Enter The Tree Huggin’ Badass

tree savior

A few weeks ago I arrived home from work stunned to find the horror half-way up my wooded driveway. There, amid my normally tree-lined trek was a shocking sight that bore resemblance to that time I was learning to cut my son’s hair with clippers. Bam! A giant bald patch had been cut along the side of our property all the way to the cranberry bogs. My fortress of solitude was compromised! 

Had there been a plane crash and the plane was nose-down in cranberries? Did our friendly backyard Sasquatch go on a rampage? Had the neighbors I’d barely met decided to scalp the woods to get a better look at us after nearly a year? While all of them were probable, the most likely case was an alien landing. Obviously they landed searching for intelligent life but I was at work so they took off again. (As a Doctor Who fan I know these things are probable.)

As I walked down the drive to meet the school bus, my sorrow growing about the lost foliage, I ran into my newly exposed neighbor. He shared my dismay but reassured that the electric company occasionally does this to clear access to power lines. The utilities feel it’s better to pillage a 1/4 mile of trees rather than violate a cranberry bog from the other direction. (As the Turk said, “It might be time switch solar.”)

Fortunately, the shaving of our shared hill did give my neighbor and I a nice chance to  get acquainted. He shared tales of the previous owners of our home including the one who parked his bulldozer in the drive and terrorized the neighbors with threats of dozing them off the planet if they reported him to the zoning board. Having heard these tales from various neighbors, who now look upon our little family with relief, it makes perfect sense everyone was a bit standoffish initially.

My husband, the Turk, arrived home from work that evening and we inspected the damage together. “They are done?” He asked.

“I don’t think so. There is a giant truck parked down by the bogs. I assume they’re coming back. If not, I’ll commute to work in a tree truck.”

“This is mess.” He retorted kicking downed limbs.

“Agreed.” I began quoting Joni Mitchell about paving paradise and putting up a parking lot but my American folk reference was totally lost on my foreign husband.

“What the hell you are talking about?”

Since he was already confused I sang more. “They took all the trees and put ‘em in a tree museum…charged everybody a dollar and a half to see ‘em.” (Now you have that song stuck in your head too.)

The next day after school I was met at the edge of our woods by 2 tree-men, both dragging on cigarettes as if they were their last and sharing approximately 6 teeth between them. They explained that they’d been tasked with cutting a 20’ swath on either side of the power lines and that would mean taking out even more of our trees and by trees, I mean 40 foot pines, not some tiny sapling. I know I’ve not been a fan of those giants during previous windstorms but I wasn’t ready to murder them.

“Now you do get some say, ma’am,” Explained toothless man #1. “You can deny any cutting beyond the easement, long as you sign the paper.”

Toothless man #2 chimed in, “That’s what I would do. I mean, it’s good the power company is pickin’ up the tab an’ all but that’s a lotta trees to lose.” He took a long drag off his cigarette and dropped the butt into the dry pine needles below. This act obliterated any trust I might have had in the knowledge of these tree men.

“We can jus’ trim ‘em up for ya too. Maybe you wanna ask your husband and let us know tomorra.”  Toothless man #1 must have seen the flames in my eyes as he uttered that statement because he took a few steps back as I cocked my head, flared my nostrils and said, “Excuse me?”

“Oh no ma’am, I didn’t mean you need his permission or nuttin’ I’m just sayin’…”

“You’re just assuming that my husband is the decision maker and your assumption is wrong. If I want to give the go ahead, I can cut down every damn tree in this forest without asking my husband so let’s not make any more ridiculous assumptions, shall we?”

The two toothless tree men cowered as they tried to dig themselves out of the jam they’d created but I had no time for that. No way was I going to allow any more trees to be cut. If I had to tie myself to the bottom of one, Joni Mitchell and I were not going to let them pave paradise today.

“Bring me the paper to sign. There will be no encroaching beyond the easement. You’ve got 15’ and not an inch more and if you so much as bend a twig past 15′, it is going to get ugly.” I then turned and stomped out of the woods in a very dramatic fashion until I twisted my ankle on a stump because one should never wear the clogs she wears to work into the woods if she plans to make a dramatic exit. I limped gracefully back to my house muttering profanity the whole way.

The Turk was in full agreement about saving the trees. I was relieved my city-boy husband was as invested in nature as I was. After all these years of marriage, I’m rubbing off on my high-rise dweller.

While the toothless treemen have continued on their electric-company issued rampage against the trees of southern Massachusetts, we have been forced to look on. Each day we walk down the path with a little bit of sadness for the felled trees, feeling a need to bear witness to their demise and, as expected, I can’t keep Joni Mitchell out of my head.

Last weekend while Number 1 Son and I were shopping for plants at the home improvement store, we found inspiration. We bought a ridiculous number of small trees and bushes. When we arrived home and shared our plan, the Turk was in such strong agreement that he sent us back for another Jeep-load of tiny trees. We planted nearly 20 small trees and 6 bushes on our property to repopulate a fraction of what was lost. As I dug and planted each one, I felt like a short, squishy Paul Bunyan, saving the earth, one shrub at a time.

Sure, they cut down 40 foot trees and I planted 2 foot trees but in time, my little guys will grow. The last two times we planted trees, we were relocated months later and never got the chance to see them mature. Hopefully this time we’ll be around long enough to at least see them get to the 6’ mark but even if we don’t, this family of  tree hugging’ badasses will keep doing their part, one tree at a time.

And since I have now got Joni Mitchell stuck in your head, here’s a link to a performance of Big Yellow Taxi on Youtube….you’re welcome.

 

 

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The Queen Gets A New Throne…And No One Died.

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As in any successful pairing, the Turk and I follow the yin and yang of one cheap-ass and one over-spender. In case you’re new here, I’m the cheap-ass. This method has gotten us through numerous times when we barely had two nickels (or Lyra) to rub together. But one thing has held steadfast, my Turk loves to spend. After the past year of relocating which required us to shell out money like sardines in a dolphin show, and a few months as a one-paycheck family, the Turk has been on spending lockdown and it’s taken a toll.

I’d catch him browsing weekly circulars with drool forming in the corners of his mouth. His Amazon shopping cart wish list looked like the cart of a mother of five in the food store and he’d begun to twitch. The Turk needed a shopping fix and it needed to be something big.

With my return to full-time employment, the Turk determined he could return to his preferred way of life and hit the circuit.

“Honey, I find a nice crouch.” He announced proudly. (Some words like crouch and couch are just never going to make it into his English repertoire. I accept that and love him for it.)

“First off, I assume you’re talking about furniture and not a squat. Secondly, we’re waiting on major purchases. Financial planning dear.”

“I know but I have coupon. One day only. Very good deal.”

The Turk loves a coupon. The problem is, if he has a coupon he buys things simply because he has a coupon. (Like the 7-11-style hotdog machine he bought his wife who doesn’t eat hotdogs this Christmas. –But he had coupon. – Readers, I only wish this were not true.) 

“Maybe we just go look?” He pleaded.

