America," I think to myself and feel a pinch of regret for deciding to leave this incredible country.

Then I realize that only in America junk mail would reach such epic proportions that you would need a paid service to stop the madness.

Istanbul Street Style

I'm at work but can't focus. I haven't made one meaningful contribution to this office in the last two hours.

Look what I found though:

Istanbul Street Style Blog

I think I might have to store my Tahari suits and go shopping at Urban Outfitters before I head over.

Only in New York Moments

I just saw a man in a chicken suit. A short and skinny man in an anatomically incorrect chicken suit. I was waiting to order at Starbucks and caught a glimpse of the dusty yellow feathers from the corner of my eye. He was outside the building, lingering on the sidewalk in front of the window, slowly and aimlessly making his way to Times Square, carrying a plastic Western Union bag (why would Western Union have bags?) I'm guessing he could actually see where he was going through the wide open beak. He just didn't seem to be in a hurry to get there. "Only in New York" I thought.

I've had many "Only in New York" moments over the years -- personally witnessed, personally experienced. I don't think I'll miss any of them. Soon, the Naked Cowboy in Times Square, the crazies on the subway, the insanity of rush hour commute (waiting in line to cross the street!), the half-hour wait at Starbucks will all be a distant memory. I won't miss any of it.

I can't sleep at night wondering what my new life will be like.

Shredding My Way to Freedom

It was an uneventful weekend with lazy days spent mostly inside, sheltered from the extreme cold. It's weekends like this one when I really appreciate my best friend, her family, her kids, her humor and the fact that her place is a short elevator ride away. It's people I'll miss when I leave this all behind, not Woodbury Commons or Century 21 as some may expect.

I also went through countless boxes of files, hand-shredding old rent leases, credit card statements, useless immigration documents and hundreds and hundreds of receipts. I guess we ate out a lot over the last ten years and I obviously bought too many handbags. If we ever get audited, I'm telling the tax police that the receipts are somewhere on the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean, lost during our move overseas. Does that count as Confession #2?

Proceed With Caution: Lack of REM Can Induce a Serious Case of the Blues

Not the kind of REM you're thinking about. This particular lack of rapid eye movement resulted from a long morning devoid of coffee, the newspaper, magazines or Facebook. I'm in training you see. Having committed my daughter and me to a week long experiment on the effects of technology and media, I thought I'd test-drive a Saturday morning without the usual eye chatter to which I subject myself.

It wasn't long before we found refuge at the new Barnes & Noble on Warren Street. Life is a lot more bearable after a triple-shot latte and a helping of Quindlen:

"Nothing important, or meaningful, or beautiful, or interesting, or great ever came out of imitations. The thing that is really hard, and really amazing, is giving up on being perfect and beginning the work on becoming yourself."

Confession #1: I didn't tip the doormen this year.

Pots, Pans and a Pressure Cooker: Wedding Registry or Relocation List?

I can't do anything before researching it first; can't buy anything before shopping around; can't write an article before becoming an expert on the subject; can't pick a lunch plate before I walk the entire cafeteria to see what else is there. I couldn't even have a baby before reading all available pregnancy & childbirth books available at the time (only to realize that I had never read anything about how to take care of a newborn and ended up taking my daughter to the doctor when her bellybutton didn't fall off within a few days.)

Noone expects me to execute a cross-continent move by the seat of my pants. Noone should. Especially if they love me and care about me! They can't expect me to wing this; not this! I should be allowed a little neurosis. I already started bothering friends who've already done it, albeit almost a decade ago: How did you get your stuff over there? What did you bring? How did you deal with customs? What kind of paperwork did you need? What do you wish you had stocked up on? What do you wish you had bought while still in New York?

I expected a drug list: if you like your allergy pills, Motrin and Children's Tylenol you must bring a decent supply with you. Fair enough.

What I didn't expect was a unanimous shout-out to kitchen supplies. Apparently, if one is relocating away from Broadway Panhandler's domain, one must stock up with the latest and greatest cookware, tableware, pepper grinder, cutlery and never look back.

My Nanny Knows What She Wants -- Why Don't I?

I spent the entire morning at work returning phone calls about my nanny. The leads started trickling in on Monday, minutes after I posted for her on Craig's List and Urban Baby. She decided she's not even going to entertain the first two (a stay-at-home mom with three kids and a too-far commute to Queens) and has been patiently waiting for me to screen more calls for her. (Why am I doing this?!)

Here I am thinking I have to give her a two-month notice and be prepared to pay up if she can't find a job by the time we leave. I never imagined she would be so selective, have a clear idea of what she wants from her next job and not even interview for positions that she thinks are not right for her. She knows what she wants: another working mom with a newborn, another family she can grow with, a stable position where she's needed, indispensable, a flexible employer who won't mind her bringing her son in once in a while. She may or may not be worried about being unemployed for too long -- I can't tell. What's so impressive is that she won't let her worries compromise the job she wants to have.

That is exactly what I should have done all along -- chase the life I want to live, not the one I think I should.

I Started Misquoting My Age

I have been telling everyone I'm 32. Somehow, my brain refuses to switch from 32 to 33 even though I grew another year on September 11, 2007. I should have realized that something was amiss when I made the mistake the first time.

I don't know what changed since September but I finally came to the conclusion that life as I know it is not a life at all. I've been married for eight years yet I feel like I've barely spent any quality time with my handsome husband. I have an almost five year old daughter whose baby book is a collection of plastic bags in the walk-in closet I'm afraid to open. We live thousands of miles away from family and special occasions consist for pre-scheduled webcam sessions on my teeny laptop during which my mother breaks then fixes her headset at least twice and my grandmother almost always gets frustratred from not being able to hear anything and goes off to the kitchen to fix some tea.

So I decided to change my ways and made it official this week by telling my full-time nanny that I'm soon quitting my job and moving back where I came from. Somewhere far away, very very far away, from New York City where I live now. She took it well -- almost too well for my taste and is now looking for another job.

I on the other hand am in full-blown nesting mode. Stocking up on necessities, getting rid of frivilous extensions of my life in New York. Deciding to give up a high-powered corporate career in order to move oversees, to stay home with my daughter and to write my first novel requires more planning than you'd think.

This is definitely a midlife crisis. I know it. I think I'm going to enjoy every minute of it!