Burning Trains and Bedwetting- The Things That Keep You Laughing…

victorianfunny

The stress of a relocation lasts far beyond the initial move. Having done this a few times, I know it can easily take a year to get everyone adjusted and at least a solid nine months for stress to begin to dissipate. Unfortunately we’re not there yet. Relocation is not for the weak. Between falling trees, stanky wells and a job search moving at the pace of a molasses flow in Siberia, the last few weeks have been stressful here at casa de Turkish Delights. I try my best to remain Little Margie Sunshine but sometimes circumstances dull my shine. But as is usually the case, just when things get crappy, life hands out some of its best laughs.

I’d been dealing with some unrelenting stress for a little too long so I decided to reward myself with a day off last week. (Or at least a – post -mom duties, pre- bus stop “day” off.) I’d start with a pot of coffee, then break out the cookies I’d squirreled away into an undisclosed location and catch up on my beloved trashy spy drama, The Americans. I started watching this show 5 years ago but there are too many boobies and bullets in these tales of 80’s espionage so I’ve been limited to consuming my spy-tales on the rare occasion of no offspring present which is why I’m not even at the halfway point of the series.

Before I could even get the kids on the bus, my phone began blowing up with texts, photos and finally a call.

“Honey, can you come get me?” The Turk asked.

My husband left for work more than an hour prior so I had no idea what he was talking about. “What? Where are you?” I yelled into the phone over the roar of the school bus.

“My train is on fire. Look at pictures. I send pictures.”

I quickly scrolled over the photos I’d ignored, (not that I always ignore things he sends me but…) and I’ll be damned. There it was, my Turk standing in front of a flaming train. I didn’t know whether to be concerned or to crack up. He seemed unharmed so I went with my go-to and busted out laughing. “Where are you? You’re ok, right? How did this happen?” Though I was laughing, I could feel my day off slipping away. I reached out to pull the Russians back but…but…no.

“Everybody had to get off train and now we all stuck. There are no Ubers. There is another train behind that is stuck but it is not on fire. Only my train on fire. Can you pick me?”

I felt sorry for my Mediterranean husband, standing in the middle of nowhere, perhaps even in a cranberry bog, with nothing more than a winter coat and travel mug of coffee to keep him warm, but I also had to laugh at the situation. I mean, it’s not every day you are commuting and your train bursts into flames next to a Dunkin Donuts. “I’m on my way.”

I made it in just under twenty minutes and was soon a participant in a parade of spouses filing through a Dunkin Donuts parking lot, stopping just long enough to load a hostile commuter and their briefcases before departing. I took solace in the knowledge that all of these other spouses were also losing their beautifully planned days as well.

When the Turk got in the car he gave me the play by play and we proceeded to laugh all the way home because when life sets your train on fire, there’s not much you can do but laugh.

My restructured day involved five million errands, six million loads of laundry, the news that I needed a root canal and not a single Russian spy. By day’s end I was ready for a restful sleep but my children felt differently. Not long into the night, Nugget appeared by my bedside.

“Mom. Mom. Mom.”

“What?”

“I had a bad dream.” He finished his statement while hurdling himself across my body, “I need to sleep in here.”

Too tired to fight, I snuggled up with my 5 year-old and went back to sleep.

An hour later, I received another notification.

“Mom. Mom. Mom.”

This time it was Number 1 Son at my bedside. “What?”

“Something’s wrong. I think I peed in my bed.” He was traumatized. He hadn’t wet the bed in years.

“It’s ok. Sometimes when you’re really, really tired accidents happen.” I tried to reassure him.

“Not me. I don’t pee the bed.” Number 1 and I stripped the mattress and began the process of remaking his bed in the wee hours of the morning and after more reassurance, he finally gave up the fight and returned to bed.

The next morning Number 1 was still lamenting the previous night’s happenings. “I just don’t get it Mom. I never pee the bed. I’m old.” (Child, if 10 is old go get yourself a damn job.)