Unbeknownst to him, new furniture wasn’t really a hard sell. We purchased our current sofa and loveseat when we first moved back to America. We were broke-ass poor and in desperate need of furniture when we happened upon the classic, North Philadelphia parking lot sale. You know, those sales with the glowing signs claiming: “Emergency Liquidation!” and “Limited Time!” and, “1 Day ONLY!” Which are certainly signs of a legit, high quality retailer.

This was not my first North Philly parking lot sale and while the items are some version of new, they might have “fallen off a truck” hence the “Rock Bottom Prices!” But ask no questions and all goes well. After some negotiations we were the proud owners of a sofa and loveseat at the rock bottom price of $450 including delivery.

That was nearly 8 years ago and that furniture survived 4 inter-state moves and 6 houses. They endured 1 surly cat, 2 wild boys, countless sick days, a few naptime wet pants, Nugget’s kidney surgery, numerous football games, pizza nights and a little bit of spilled everything. It lived a full life and deserved retirement. But thanks to spending a large chunk of my childhood with a Depression Era grandma, I have a hard time parting with items that still serve their purpose and I’d hoped I could eek out another year or two. (Though according to the sag in the sofa, it stopped serving its purpose two moves ago.)

With coupon in hand we went to test-drive some furniture. As the boys bounced across what Nugget calls “love chairs” and sectionals, the Turk and I found something we agreed upon. After some calculations, even my cheap ass had to admit, it was a good deal and it hadn’t even fallen off a truck. When the salesman offered a delivery and haul-away option, I was sold.

“No delivery. I can do.” Informed the Turk.

“Honey, it’s cheap and they’ll move the old ones. Just do it.” I pleaded.

Even Don the sales guy tried to get in on the persuading – “You know, the amount you save with the coupon will more than cover the cost of the delivery…” But even Don the sofa salesman couldn’t convince the Turk.

“No. I can do. I rent truck, then I come here, pick up and drop at home.”

Don the salesman agreed this was a solid plan but the Turk didn’t take into account that his help on the other end consisted of a cranky 40-something wife, an abnormally short 10-year-old, and a hyperactive 5-year-old. While we are a dream team, maybe not so much regarding heavy lifting.

The next day I arrived home from Nugget’s basketball, (PS – if you’ve never watched a league of kindergarteners play basketball, do it. Every game tests the strength of my post-children bladder due to laugher.) to find a large sofa and love chair in the middle of the driveway causing Nugget to exclaim, “Mom, doethn’t Baba know dothse are thupposed to go inthide? Geez Baba.”

This is where it got ugly. Those large items had to move from the driveway into the living room, the old ones needed new homes and the Turk couldn’t do it alone. Bilingual profanity was thrown. I may or may not have left my husband stranded in a stairwell holding a sofa when his complaining pushed me over the edge. Children and the feline scattered and the traditional, husband-wife-furniture-moving-harsh-words were spoken. “If you think you know how to do this better, then do it by yourself!”

Ultimately the furniture got moved and as we sat down on our new thrones and cracked open well-deserved beers, even my stubborn husband admitted he’d made the wrong choice and that a delivery fee was a small price to pay to save a marriage.

A few hours after the sofas were in place; he was off again. He’d found “great deals” on a floor lamp and coffee table. Before he could leave, I had no choice but to seize his wallet. He’d had his fix and this bender needed to end. He’ll be on lock-down until the summer thaw as I rule our home from the clean lines of my mid-century inspired, scotch-guarded throne. (It doesn’t even have butt-dents yet!)

New Year…Wider Butt

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Well 2019 is off and running and it’s already looking better than that miserable 2018.  For starters, Mama’s back to work full-time. (Which is good because, though it was fun for a few months, I’m not a good stay-at-home mom and we’re not near a tax bracket that allows me to take on ‘lady of leisure’ as a career choice.) I’ve kicked the sugar monkey off my back for a couple weeks so far, reintroduced kale into our diet (much to the dismay of my family) took the stationary bike out of storage and I’ve managed to exercise twice. (I do not have to disclose how long each of those sessions lasted.) I’m not usually a diet resolution kind of gal as I’m not a fan of failure but after a year from hell filled with a cross-country move, a shift in old lady hormones and a banged up foot that left me gimpy and in a boot for months, my ass spread needed immediate attention. (I also have a 5 year old whose height hovers around butt-level and reminds me daily in his little lisp that “Mom, I wuv your big, fat butt.” Gee, thanks kid.)

So as the clock struck midnight on December 31, I decided to made some changes. No more watching My 600 Pound Life to feel better about myself. No more excuses using the bum foot (It’s not going away until I have surgery over the summer so suck it up woman.) No more eating like an adolescent boy and basically getting back to the way I lived life before all hell broke loose last year. While I have been busily shifting gears to return to my ongoing quest for a Tyra Banks bod, (I won’t let any 10” height difference dissuade me damn it.), I also realized it important to take a minute to pat myself on the back for having survived last year.

I dreaded the start of 2018. I knew that as soon as Ryan Seacress dropped the ball and the champagne was spilled, it was game on. (Full disclosure: I seldom see midnight on New Years’ Eve but you get the gist.) The start of 2018 meant boxes needed packed, houses needed bought and sold, jobs needed left and really crappy decisions needed to be made. The new year meant that the process of relocating once again was upon us and that totally sucked.

In case you missed it (or ICYM as the kids say. I just figured that out recently because after years in the bible belt I automatically assumed the CYM part stood for Christian Youth Ministry. This heathen’s scars linger.) let me recap our 2018:

January –

  • Made the official decision to accept my husband, the Turk’s, relocation from Indianapolis to Boston – making it relocation #8 for our 10 year old. (Yes, he has a therapy fund.)

February –

  • Began the horrific task of prepping a fixer-upper that wasn’t quite fixed-up, to sell. (ie-undoing, redoing and finishing The Turk’s “projects”)

March –

  • Fought off a relocation-mandated spousal job counselor who called daily to remind me to begin my job hunt in Massachusetts. (Yo girl, how ‘bout we find a home first?)
  • Broke the news to my students I was abandoning them.
  • Celebrated 2 family birthdays.
  • Began the horrors of packing up a family of 4.

April –

  • Headed to Boston to house hunt with the world’s worst realtor.
  • Considered buying a house until we noticed a prison in its backyard.
  • Upon returning home, fired the world’s worst realtor.
  • Got new a realtor.
  • Sent the Turk back out to “Just buy a damn house. I don’t care where, I don’t care what – just buy us a damn house!”
  • Bought a house in Massachusetts and sold a house in Indiana on the same day. (Booyah.)

May –

  • Did the 700 pages of papers necessary to sell a house.
  • Did the 800 pages of papers necessary to buy a house.
  • Taught the final month of school, including exams and wrote 60-plus grade reports.
  • Bought homeowners insurance on a house I’d never seen. (Thanks Zillow)
  • Began a half-assed job search after excessive pressure from the pushy relocation-mandated spousal job counselor.
  • Organized packers, movers, moving vans, car carriers, closing dates on both homes, travel accommodations and all those ridiculous things you have to do to buy and sell homes, pack up a life and schlep halfway across the country.
  • Said good-byes.
  • Quit my job.
  • Questioned my sanity. Repeatedly

June –

  • Closed on two different houses 3 days apart.
  • Drove from Indiana to Massachusetts with two kids, a Turk and a surly cat.
  • Waited on a moving van.
  • Spent hours on the phone trying to locate said moving van.
  • Finally unpacked new house.
  • Dealt with ridiculous power issues at new house and forged a wonderful bond with the linemen from the power company. (This will come in handy during the storm this weekend.)

