The chronology: we found lovely tenants.  Decent human beings who I expect will take great care of the house, won’t commit crimes or make weird sacrifices in the basement.  They seemed rather civilized and respectable.

Preparing the house was aided by our good friend Joe, who jumped in and did some heavy lifting. A bunch of other dear friends also pitched in, who did everything from lovingly pack snack bags (because I sick at that kind of stuff) to taking Philip off our hands so we could get rid of legos pack.

All this culminated in Matt driving me to Manchester, where I hung with my dear friend Courtney, who proceeded to drown me in Prosecco.

This is Courtney’s charming living room, which stands in stark contrast to mine and illustrates how far we have deviated from “this will be an organized move” plan.

In my 16 hours in Manchester, I also managed to pop into the Northshire Bookstore, which is not to be missed.

And then, via Amtrak, we hit NYC, where we worked on Nugget’s bucket list.

First, we had to go to Tiffany’s. Here is Nugget Golightly. We had to walk for blocks, looking for a coffee and a croissant, to reenact this.  Usually, a Starbuck’s bites you at every turn, but not on 57th Street.

That done, we proceeded to the next item on her list.  Nugs Lemon.

Perhaps education-focused parents take their kids to the Museum of Natural History, but we had more important things to do.  There were Ukeleles to pluck, and a few other pressing errands we needed to knock off.

Tomorrow we leave for Istanbul, which is suffering record cold and has 6 inches of snow.

• A French woman posted pics of “our” apartment in Istanbul.  Without going into too much detail, the 48 flickr pics included moldy mattresses, cockroaches and wiring secured with packing tape.  I sent the landlord a link and an inquiry regarding the veracity of this and **shockingly** received no response.  A $500 loss and a truckload of wisdom later, we moved on.
• I found an amazing apartment in a better part of town for slightly more.  It is spacious, has a doorman and belongs to a woman who has been nothing but charming and helpful.  Her day job is singing.  Let me introduce you to my new landlady:

Exiting has been a bit complicated.  We placed an ad for our house and I am currently researching if being a dumbass is a legally protected group. (I remember why I wrote this about our rental.)

We did, however, get an articulate response within 36 hours of placing the ad: clear intentions and decent grammar. It was….wait for it…the Department of Code Enforcement.  Apparently they troll Craigslist and look for people who are posting rentals, then cross reference that with whatever evil little black book they have in their dank and musty basement office.  Turns out, despite the fact our house was a rental when we bought it, it was never registered as a rental. Several phone calls, one visit and one impending visit later, we have a punch list that involves hard wiring smoke detectors, etc.  The “etc.” meaning about 2 grand.  Shit. (I will say that, despite the annoyance, they were a remarkably helpful bunch.)

We have also had a slew of scam artists, from Guam to South Carolina, answer our ads.  Among them a poorly researched claim to be enrolled in the UVM graduate oceanography/marine bio program.  I am a bit disappointed in the uncreative attempts to part us from our money, but I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to having a bit of sporting fun with this. I am particularly proud of one email I wrote, which can’t be reproduced here, for reasons of propriety.

Among my current neuroses:

• I wake up at 2 am and realize I forgot to buy health insurance for us for 6 months.
• I worry that only people with incontinent cats and criminal records will rent our beautiful house.
• As I have just spent serious quality time with my kids over the holidays, I wonder if 6 months of it will make me rush home and file the necessary paperwork to make them all emancipated minors.
• I love to work.  What the hell will I do with oodles of time? (Matt knows me well enough to worry about what I will cook up.)
• I am going to miss people.  Many, many people.

We leave in a little bit over a month.  On the docket:

1. Find tenants that don’t make me convulse like a frog in a blender.
2. Oral surgery next week.
3. Finishing packing things up.
4. Finding tenants that don’t drive me to say/do/perform something illegal.
5. Sending Matt to a conference about something I don’t understand, but he seems to be very excited about (emissions testing, bla bla, transportation engineering, ramble mumble, multi modal, yadda yadda…).
6. Getting the education plans for the kids finalized.
7. Finding tenants who do not make me want to remove their fillings with rusty nails.
8. Exiting from projects at work (kind of a downer for me).

I believe that is the post-holiday, pre-Turkey update.  And if you are wondering if I am getting excited…yes I am.  Utterly in awe that we made this work and that we are about to leave on this crazy adventure.