Before we could rehash everything in daylight, Nugget strutted down the stairs, curiously wearing different pajamas than I’d put him in the night before.

I knew that that meant. The kid has a history of shady behaviors in the night. “Did you just pee in my bed Nugget?”

Rubbing his eyes and stretching his arms over his bedhead, he casually replied, “Nah.”

“Well, why are you wearing different pajamas?” I asked.

“Because I peed in Teo’s bed last night. I couldn’t sleep in a wet bed so I changed my jammies and came to your bed.” Nugget was very nonchalant about his evil doings, as is usually the case. This is why we opted to turn his college fund into a bail fund a few years ago. It’s important to understand your investing.

It only took a second for Number 1 to make the connection. “Wait. So I didn’t pee my bed? You peed in my bed?  Oh my God, I slept in your pee! Disgusting! You suck!”

While the stress is still high, the universe continues to send me comedic interludes to keep me somewhat sane and out of the Betty Ford Clinic for a little longer. Laugh it up because sometimes, it’s the only think keeping you balanced!

 

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His Baby is Dead and I Don’t Have Time For This Crap

car crash

If I survive this relocation without a lengthy sentence at in some type of mental health facility, I expect one of you dear readers to send me a tiara and sash proclaiming my superiority. Just when buying and selling house was getting stressful, the Turk decided to throw a little more into the mix to test my stress capacity.

Last week, the Turk totaled his car. Impeccable timing right? (If I keep chanting, don’t kill him, don’t kill him, it will sink in right?) Here in Indianapolis there is an epidemic of something the Hoosiers refer to as potholes. However, these are not what the rest of the world might refer to as potholes. These giant missing chunks of road might best be called sinkholes or craters or most accurately, roadway caverns. According to the news, it seems the city neglected the issue for years and now, as one might expect, all hell is breaking loose creating potholes that can knock out a Beamer in 2.5 seconds flat.

You may recall from an earlier post (Here it is in case you missed it but I’m sure you didn’t because you’re a loyal reader of my brilliance.) that The Turk has an unhealthy obsession with BMWs but regrettably he’s got a Kia budget. To fuel his obsession and keep his marriage in tact, he’s learned to rebuild older Beamers with the patience I only wish he’d use on his offspring. The Turk spends hours creeping around nerd sites on the interwebs where dorks like him share tips and tricks about BMWs and I’m pretty sure it’s a cult.

Last year he lost his first “baby” to mechanical issues that went beyond what a simple Turk can do in a suburban garage. “The Ultimate Machine” has been sitting in my driveway since it’s demise as a sort of metal mausoleum. Each time he passed the molding mass he’d shed a tear. Likewise, each time I passed it, I flipped the car the bird. A few months ago he replaced it with a newer version he procured in some shady deal with a couple African guys. (For real, read all about it here.) While the first one was a death trap, the newer version was the one I wasn’t embarrassed to ride in. Unfortunately, driving to work on one of his last days in this city, he hit one of those geological mine-traps. Moments later my phone rang.

“I think I hurt my baby.”

“What?” I screamed with appropriate maternal panic. “What happened to the kids?”

“What? No! My Beamer. I hit a damn pothole. I hate this place. Why there giant holes in the road everywhere? God sakes! We not have roads this bad in Turkey. ”

-Insert hostile gestures and excessive eye rolling on my end of the line here.

“Can you still drive it or are you stranded somewhere?”

“No. I am driving but my car is making very big noise. It might be bad. I am going to BMW dealership.”

This is the point where my eyes rolled back like a cartoon character and my eyeballs were replaced with dollar signs while the cha-ching of a cash register rang between my ears. Nothing cheap ever happens at a BMW dealership.

Fast forward four days, after fighting a 4-day backlog of poor bastards who’d also lost their “babies” to Hoosier-quality potholes (You thought I was exaggerating how bad these things were.) the mechanic finally called with the damage report. $18,000. The Beamer was down and it was going to take nothing short of $18,000 to fix her.