July –

  • Finally sat down. On the beach. Which is 15 minutes from my house.

August –

  • Ate copious amounts of seafood in honor of my new homeland.
  • Took my little half-breeds to frolick on the beach on the reg.
  • Threw myself into the new culture through PeeWee football.

September –

  • Sent my children to school and shared the weirdest moment of silence ever.
  • Spent every other moment taking kids to football.

October-

  • Netflixed and chilled.
  • More football.
  • Tried to decide what to be when I grow up.
  • Became painfully aware that while I was distracted with relocation, my ass had grown substantially.
  • Decided to start running again in an attempt to rein in my ample backside.

November –

  • Jacked up my foot trying to reduce my substantial ass and was sentenced to a boot for the next two months.
  • Decided it was time to actually find a job.
  • Mourned because I couldn’t find a job.
  • Celebrated the end of the longest PeeWee football season known to mother-kind.
  • Lamented my grande gluteus maximus from my gimpy position.

December –

  • Bit the bullet and took up substitute teaching.
  • Realized I already knew what I wanted to be when I grew up. I’m a teacher. That’s what I do.
  • Got a job teaching.

As you can see, it was a hell of a year. I needed a nap and a cocktail after just recalling it all. If gaining 15-20 pounds was what I needed to survive that crap show, then that’s a reasonable trade-off. I’ll give this whole new lifestyle a change for a few more weeks and if we don’t agree then no harm no foul. I’m just as feisty with a fat butt and I might need those extra pounds to get me through my first New England winter. One thing is for certain – I have no intention to relive a year like that ever again. (Hear that Turk? I’m not relocating again…unless…they show the big bucks…)

Hair Today, Bald Tomorrow

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When I was a kid, my mom had a cousin that was always surprised. She wasn’t actually surprised; her eyebrows just made her look that way. She drew them on each morning with the cosmetic equivalent of a Dixon Ticonderoga pencil and while I’m sure she thought herself to be the poor man’s Dolly Parton (she had huge hooters she liked to display.) she looked more like a stunned Muppet.

In addition to her cosmetic prowess, Eyebrow Ellie (Not her real name because my mother is already going to kill me for this so the least I can do is change the name.) also made some bold follicular choices. She sported frosted tips a good ten years after frosted tips had fallen by the wayside with the rest of Iowa’s fashion elite. She also enjoyed a solid beehive twenty years post trend. Couple all of this with those eyebrows and the fact that her family’s lifestyle back then considered “unkempt” would now make a fantastic episode of Hoarders and it was no wonder Eyebrow Ellie and the clan weren’t invited to Thanksgiving Dinner.

I give you this tale of Eyebrow Ellie because due to this past week’s fashion mishaps, I fear those genes are not as far removed as I’d hoped. It all started with some eyeliner…

For three days I’d been using a new eyeliner completely unaware of the horrors I was unleashing on each person who looked me in the eye. I assumed I’d purchased black eyeliner. I assumed that when the label said “darkest midnight” that meant black much like “gravel” means gray in nail polish or “blush” means pink in lip gloss. I also assumed that if my husband, the Turk, saw his middle-aged wife walking around with turquoise blue lines across her eyelids, he might let her know. As I learned in 7th grade, the first three letters of assume spell ass.

As I returned from my run the other day, (Ok, it’s mostly a walk now because I’m old and fat with bad knees but in my heart I’m running so I will continue to call it a run.) I was about to do a quick touch-up before running off to do errands. As I looked in the mirror, I was struck – what in the hell are those turquoise blue lines and what is that blue crap running down my face? I dabbed and dabbed and it wouldn’t budge. Suddenly I was a suburban mom with a prison tattoo dripping from my eyes. I knew that 2 hours prior I had applied black lines before applying black mascara. What I didn’t know was that those black lines were only black until they dried and then they became as blue as a peacock’s ass.

I quickly whipped out the container and read the bottom. “Darkest Midnight” it read on the bottom, but then with the power of my bifocals I saw that third word…”blue” There on the bottom of the tube in letters bold enough for an old broad to read with her bifocals, it said Darkest Midnight Blue. I’ll be damned. For three days I’d been walking around in this lie and not one person thought to tell me.

I flashed back to 6th grade when I tried pink eyeshadow and it took me nearly a week before I realized my trendy new make-up make me look like I had pinkeye. Why didn’t someone tell me pink make-up was for lips and cheeks only? It’s understandable to commit make-up errors when you’re 12 and new to the process but make-up faux pas deep into one’s 40s was just embarrassing. The Eyebrow Ellie genes were obviously bubbling deep within.

Fast-forward three days. I finally replaced my trendy turquoise eyeliner and was feeling good. The only thing I needed was a little hair trim and I would be ready to take on Naomi Campbell for diva dujour. Being new in town, I had no choice but to take a shot in the dark.

“What will we be doing today?” the chirpy stylist who bore a striking resemblance to a 7th grader asked as she strangled me with the cape.

“I just need a couple inches off the bottom. Blunt cut. Nothing fancy.” I’m a low- maintenance gal who requires low maintenance hair. I believe I spent my life’s worth of hair styling hours back in the 80’s when I washed, dried, crimped, curled, teased then sprayed for hours each morning.

“How about some layers or feathering?” She asked, eager to try out her obviously newly acquired skills.

“Nah, I’m cool. Just the trim.”

The newbie hairdresser proceed to spray so much water onto my hair that I began to drip. She attached no less than 75 clips to section out my hair and combed with enough force to delouse me if needed. (PS-Totally not needed. My worst nightmare is a lice infestation.) This was where I should’ve left. This was where a sane or vain woman would’ve whipped off that cape and fled. But after those years in Turkey I am well versed in horrific salon experiences so I decided to roll the dice.

The rookie kuaffor began to cut…and cut…and cut until soon my shoulder length hair was up to my chin. I tried to be cool. I tried to be mature but somehow my mouth didn’t get the message. “I’m good. Just stop!” I blurted out.

“Oh.” She seemed surprised. “That’s good?”

“Let’s just say it’s done.” I confirmed. “But can you dry it? I look like I just got out of the shower.”

The noob missed my insult and began to dry my obscenely thick hair on cool with the strength of a 90 year-old. After a few minutes, she stopped the machine and confidently said, “There we go. All done.”

It seemed this new stylist and the rest of humanity have different concepts of the idea of dry but I needed out so I fled, leaving a trail of drippings across the parking lot.

Looking in the car mirror while trying to dry my locks via car heater, I muttered, “At least it’s not as bad as the time they gave me the Victoria Beckham cut in Turkey.” (Full-disclosure, that was the time period where they gave everyone the Victoria Beckham and it looked horrible on everyone…except Victoria Beckham.) But that’s when it happened. It wasn’t as bad. It was worse. Sliding my glasses on and smoothing my shorter-than-chin- length bob I realized how bad it was. I’d been forced into the Velma zone.

