The Demise of The Ultimate Machine

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“There is something wrong my car.” The Turk proclaimed

That’s never a phrase one wants to hear, but when you’ve been milking every ounce of life out of a limping lump of metal nearing the big 2-0 mark, it’s not really that shocking. Though my denial was strong, I’d been expecting this since the moment he took said limping lump off the ramps and by some crazy Turkish voodoo got the car to run.

I brushed off my token- surprised-not-surprised reaction. “Is it something big like ‘my engine fell out in the driveway’ or more like ‘I’ve got a nail in my tire?’”

“Well…engine is still there…”

The lack of details proved we were nowhere near the nail-in-the-tire zone.

“Does it still run?” I prodded.

“Sometimes.” I’m pretty sure there was a tear in his eye as he added, “It might be end of The Ultimate Machine.”

The Ultimate Machine was the name The Turk bestowed upon his creation that began as a beat-up ’98 BMW. About the time I was bringing the Nugget into this world, the Turk was preparing for his own baby, The Ultimate Machine. While I was in a haze of newborn sleep depravation, the Turk decided to hatch his plan to get the car of his dreams by any means necessary -such as taking advantage of my post partum confusion.

Since there was no way his sensible wife would ever sign off on a BMW manufactured in this century, he determined it best to buy one from a desperate college student on Craig’s list. From day one, he was enraptured with the car but his love was blind. As he pulled the Ultimate Machine into the drive at his initial introduction, it clunked and chugged and expelled a thick white cloud of toxic gas with each acceleration.

“What the hell is this?” I begged, shielding my children from the mushroom cloud coming from the exhaust pipe.

“Don’t worry. I fix it.” He beamed.

“How? You don’t know anything about car repair. You barely know how to check the oil.”

“It’s ok. I have Youtube.” (A stubborn immigrant’s direct path to the American dream.)

Thus began a great odyssey that would keep the Turk in the garage (and subsequently my car out in the cold and all of us playing Frogger over mechanic’s tools) for the next 8 months.

Like some women hide online shopping boxes, my husband began to hide car parts coming in at a rapid rate from destinations where I’m pretty sure they don’t make BMWs. He spent late nights watching fix-it videos and laid desire-filled gazes on every BMW he saw like some men do in the presence of a buxom broad. He was in deep, but things only got deeper when I issued an ultimatum.

“Yo, it is almost spring and I want to get these bikes and stroller and everything else normal people put in a garage back in the garage. You have 1 more month to get that damn thing back together and out of my garage.”

“Ok, ok. I almost done.”

“Are you really going to drive this downtown to work every day?”

“Why you say that? Of course. It is The Ultimate Machine. When I die, you bury me in it.”

A few weeks later he pulled the Ultimate Machine out of the drive with nary a puff of smoke behind it. He was elated as he headed off for his morning commute. I immediately signed him up with AAA roadside assistance…just in case.

The Ultimate Machine’s time on the ramps since that grand departure has been extensive. It’s had numerous flat tires, a few tows (That AAA was my best investment in life thus far), lots of leaking fluids, countless junkyard excursions and other things that were only remedied by hours of YouTube videos and boxes of parts from around the globe. The Turk learned more than he’d ever dreamed and until I threatened him with death in his sleep, he even planned to build a paint booth in our garage. Through it all, his love for that stupid car remained.

“I wish you’d talk to me the way you talk to that car.” I muttered in a hostile huff.

“Oh Honey that will never happen. Ultimate Machine never talks back to me.”

That crazed Turk kept it running for 3 years until that fateful day when it seemed the price of repair was bigger than the sum value of The Ultimate Machine. Logically I thought we should buy a new family car and he should take over mine. That idea was a lead balloon. “How I go from Ultimate Machine to a Hyundai? I can not. It hurts too much.”

So he got a budget and knowing the Turk and his inability to adhere to any budget, I low-balled him and off he went to find the next car of his dreams.

I think it’s important to note here that The Turk does not believe in dealerships…or “stealerships” as he calls them. After a week of browsing local sellers and even a police auction, he announced – “I found it. I found my new love.” And like a man in love he showed me photos, relived details and pined. The Turk was smitten and when that was clear he dropped the bomb. “But it is a bit over budget.” (Thus the lowball.) After forcing him to agree that he would take up male cage dancing to make up for the deficit, he sealed the deal.

On a warm spring evening two large African men arrived in my driveway in a white BMW. Even I had to admit, it was pretty, but it was 10 years newer and all in one piece so it wasn’t hard to beat the Ultimate Machine.

At the kitchen table we signed over titles and then I did my best Cagney and Lacey. (Unfortunately I had to be both so it was probably a bit confusing to the three men, none of whom shared my first language.) Where do you work? Where do you live? Give me your employer’s phone number…and on and on before I hit it with the big one…”Just so you know, if this car isn’t what you claim, I will come to your work and I will kill you. We clear? He may be the Turk but I’m a Philly girl and we don’t play.” The huge man looked down at me, a chubby mom pushing 5’4” if I stretch, so I added my best crazy eyes. It worked.