In the midst of a lab in middle school science, my phone rang. Because it was the Turk, I worried something else had hit the fan so with one hand juggling beakers and a “zip-it” gesture to a bunch of 8th graders, I picked-up.

“My baby is dead.”

“Huh”

“They say it cost $18,000 to fix my baby.”

It seemed the epic pot-hole had broken the drive-shaft and sent the broken potion of the drive shaft careening through the transmission case and a few other mechanical things I didn’t care enough to comprehend. Thankfully, due to the presence of children not my own at the moment of receiving the information, I suppressed my desire to spew profanity.

It took mere seconds for my firm decision on the matter. “$18,000? Say goodbye girl. That baby is dead.”

When it comes to handling things like insurance or basically anything that requires phone communication, the Turk is out. “I cannot understand what they say on phone. I sound like idiot.” We didn’t do phone communication when we dated for that exact reason. But I get it. I hate to do anything in Turkish on the phone. It’s one hundred times more difficult to comprehend a second language on the phone without being able to see and read body language. So as I drove to pick him up from the dealership I prepared to spend a few hours on the phone cleaning up the mess.

Much to my surprise, faced with the death of his beloved Beamer, the Turk was struck with brilliance. Similar to when adrenaline allows women to commit stunning feats of strength while in mama bear mode, the Turk had already spend an hour on the phone with the insurance company and all was taken care of. “They will send someone to check on my baby Monday. The lady said it is probably over but I can hope. Maybe it is not over yet.”

I wanted to tell him they were sending someone to pronounce his baby dead on Monday but not wanting to watch him weep like a broken fool all weekend, I lied. “You’re right. Maybe they can fix it.” Then, hoping to share my brilliant fix to the situation, I added, “You know, if they can’t fix your car, you can just take my car and we’ll get a new family car. I mean, you only need to commute to the train station. Seems like a perfect solution.”

Through his fog of depression, the Turk glared at me. “How I drive a Hyundai when I am obviously a BMW man?”

Well, they couldn’t fix his baby and and we are now awaiting a payout for the totaled car. Thanks to life in a city without public transport, we are currently sharing joint custody of a 10-year-old Hyundai and it’s not going well. But we’ve got far bigger issues to deal with over the next couple weeks so we’re sucking it up. We’ll get a car on the other side and hopefully both of us will make it out alive.

And that, my friends, was only one incident of drama in the week. There were many others and in the next installment I’ll explain how I bought homeowners insurance on a house I’ve never seen and drove 3 insurance agents to nearly wet themselves from laughter.

If anyone has connections at Bellevue, reserve me a room. It could be touch and go for the next few weeks.

 

I’m Not Ready For A Prison In My Backyard

prison

When Lifetime Television for Women and Gay Men makes the movie of my life, there will be no need for a focus group to come up with winning title. My bio-pic will be called “She Didn’t Get Too Comfortable.” No, I haven’t been contacted by Lifetime execs yet but I’m sure it’s only a matter of time and I like to be prepared. Considering our newest adventure, if somebody isn’t ready to make my biopic then at least TLC should tap us their next reality television moment.

In 12 years we’ve lived in 2 countries, 4 states, 6 towns, and 8 homes. Though we’ve not been huge fans of the Hoosier state, (Really love a lot of Hoosiers but Indiana…not so much.) we hit the 5-year mark and were just starting to get comfortable. As usual, that comfort prompted the universe to pull the rug out from under my propped feet nearly spilling my wine. We’re moving, yet again.

This time the universe decided to deliver the news until it was clear I was settling in to stay for a while. After living for 2 years in a room with baby-poop yellow walls with pink accents, I finally agreed to repaint Number 1’s bedroom to a more masculine tone. As we returned home with $100 worth of paint and supplies in hand, a panicked Turk met us at the door.

“Read this email. I think I am not translating something.”

He pulled up an email from the head of his company. I read it, then read it again. The third time I read it but added my favorite f-word between each sentence.