A surly, know-it-all, brunet with horn-rimmed glasses and a little beef on her thighs – much like yours truly- lives in a dangerous spot when wearing a bob. The slightest bit too short and you go from avant-garde to straight up Velma from Scooby Doo. Lest we forget, Velma wasn’t the hot one. Though she saved their asses repeatedly, nobody liked Velma and now, thanks to the new girl at the hair salon, I’d been Velmaed. The only positive I saw in this situation was that at least I wasn’t Velma with turquois eye-liner.

On the brighter side, if my boys need me to draw on prison tattoos for Halloween I’m all set. I have a few nasty eyeliners to use up. And as for me, I’m just one orange turtleneck away from a fantastic Halloween costume. Perhaps I can use Eyebrow Ellie’s genes for good.

No Trespassing On The Turk

 

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Our transition into the new neighborhood hadn’t been as smooth as that into our previous ‘hood. Back in Indiana, the Hoosiers welcomed us with baked goods and Krampus (Which, contrary to how it might appear, was truly one of the kindest gestures involving a horned beast I’ve been involved in – read about in case you missed it.) And while I did believe one neighbor who enjoyed gardening between midnight and 4:00am might have been burying bodies, we lived there for 3 years and I never caught a whiff of decomp so it was fine.

But finding footing in our Massachusetts neighborhood has been a bit tough and if things hadn’t changed when they did, I feared we might have been labeled as “those neighbors best avoided.” The fact that we have a long, secluded drive doesn’t help either. We live in an enclave of about 5 houses but we actually only see two from our house. As we came and went this summer, we tried to meld into the ‘hood but it seemed to be in vain. No returned waves. No driveway chats and no damn baked goods.

The same brand of thinking that caused me to assume the night gardener was a murderer, led me to conceive a storyline in which our neighbors avoided us due to fear of The Turk’s urge to wage jihad because of his accent. (While I now know better I think it might have been a little bit true.) Our little hamlet was void of neighborliness. I wasn’t jazzed about it but I hoped in time I might adjust. Even in Turkey we’d had outgoing and friendly neighbors so this would take some adjustment.

But thanks to the start of school and bus stop time, all that has changed and I’ve become exposed to neighborhood gossip in a way that makes Mama happy to be alive. While only 2 of the homes have school-aged children, bus-stop time brings everybody out. Finally, after three months we’ve seen the faces of the older couple we’ve heard splashing in the pool behind our trees and their love of surround sound yacht rock became clear. The mini-horse we’ve strained to see behind our garage came out to visit with his retirees’ and Dalmatian brother. And then there’s the other mom, who, over the past 2 weeks, has provided me with a 10-year history of our new abode, which explained why the neighbors were leery. While I’ve found it fascinating, I shouldn’t have shared my newfound knowledge with the Turk.

“Did you know this house used to be a drug den?” I lobbed my bus stop findings at him over coffee.

“What?” The Turk exclaimed with a spit take.

“Right? Crazy huh?” I was entertained but regrettably I underestimated the Turk’s response.

“What you are talking about? Drug dealers are here?”

“Relax. It was like 10 years ago before the house was flipped. The neighbor said the people dealt drugs out of here. It’s kind of brilliant really. I mean, the house is hidden in the woods so you could grow weed or run a cartel out of here without anyone really knowing.”

“Why you say something like that! What if Alexa listening?”

Crap. He was right. What if the CIA had us tapped thought that stupid Amazon device? Our overall paranoia has been solid ever since a particularity probing immigration process 13 years ago. I leaned towards Alexa and said, “Just kidding. I’ve been watching Ozark on Netflix. My mind isn’t right. I’m just a good mother who can’t even keep a fern alive and who knows nothing about drugs!”

The Turk was rolling his eyes and flailing his arms while I was trying to plant evidence for my innocence so I decided it safest to get past our home’s drug-induced past and move to the theft-ring portion of it’s history.

“So after that the bank owned it because I guess drug dealers don’t always pay the mortgage on time, and it sat empty for a while but it was repeatedly broken into and the copper pipes were stolen.”

I found this fascinating but the Turk was clutching his chest. “What?!?!”

“Yeah, I guess they stole all the copper piping and then during the flip they continued to break in and steal stuff.”

“Oh my God.” The Turk was growing pale.

“But that was a long time ago. They put the fence in to prevent the break-ins and we’ve got all new stuff. It’s a win.” Usually I’m the crazy one but now I was losing the Turk.

“My God. What if they come back?”

“Who?”

“Them. The people who buy the drugs.”

“Dude it was over 10 years ago. I don’t think tweakers have that kind of memory.”

“How you know?” He was on the fast train to crazy town.

“It’s all good. The house was flipped and sold to another family 5 years ago. They had no tweakers or thefts so I think we’re good.”

I thought I had talked him down. I thought sanity had returned so I left him to his work from home day as I headed into the city for a day of ear appointments and hearing aid adjustments with Nugget. Upon our return we found him at the bottom of our driveway hanging these signs.

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“What the hell is that?” I asked.

“This is to keep out druggies and tiefs.” (All these years and the man still struggles with some words but I find it too cute to correct him.) He proudly pointed to his new signs.

“Right, because criminals are known to obey signs.”

His eyes lit up with a new idea. “Maybe I should get gun?”

“NO! Did you hit your head!?!?” (I’m a solid no gun gal and until this moment so was he.)

“I was best shooter in Turkish Army. That is why I was commander.”

“I don’t care if you were Turkish Rambo. No. No. No.” I was adamant but I know him well enough to know that he cannot be trusted on something like this. We might have finally melded into our new hood but it would be short-lived if there was a gun-totin’ Turk strutting up and down our driveway looking for tweakers.

For now, I’ve distracted him by allowing him to add safety lighting on the garage and more signs (Insert my embarrassed eye roll here). I thought I was good until this morning when I saw he’d been researching driveway gates on his iPad. So much for not being “those neighbors.”

Hopefully I can continue providing the sane face of our family long enough for our neighbors to realize that he’s harmless, just a little nutty.

Thar She Blows!

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Now that we have moved to a hotbed of biodiversity, I’ve determined my children will become outdoorsmen. What’s the point of living in New England if you can’t legitimately rock some L.L. Bean?

Lots of men garner their sportsman skills during boyhood from fathers and grandfathers who lead them on this journey but in our house that is not the case. Sure, when we lived in Turkey I witnessed their father, The Turk, join army friends to hunt wild boars and wow me with sea fishing skills but none of that seemed to make it across the US boarder with his new American passport. This summer, as the Turk hid indoors from mosquitos while the boys and I enjoyed our new wooded homestead, I realized if my little men were to become outdoorsmen, it was up to me.