The three men loaded into my car so the Turk could drive them back to their home. For a moment I questioned the sanity in this move, then rememeerd his life insurance was healthy and let the bad thoughts go. The Turk later reported that once in the car, the larger of the two men looked at my husband and said, “Man, your wife is scary.”

To which he could only reply, “Oh, I know.”

Now if I could only use my crazy eyes to get that Ultimate Machine out of my driveway!


Mother Tongue…Ewwww

frustration (1)

The other day someone used the term “mother tongue” in response to languages in our house. That term grosses me out. I am a middle schooler trapped in an old lady body so combining the words mother and tongue could not be any more gross. But after I threw-up in my mouth at the Oedipal imagery, I got to thinking about it. When it comes to language in our house, we are both amazing and a hot mess.

Language is something I’ve learned to both love and despise. I love it for its ability to express the mirage of thoughts hurling through my head, but it also sucks because for us, language is the root of many problems.

For example, I can unequivocally say that every major argument the Turk and I’ve had in our years of marriage has come down to language and something getting lost in translation. Even though we’ve been at this for over a decade and we both speak each other’s languages we still have major miscommunications and now our kids are in on the magic.

 -quiet side whisper- “Mom, what the heck is Baba trying to say?”

“No clue kids, just nod. We’ll figure it out later.”

Then there are the languages themselves. Turkish being blunt and including no sugar coating and English being one where we might sugar coat too much. In Turkish a person is never curvy or plump. A person is fat. Just fat. That doesn’t always flow so well with sensitive English speakers.

“Why I add extra words when I don’t need? She is fat. It is true. I tell her. What is wrong with that?”

And lets not disregard issues we have with preconceived notions we face when speaking our second languages. In Turkish conversations, people think I comprehend faster than I do so they hit me with rapid-fire Turkish while I’m at “hi, how ya doin’.” In English, people hear the Turk’s accent and assume he just started learning English last week rather than 20 years ago, so they assume he’s stupid. (They usually see their misjudgment later when he hits them with a zinger.)

Number 1 Son never had an issue bouncing between languages rather than choosing a mother tongue, until he was old enough to choose. His choice of English over Turkish upset many family members while elating others, sticking his father and I in a quagmire.

Then there is Nugget. For his whole life of almost 4 years, language has been his Achilles heel. As a kid with Childhood Apraxia of Speech who couldn’t get any words to form or any sound to come out until very recently, he was no fan of spoken English. As a Hard of Hearing dude with one ear, he’s doesn’t always catch spoken language to begin with and he’s often dependent on ASL when his lone ear lets him down. However, he’s painfully aware that only a handful of people besides Mom can sign with him so if he can’t sign, can’t speak, what’s a guy to do?

Now, after a year full of daily speech therapy he’s gone from a kid with CAS to a kid with an adorable lisp and a couple other speech impediments (And mastered a find grasp of profanity because even with one ear that kid can hear every damn foul word his mother drops a mile away.) He’s also added more signs and keeps up with his ASL. Recently, spurred by his love of a fabulously flamboyant, Liberace-esque Turkish singer, he’s started picking up Turkish. So what’s his mother tongue? Who knows but 3 languages by 4 is damn impressive.

No one I knew as a kid spoke a second language but  I had great aspirations, so I ordered both French and Spanish dictionaries from the bargain section of the Weekly Reader book order. I soon learned that one does not learn a language by reading the dictionary. I tried Spanish class in high school but called it a day after, “Me llamo Margie, y tu?” I did pick up enough Spanish later to get me into trouble in Mexico, but basically I top out at Dora the Explorer level.

This week Nugget had a birthday party with some Developmental PreK buds at a trampoline park. It was his first big party and he was psyched until he realized how loud the park was and thus turned off what hearing he has (as he does in noisy situations). As I was signing to him we were surprised to see a bunch of other people doing the same. Nugget was elated and signed, Look Mom, they sign too! A group from the local Deaf school was there on a field trip and many took time out to chat with us. It was great for Nugget to share a mother tongue and great for me to hone my ASL skills.

After the party we stopped off at McDonalds (Yes, I do that occasionally. I’m not proud but it happens.) and much to my surprise, we sat next to a woman speaking Turkish to her young son. As we chatted she told me she was here for her husband’s work and didn’t speak any English. She was desperate for someone to speak Turkish with, besides her husband. She was shocked and elated to have found that at McDonalds. I was transported ten years back when I was a lonely wife newly landed in a foreign country, struggling with the language and longing for someone, anyone, to speak English with so I certainly understood. It rocks when life gives you an opportunity to reciprocate. We talked forever before exchanging numbers and she even complimented me on my Turkish (Which made me beam because I generally sound like a stammering moron in Turkish, but thanks to my early years of motherhood in Turkey I do rock the mom-talk quite well.)

So maybe we have no familial mother tongue and maybe my relationship with language has become a bit hostile in recent history, but as I settled in for my evening wine/decompression with The Turk that evening, I was damn proud of myself for having flexed my muscles in 3 languages in a matter of hours. Not bad for a girl who didn’t make it through 9th grade Spanish. Next up, perhaps we’ll all learn Icelandic…