All the while, the Turk loomed. “Well?”

“No translation issues. We need to be in Boston by January 1.”

The Turk threw out a few of his own favorite bits of bilingual profanity then called his supervisor for some explanation while I listened through a glass at the door like a nosey Nelly.

The Turk and I have both felt like fishes out of water for the past 5 years, but it’s been nice to be constant for our kids and we were finding a way to make it work. Neither of us expected the Turk to get relocated yet again. We foolishly believed our next move would come on our terms. (We’re old but clearly still naïve.)

After tears and frustration, decisions were made; the Turk would go early and the boys and I would join at the end of the school year to try and disrupt their worlds as little as possible. (A loving parental choice? No. There was no way in hell was I moving to New England in the height of winter.) Thankfully, things didn’t work out that way and the Turk was granted a stay. He got to hold off his move until closer to our whole family move in June.

We spent spring break in Boston house hunting but unlike the show, ours adventure wasn’t nearly as tidy. Since we don’t have a mil to drop on a new 500 square foot home in Boston, we have to go a bit further out…not quite to New Hampshire but it’s close. Just like on House Hunters, here’s our top three.

House 1: The “What’s Hiding In the Woods?” House.

This house was a bit of a mess and needed lots of work but it was tucked away in a beautiful wooded area just like I’ve always wanted. It wasn’t love at first sight but we thought it might be worth a bid.  Before we did so, we decided to consult a map because I needed to get my head around its geographic zone. Sprawled across a hotel bed carefully peering at a map of the area (Yes, I’m old like that. Maps trump the interwebs for some things.)  I noticed a pale blue box butting up against the back of the property. I assumed it to be a nature preserve or maybe a state park as that’s what all the other blue boxes on the map represented. Not this time. My blue box was a State Correctional Facility. Behind the picturesque woods surrounding my potential new home, lay a glorious, razor wired, possibly electrified, 12 foot fence. While my BFF tried to reassure me that he’d grown up near there and it was only a facility for the criminally insane not the heavy hitters, we took hard pass.

House 2: The Pinterest Epic Fail House

From the photos, this one had great potential. However, this listing was the real estate equivalent of putting a photo on a dating profile shot from 20 feet away, 15 years earlier. The homeowner had tried to spruce up this pad with a variety of techniques likely found on Pinterest from painting lopsided chalkboards on the bedroom walls to sponge painting the kitchen counter-tops. (Yes, you read that right. They painted the counter-tops.) Couple these design choices with the lingering scent of ganja and dog poop and we executed a hasty exit.

House 3: The, “You Put My Kids Where?” House.

This house had some solid potential. 3 bedrooms, 2 baths, yard and wait for it…a “large playroom.” No parent can resist the lure of a separate playroom. Upon entry it was stunning. Most importantly, there was no visible playroom on the first floor which meant all child paraphernalia would be out of sight upstairs. I loved it already. I longingly glided a hand along the wood railings as I ascended the stairs, eager to find my dream playroom waiting for me. Bedroom 1. Bedroom 2. Bedroom 3. Bath. Laundry closet….wait…where was my playroom? I searched for a secret passage, perhaps to an attic or nook. No go. Our agent called from downstairs, “I found the playroom.” Disheartened that it was actually on the first level, I trodded down the stairs to see my bonus room. That’s when the agent led me out the front door, up the outside concrete steps and across the lawn to a separate building. Yep. My playroom was actually a freshly dry walled and finely floored former chicken coop. It seemed this house had a backyard prison of a different sort. While it might sound alluring sending your children to play in a separate building, that level of non-supervision can quickly lead to mass destruction, bloodshed or a small scale prison riot.

Ultimately, due to my fear of the criminally insane, sponge-painted countertops and harboring children in climate-controlled chicken coops, we left empty-handed. But we did come up with a solid list of areas we liked. Now it’s time for me to send in the big guns, The Turk is going in alone and The Turk always completes his mission. Let’s just hope he can avoid the state pen on his next round of house hunting.