I decided to started with fishing and while it was a great idea to “teach my men to fish so they could eat for a lifetime,” I wasn’t certain I had the knowledge to be the master baiter. (Hehehehehe. See what I did there? A dirty fishing pun. I’m twelve.) The last time I’d fished was when we lived in Turkey. From a dock in the Aegean, The Turk taught me to angle like the native fishermen using a reel but no rod, bait that looks like bamboo and exercising caution over certain catches. “You catch that one, he electrocute you and you die. Do not catch that one.” My beloved warned. That was my lone lesson and we did pretty well but none of that was going to help me as a freshwater fisherwoman.

Prior to that Aegean outing, my experience consisted of pond fishing in Iowa when my dad would bait the hook, remove the catch and often help his lone daughter cast the line. (Because her coordination was a bit slow to develop.) I was not what one might call a skilled angler. I needed a refresher course if I was going to teach my offspring the ways of the sportsman. Fortunately a family friend is retired nearby and was more than willing to be a surrogate grandpa helping me to hone (Scratch that, I mean, develop) my fishing skills. After a morning at his pond I was ready for a solo run.

We headed to the sporting goods store where I normally spend copious amounts of money on items for peewee football, so it was refreshing to give them my money in a new department. (When I’m eating dog food during my retirement, I will constantly remind my offspring that my 401K was spent on football gear.) After gathering the requisite equipment it was time to make it official and get a license. The keeper of the fish department issued my license but must have been looking at Number 1 when he filled in the “physical description” segment. According to my fishing license I’m a blue-eyed blonde weighing 120 pounds and while that’s flattering, I’m a green-eyed burnette and haven’t weighed 120 pounds since the 5th grade, but I’ll take it.

Our first excursion was a success likely because I’d spent several hours at home preparing the rods while cursing the process. A fat dude at a skeezy bait shop recommended a nearby dock and though his shop likely doubled as a mob front, he knew his quality fishing spots. (Likely because he needed occasional drop spots for his mob business involving cement shoes.) The boys reeled them in one after another.

One thing I didn’t take into account about leading my boys to sportmanship was the gross-out factor. When you take two kids fishing alone, you are in a constant swirl of wormy hands, tangled lines and slimy fish thrust in your face. It’s parental purgatory. Who actually enjoys the touch of slimy fish while freeing them from capture or the feel of worm guts under mildly manicured nails? Not I, but just like you can never let dogs see your fear, you can never let your sons see your gross-out factor. That simply provides them with an upper hand. (P.S. – having brothers is a huge asset to a gal grooming boys to become men.) As the fish came flying at my face followed by “Mom! I got one! Take it off and help me put on a new worm.” I muttered my mantra, “I’ve touched worse…I’ve touched worse.”

Nugget is down with fishing but his interest only lasts about 10 minutes then I spend the remainder of the outing untangling his line, (that he’s attached to everything from nearby trees to my thigh) plying him with snacks and trying to keep him from falling in. Last week while he was in summer school I had the luxury of taking only 1 kid fishing. Foolishly, I believed it would be relaxing like fishing appears to be on beer commercials. With his first cast he caught a tree and needed his pole restrung, then there was a broken reel and the fish that swallowed the hook. After averting disaster for 5 full minutes and swearing non-stop under my breath, I was ready to test the repaired line. Immediately I  hooked something Number 1 and I were certain was the freshwater brother of Moby Dick.

“Hold on Mom! It’s a big one!”

I tried to be cool but it was impossible. This was it. I had a big one. “It won’t reel! I can’t get it to work!” (I’m still working on my repair skills.) I was frantically spinning the handle while watching my pole bend like a scene from a National Geographic show about Amazonian monster fish. The pressure was palpable. Here I was, showing my son girl-power in action. His mother was about to reel in a big-ass fish!

“Don’t lose it Mom!” His excitement was building and he was jumping up and down a little too close to the edge. I did not want to face the choice of saving my child or reeling in my big–ass fish because I can’t guarantee I’d drop my pole. (Don’t judge, the kid can swim.)

Fortunately I didn’t have a Sophie’s Choice moment because my line snapped. I watched as my bobber, bait and line all took off across the water. Moments later a penis-like head popped up near the bobber. Because I am missing the parental edit button that prevents me from the deletion of potty words in front of my offspring, I yelled – “Screw you dickhead! You might have broken my line but you head looks like a penis!” As the words came out of my mouth I wished I was with my one-eared kid who only hears half of my profanity.

“Mom!” My judgmental ten-year-old exclaimed. But within seconds he reconsidered, “I mean you are right. His head does kind of look like a penis.”

So it wasn’t a big-ass fish. It was just a big-ass turtle but it was a nice teachable moment for my son to understand the importance of accurate trash talk. My sportsman development has a ways to go but I’m finding more joy than anticipated in the ride. Especially when the Turk opens his beer fridge and screams, “What the hell? Why there are worm in my fridge?”

 

Siri’s Cousin Done Lost Her Mind

female fire fighters

One of the tasks of moving into a new house is trying to understand all the idiosyncrasies of your new purchase. Do you need to lift and pull that bathroom door or pound it like Fonzi? For someone like me – my mother used to call it a vivid imagination but I think the real term is just crazy- this also leads to an in-depth psychological profiling of the previous owners. Thanks to our relentless years of relocations, the Turk and I have had a plethora of opportunities for both of the above.

Upon moving into one house we discovered vents stuffed with soiled children’s underwear. (Fo reals. Equal parts gross and disturbing.) Another home contained a poorly constructed sub-wall possessing a  hidden shelving system (I determined it was for the previous owners’ S&M life but the Turk just thought it was a bad construction project.) And then there’s our current home with the nursery’s doorknob installed backwards so the lock locks from the outside, conveniently locking the child IN the room. (All parents muse about this but who actually does it!?!) Nugget discovered that little perk and seized the opportunity to lock his unsuspecting brother in the bedroom. He claims to have done it “accidewentwee” but we know Nugget better than that.

All of those little oddities were strange but manageable. However, last night’s new house idiosyncrasy was nearly deadly. Our little Turks were tucked away in their beds (with the door NOT locked from the outside- just in case you were wondering) while the Turk and I lay in our bed watching an in-depth documentary on the current status of interstellar matter when…ok, we totally were not. We were watching what we watch every Friday night – Mama June, Not to Hot – I just can’t break free of that damn Honey BooBoo’s clutches and the Turk appreciates the way they caption the cast members with missing teeth and strong accents. We like to keep our trashy side strong. Just as all hell was about to break lose at the Vegas of wedding of Mama June’s daughter, a series of alarms began blaring throughout our house. I sprang from my bed with a speed and intensity only previously seen when a child makes pre-barf noises.

“Fire! Fire!” shouted the voice of a robotic woman who I immediately assumed was Siri’s cousin.

Siri’s cousin didn’t stick to her “Fire” line for long. She changed things up and began yelling, “Carbon monoxide warning! Carbon monoxide warning!”

While the blaring siren rang throughout, the Turk and I ran from room to room making sure we were not on fire or filling with noxious gas. Once we determined that bitch was a liar, we tried to quiet the broad but she would not be silenced. While the Turk wrestled with the batteries (Spoiler alert: we later learned they were hard wired so that was an exercise in futility.) I jumped up and down below the alarm waving a kitchen towel because that’s what you do when you burn popcorn right?

The blaring continued and my heart was about to beat out of my chest. It seemed I don’t currently possess the physical condition necessary for springing from the bed combined with repeated flailing with a kitchen towel. The combination of panic and exertion were taking a toll.

What if there was a smokeless fire in some area we couldn’t see?

Was the heater we’ve never turned on leaking gas and about to kill us in our sleep?

Was it the hot water heater we’d been putting off replacing?

How the hell will I get my kids back to sleep?

Why aren’t the kids awake? OH MY GOD IT’S THE GASSSSSS!

And then, silence. They stopped.

Ironically, our cracker box sized home has five, yes, five smoke detectors split between the three bedrooms upstairs and two more detectors downstairs plus two in the basement. If this house goes up, ain’t no way the entire state of Massachusetts won’t hear it. It wasn’t surprising that Nugget didn’t hear his. He’s only got one ear and if he’s sleeping on the ear he does have that kid can sleep though a war. As for Number 1, I worried he might be dead since he was still sleeping. I pulled up each eyelid and felt for chest movement. Not dead, just post-football tired.

I began throwing open all the windows to ventilate the house in the event that there really was carbon monoxide.

“Why you do that? It’s too hot.” The Turk asked. “Nothing is wrong.”

“Well if there’s not an issue, why do the alarms keep going off?” I asked.

“They’re not.” The Turk retorted.

Right on cue, Siri’s bitchy cousin started again.

Screaming over the blaring alarm and Siri’s cousin yelling, Fire! Fire! Carbon Monoxide Warning! Carbon Monoxide Warning! I countered, “What the hell do you mean the alarms are not going off? You hear that right?”

“Yes, I hear that. They are not going off. They are on. The keep going on.”

Touché Turk. Damn you English.

“Ok, yes. But in English we say the alarms are going off when they are actually going on.” It’s tough to defend English grammar during an emergency.

“That is stupid.”

“I know but you’ve been speaking English for like 20 years. How is this new information? Never mind. Just make them stop!”

When silence finally descended and we’d made sure there were no flames or gas, we returned to bed. The windows were open for ventilation, just in case, while I struggled to harness my crazy. I’d watched an interview earlier with two women who’d died and come back. I couldn’t help but believe this was a sign that the universe was preparing me for my forever nap. Then I began worrying about who would find our bodies. We don’t know anyone in the area yet and the Turk’s been traveling a lot so it wouldn’t be alarming if he didn’t come to work for a few days. Would the cat eat our faces? He seems like the kind of cat that would. Would the mailman eventually check in when the bills piled up? My only hope lay with Number 1’s football coach eventually calling the cops because his fullback hadn’t shown up for a few practices.

“I think we Google what is going on.” The Turk said but upon seeing the look of fear on the three inches of my face that was peeking out from beneath the covers, he rethought his directive. “Maybe, I do it. You will just see things that make you even more crazy.” He knows me well.

Ultimately he ruled the situation was linked to a recent electrical issue and power surges the electric company has been working on over the past month. (Stay tuned for that tale of horror.) According to Google, power surges can make Siri’s cousin go whacko and require a reboot or replacement. I voted for the latter. I couldn’t risk Siri’s cousin ruining my trash television experience again.

12 hours later we returned home with $400 worth of new detectors and Siri’s cousin got an upgrade. But the Turk and his own brand of crazy decided it was best if we didn’t leave our survival up to Siri’s cousin alone. He branched out and bought every fire and carbon monoxide detector he could find adding six more to the eight already in place, just in case Siri’s cousin hadn’t gotten zapped. When we sell this house, we want to make sure the next homeowners know from the start that we were some crazy-ass homeowners.

More Drama Than You Can Shake A Snake At

snake charmer 2 (1).jpg

Batman and Robin. Starsky and Hutch. Cagney and Lacey. While the Turk and I are more Bert and Ernie than the afore mentioned crime fighting duos, when it comes down to it, our partnership puts them all to shame. After dipping our toes into the speed and fury of the Boston housing market on our first relocation visit, we determined our best choice was  to send in a lone Turk to make a stealth buy. Many wives would fear this but Bert and I have rolled this way before.

The housing market was a see-it-buy-it situation, no time for thinking. The Turk, being a former military commando, (I found it hilarious at first too but it’s true.) was ideal for the job. He was going to fly out and buy us a house in Massachusetts while I simultaneously sold ours in Indiana. Impossible? Perhaps, but three days later, he gallantly returned having slapped a sold sign on a new home in Massachusetts while I did the same on our old one. We bought and sold on the same day, in two different states- step aside dynamic duos.

According to Zillow.com, the new house looked good but it was hard to figure out it’s geography. The Turk’s explanation didn’t help much. “It has very long driveway. There are trees. You see water from deck. You will like.”

My first glimpse was at closing. He was right. There were trees. There was a driveway that will likely leave us housebound for the entirety of snow season but in the off-season it provides nice cardio getting the mail. The water view is actually a cranberry bog, one of hundreds in our new hometown.

For a girl born in the middle of Iowa cornfields, the thought of living in cranberry country was both exotic and exciting. What could be more New England than sitting in an Adirondack chair, looking through the fall foliage at a flooded bog mid-harvest? Far more majestic than a dusty cornfield with a massive combine roaring through.

Unfortunately, that charm soon faded when we learned that with bogs come frogs – which is cool – but with frogs come snakes – which is not cool. At all.

Our first snake showed up hours after we closed on the home. Walking out the front door, Nugget’s Batman hi-top clad foot was about to land on the front step when I spied a   slimy bastard right in his path. With one swift mom-grab I swept Nugget to safety.

“What is dis? The Turk exclaimed as he ran into us. “What are you doing?” He hadn’t yet spied the enemy.

Having spent the past couple years teaching science, a career with a high ratio of snake views, I calmly pointed out the creepy son of a bitch swirling around the front step.

“God!!!!!!! What the hell??!!?!???!” He screamed before running inside and slamming the door. It took a few minutes before he remembered his sons and I were still in snake territory and needed the door opened for sanctuary.

The Turk’s squeal sent the  snake in search of refuge under the deck allowing us to make a break for it.

“God! I not know there are snakes here. I wouldn’t buy this house if I know there are snakes.”

“That’s a bit dramatic dear.” I countered. I was obnoxiously stoic until the anaconda attacks began to come daily. Even a science teacher desensitized to the horror, can’t take that crap.

The pinnacle was the snake that fought back. The boys and I had arrived home from yet another day at the beach, (After the past years of exile in land-locked Indiana there can never be too much time spent frolicking in the lapping waves.) and Number 1 nearly stepped on the hostile reptile sunning himself on the step.

“Mom! We got another!” He screamed.

Experienced snake shoo-ers by now,  we began screaming and clapping which usually causes the perpetrator to slither away in terror. Not this one though. He just rolled his lid-less eyes and was like, “Whatevs woman.” We took it up a notch by throwing pebbles in his general area. Again, nothing. Finally I decided I was going in for the kill with a rock to the head. Unfortunately I’m not athletically skilled so I missed and that’s when the evil serpent decided to fight back. The previously innocuous anaconda reared up like he was some kind of king cobra and jabbed at both Number 1 and I. Nugget, who is terrified of snakes, was half a mile down the driveway screaming in terror.

“We’ve got a psycho one here Mom.” Number 1 noted. “I can handle this.” Number 1 (who thankfully is more athletic than his mother) drew back with a rock and was about to launch when the snake bid a hasty retreat. Standing guard like a short Rambo, rock still in hand, he screamed at Nugget and I, “Go! Go! Go!” While waving us towards the door. Number 1 backed through the door last, muttering, “Game on sucker.”

Once inside, a battle plan was made. I could no longer allow my family to be tormented by the constant fear that a reptilian tyrant was hiding in every nook of our homestead. I considered negotiations with the snake people. Maybe start with threats of sanctions to get them to agree to peace talks. But before I could send off my first declaration, a glance out the window revealed my nemesis had returned and was preparing to slither up the door itself. The damn snake was holding us hostage!

Realizing this was a life and death situation I made immediate contact with the Turk, safely tucked away in his downtown office. In case things went south, I needed him to understand what had gone down. It was important he know the full story when the media arrived.

I texted: Snake holding us hostage -Help us – Send pizza.

To which he responded: *thumbs up*

The boys and I were on our own here.

Full disclosure, my first thought was “We have to burn this mother down. I don’t care if we just took out a new mortgage. No sane adjustor would call ‘insurance fraud’ on a house infested with snakes.” But instead I turned to Google.

As is so often the case, the great and wise Google held the answer- Snake-B-Gone. (I also had the choices of Shoo Snake, Snake-Away and Snake-Out, all real products!) Though it sounds like a product the Coyote purchased from the ACME company in the classic cartoon, it was legit. A few clicks later we located the goods in a hardware store two towns over and the boys and I were off.

As instructed on the container, I sprinkled liberally over the infested area. The powdery substance had a delicious cinnamon smell, causing Nugget to remark, “Dis smells like Chrissmas.” I had doubts about the power of any deterrent that smelled like a beloved holiday, but I hoped for the best. Just to be safe, I trashed talked while I sprinkled.

“Can you smell that slimy bastards? That’s the smell of your demise. It’s over. You are done.” Number 1 tried to point out snakes don’t have ears but I retorted that Nugget only has 1 and it doesn’t prevent him from knowing when he’s in big trouble.

It’s been 3 weeks and we’ve had only 1 new sighting, which was quickly met with more Snake-B-Gone and heightened trash talk. Personally, I think the trash talk has more power than the chemical but what evs. I do fear the coming fall. Rumor has it that the snake intensity picks up when they flood the blogs for harvest so if you never hear from me again, know I’m likely being held hostage by a nest of hostile snakes seeking retribution.

If that happens, send Snake-be-Gone!

 

The Key To Greatness Is Remembering To Take The Keys

man rapelling.png

“Do you have the keys?” I yelled down the driveway to my husband, the Turk, as he was unsuccessfully ushering Nugget into his carseat.  Nugget, like the rest of us, was in no mood for yet another trip to IKEA but we were in need of shelves named Sjokvenjkorkensan, so IKEA it was.

“I have keys.” The Turk yelled back (Because when we move into a new area, we want to make sure the entire neighborhood can hear our interactions. It’s good for them to know we’re loud from the start.)

As the “s” slipped from his lips, I pulled closed the door to the home we’d owned for less than a week. Since we’d yet to locate the box housing our coffee pot, the Turk and I were not functioning at peak performance and with my slam of the door his tired eyes bulged.

“No! I have car key but not house keys!” He exclaimed in horror.

“What!?! Why would you say you have the keys when you don’t?” I screamed just to make sure the neighbors knew I was provoked in case things got ugly and there was a crime scene investigation later.

“Well I do have car keys.” His attempted argument was built on quicksand.

Why any rational human would grab the car keys from the hook next to the house keys while leaving the house keys was beyond me. However, many years ago I ceased to search for reason in the Turk’s actions. Engineers are seldom able to apply the logic they use in their profession to everyday life.

As one instinctually does upon realizing they’ve just closed off their portal to comfort, I immediately began pulling at the locked door. Though I knew it was futile, it was reflex. That door was like Fort Knox. I tried the back door even though I’d locked it seconds earlier but I needed to make sure. While the Turk laid out some nice Turkish profanity, I tried the front door holding out one last bastion of hope. Hope soon died when it too was locked tight.

I gazed at the bay windows, aware there was no way in hell my post-children-pre-menopausal hips or the Turk’s beer-loving gut were making it through those small openings. Maybe we could shove an off-spring through if necessary. Fortunately for the kids, those windows were locked too. The Turk had a less than stellar parenting moment when he wanted to shove Nugget through the doggie door but even that was locked.

I was gearing up to smash the kitchen window when the Turk grabbed the rock from my hand exclaiming, “I have idea!”

After some rumblings in the garage, the Turk appeared with a giant ladder that he commenced to set up on the deck. I pointed out that if he stepped on the lower mudroom roof he could easily access Nugget’s window and live to tell the tale.

“No. How I know it is unlocked?”

“It’s unlocked.” I reassured him. I knew this because I couldn’t figure out the lock so I’d faked it.

“It looks locked.” He rebutted.

“It’s not. Trust me.”

“No. I cannot take risk and get stuck on roof. I go in this one.” He stated while pointing to Number 1’s window a solid 4 feet above the top of the ladder he’d just opened.

“That’s ridiculous…” I began before being quickly cut off.

“I know what I am doing. I am Turk. We know things.”

As situations like this have occurred repeatedly during the many years that compose our union, I simply stepped aside and assumed the pose – arms crossed, eyes in mild roll and a ‘bitch please,’ smirk plastered on my lips. We’ve been here before…many, many times.

The Turk climbed to the top of the ladder as a small and hostile voice came from down the driveway.

“Baba! What the hell you doing?” (We’ve been working with Nugget on his potty mouth but in this case it was apropos.) “Baba! You can die.” (Spoken with the same accent his father uses on Nugget himself.)  

I told Nugget I’d already mentioned that so he shook his little head and assumed my same pose. (Nugget is a perfect genetic split between each of us and it’s both wonderful and horrible.)

Gingerly, The Turk climbed to the top step of the ladder. You know, to that part where it says “NOT A STEP,” next to the drawing of the little man falling, yes, that’s where my husband was standing. He turned to the boys and I on the drive and said, “You better take picture in case I die here. I want you remember me.”

For the third time I pointed out that stepping on the mudroom roof next to him and going in Nugget’s window was far more sensible but he assured me he knew Nugget’s window to be locked tight. (…even though I knew it wasn’t, but once a Turk makes up his mind, it’s over…millions of Turkish wives can attest to that.)

With a mighty heave-ho the Turk hoisted his body towards the open window. He wedged his recently acquired gut on the sill and began to shimmy forward. When the shimmy proved unsuccessful, he began kicking his chicken-legs to create momentum that would hopefully propel him through the portal to greatness.

Meanwhile his children and I stood 12 feet below. Nugget had his hand smacked against his forehead while muttering, “Oh Baba” repeatedly. Number One was doing his best to suppress full-blown, pee-your-pants giggles and I was calculating the odds of him bouncing if he fell from that distance. (FYI – His bounce factor was low because aside from the gut, the man is a twig with minimal cushion for self-preservation.)

Eventually, the Turk increased the velocity of his kicking when it became clear he was going nowhere with successful results. Soon the flailing chicken legs passed into the window and the crowd of three on the driveway erupted into cheers. The Turk offered a celebratory wave from the second floor before disappearing to retrieve the forgotten keys.

We spent the next hour howling and reliving the great entrance again and again before Nugget felt it was time for a lecture. “Baba, dat was so funny. But you shouldn’t do dat again. You could break your butt and if you break your butt, how you go to work? Den you’d be home all da time and be very grumpy.” The backseat buzzkill always keeps it real.

Number One chimed in too, “I mean it was funny, but maybe you should hide a spare key outside so we don’t have to go through this again.” At our advanced paternal age, it’s good to know that our children are smarter than us. It’s also good to know that in our most stressful times, we find equal humor in the ridiculousness and crazy we both posses and that’s the key to everything. Crazy binds a couple.

Load ‘Em Up And Move ‘Em Out

packing and moving

The email from our relocation agent concluded, “We realize that relocations can be difficult so we are here to make the transition as seamless and comfortable as possible for you and all members of your family.” Were this my first relocation rodeo, I might have bought this line, but I’ve done the relocation jam a few times so in response to the email all I could think was, “bitch please.”

From past experience, (And I’ve had way too much experience with moves.) I know that the load out is the worst. When you have control issues, like myself, it’s even worse. It might not be bamboo under your fingernails while being held hostage in a goat crate bad, but it feels about like that.

Load out week is when the proverbial crap hits the turbo fan. Packers show up and progress at a pace that illustrates utter disdain for any form of organization you may have attempted to put into place. Bubble wrap and packing tape flow like confetti at the end of the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade. Boxes form a modern art version of Mt. Rushmore in your garage and every ounce of hostility or contempt you’ve suppressed towards your spouse for the entirety of your union flows to the surface like the damn Mississippi. It’s an ugly, ugly time.

Having traversed this path before, I knew what was coming. However, I tried to block  out the horrors when I realized this particulair move out week would coincide with my end of the school year. The same week I would be wrapping up a job, finishing grades, preparing to close on a house, finishing underwriting on a new house and dealing with my own children who were done with their educational pursuits and ready to wreck summertime havoc, total strangers would be shoving my earthy possessions into a semi without my watchful eye. Conversely the children I teach were likewise ready to be done for the summer, acting like rabid monkeys while partaking in a final week full of exhaustive “special” activities. I was on the precipice of mayhem.

This timing meant there was no choice but to turn over the reins to the Turk but the mere thought of such an action gave me palpitations. In an attempt to maintain a sembelance of control, I woke at 4:00am daily to organize the packing and leave psycho post-it notes on virtually everything. “Pack!”  “Don’t Pack!”  “Pack Carefully!” (PS – had I encountered my own post-its, I’d have immediately hated me.)  I laid out all this psychosis before going to work at 7:00 where I did thinks like standing in a stream with a bunch of middle schoolers in 90 degree heat or leading group hikes without mentioning the giant snake that crossed the trail before us.

Initially I’d crafted a much more sensible plan. I was going to finish teaching Friday, have the packers on Saturday, load the truck on Sunday and leave Monday allowing me to orchestrate every moment without relying on the Turk. Perfection. But then the moving company changed their mind and the crap-tastic moving maelstrom began.

The packers arrived mid-week while I was at work rather than Saturday as was scheduled in my master plan. They then informed us the moving van would arrive on Friday rather than Monday shooting my plan completely to hell. While the Turk was awed by the two heavily tattooed and equally heavily muscled women packing our house, I was left void of all control and near death by anxiety. When I arrived home from work to the disarray, I’m pretty sure the look of terror in our cat Cengiz’s eyes was the same one reflected in mine. I harkened back to the earlier email, “…we are here to make the transition as seamless and comfortable as possible for you and all members of your family.” In that moment, even the cat was thinking, “Bitch please.”

The night before the truck was to load, I had to go to graduation to say my final, tearful goodbyes to my school babies. I tucked my mini-Turks safely away at grandma’s and left the Turk with some important tasks at the house in lieu of child rearing.

1 – Get Cengiz to what the The Turk likes to call, “The Cat Hotel” (aka boarding) to avoid traumatizing the surly cat any further.

2 – Clean the refrigerator. (Including scrubbing Nugget goo off the doors.)

3 – Clean so I don’t have to clean the entire house before we roll out.

If you’re a regular reader, (and I’m sure you are…) you know how the Turk responds to to-do lists. I rushed home from grandma’s the next morning before work only to be met at the door by Cengiz.

“Why is the cat still here?” I asked.

“He did not want to go.”

“You’re kidding me right? How do you know this?”

“He tell me.”

“You speak cat now?”

“Yes. Turks are very connected to animals.”

I tried to do one of those deep breathing techniques we teach the kids at school to keep them from having a meltdown. It worked for like two seconds until I opened the fridge.

“What the hell? Why is this still full and gross?”

“I can do it.”

“But the whole point was you stayed here to do it last night.”

“Well I started with the beer fridge. I got that done though.”

“You cleaned out the beer fridge? Let me guess, by drinking it clean?”

“Yes. How else I clean it?”

Before I could express my profanity laden frustration rant, a massive semi pulled into our little segement of suburbia. It was gameday and we were painfully unprepared.

I had less than an hour before I needed to be at work and my hostility and anxiety were in overdrive.

I began throwing orders at the Turk, “Get the cat in the carrier. I’ll take him to the Cat Hotel.” before heading off to instill adequate fear into the moving crew. I needed to insure supreme care and caution would be exercised in my absence. (I may be 5’4 and squishy but in my mind I’m like 6’7” and intimidating as hell.) Five minutes later I returned to find the cat holed-up under a futon with the Turk on his knees pleading.

“Come out Cengiz. It be ok. You will love the Cat Hotel. You meet friends. It be fun. I promise.”

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“See? He not want to go.”

“It doesn’t matter! Get the cat in the carrier. I have to go.”

I watched the Turk click, snap, use baby talk and even use Turkish sweet nothings but Cengiz wasn’t coming out. I’m all for letting people pursue their own methodology but sometimes there is no time for such madness when my method is proven.

I snapped to Number One Son waiting downstairs who magically appeared with his brother, both clutching the cat carrier. Stepping over the Turk, I clutched the futon and She-Hulked that badboy across the room, grabbed Cengiz by his neck scruff and put him in the carrier. Done.

The Turk put him in the car all the while cooing and reassuring the cat.

The entire load-out would progress in a similar fashion. The Turk was left in charge but I’m sure you know who had to finish the job with a hostile cleaning in 99% humidity at the end of the process. But hey, at least the beer fridge was clean.

Somehow, it all got loaded, the house got cleaned and Cengiz treated his first stay at a Cat Hotel like a spa visit. Most importantly, I will not disclose how much wine it took to get me through phase one.