WHEN:  Well, the girls and I leave on February 1st.  Matt and Philip follow on Feb. 5th.  Or maybe its the 4th.  (Who the hell knows?  I am lousy with details.) He mumbled something about a conference he has to attend the end of January, but it might be so he can chicken out when I am already over there. We all return July 25th.

WHY: Please don’t expect logic here.  It is our “mid-life recalibration.”

I wanted to learn a language of which I didn’t know a single word, but an alphabet similar to ours.  A country with mountains, sea and a non-Judea-Christian culture.  Turkey met all these criteria, including being near Europe. Now all my long-neglected childhood friends can jump on cheap flights from Germany, Belgium and France and watch us live on yoghurt and stale bread in a 2-bedroom apartment.

Added bonus is that Turkey will self-correct any issues we have (hypothetically) with some fashion choices of some our family members.  Matt, for example, will no longer be able to wear micro-mini skirts and spaghetti strap tops in public.

WHERE: We have rented a 2-bedroom apartment in Istanbul, in the Taksim section of town (European side).  Renting from abroad is sketchy business.  Some of my anxiety attacks have revolved around the following questions:

What if the place is a complete dump?  You can photograph anything and put it on the internet.  Hell.  I’ve done that.

PayPal’s return policy is utter nonsense.  I have no recourse for my deposit.

Does the guy who is renting us the house actually OWN the building?  For all I know, he is running around Istanbul, photographing other people’s stuff, posting it on a web page, collecting money from idiots like me and sending out leases.  How would I know?

Should I be alarmed that there is an entire website dedicated to what a tool my future landlord allegedly is? ( http://bewareofguzel.blogspot.com/2009/07/murat-guzel-murat-guzel-blue-house.html).  Of course not.  I decided to look at the bright side:  he owns the place.  I signed a lease with a guy that actually owns the place.  He also has been extremely helpful and prompt in responses and gently pointed out that he has never had sooo many email exchanges for the mere rental of an apartment.

SCHOOLING: Nugget will be attending a virtual high school through her current school.  Ella’s team teachers have been awesome and are accommodating us to work out a plan and Philip, well…he was always headed for a life of crime.  Why waste an education on him?

Matt will be writing his thesis while Nugget and I take intensive Turkish classes, 3 hours a day, 5 days a week.  Ella has her sights set on breaking the baklava-eating record, and we are making Philip watch Midnight Express, in hopes that he will heed our warnings.

In the meantime, I am tickled I have a husband and kids willing to do anything, and to be able to say “Hey, guys.  Let’s go eat lunch in Asia.”

It is 6 hours without three children in a confined space. With three children in a confined space, it is the seventh circle of hell for hours and hours.

Matt and I decided to document this.  As with all good anthropological field work, it is best to not interfere with the subjects. In a video segment of two minutes, I only yell once.  That is a tremendous testimony to my fortitude and saintliness.

What is testimony to our stupidity, is that we let the girls “share” a smoothie they paid for:  25%/75%.  (Please note:  the child who paid for 75% is never actually in possession of the damn smoothie.) Learn from our mistakes.  Don’t be idiots.

As we approached hour 16 of our 6 hour drive, there was an emergency.  After much screaming and a full fledged meltdown, we realized our oversight.   Despite the temperatures sinking below 10 degrees, we forgot to offer someone the opportunity to take his shirt off and stop for french fires.

Happy New Year.

• While it is my most burning desire to live near a Target, I am grateful it is NOT the one in Brooklyn. The passion and violence displayed by shoppers there bore striking resemblance to drunk fans at a British soccer game.
• I am grateful I actually left the aforementioned Target with my 11 yr old.  I was so busy watching a toddler during the mayhem, I erroneously assumed an older child with a stand out IQ would be smart enough to stay near mom.  15 minutes of “missing” and a “Just looking at iTunes cards.  Relax.” later, I aged a decade.
• I am grateful I resisted the urge of beating her and then setting her on fire.
• I am grateful (but relieved may be a better term) that the Target clerk who was extremely rude to me didn’t get violent when I called her, well, a bad name.  Not my finest moment, to be sure.  Wherever you are, I am sorry and thanks for not beating me and setting me on fire.
• It warms the heart to see that even stone faced New Yorkers smirk when a toddler shouts “I want hot fuckwit.  FUCKWIT!  NOW!” (hot chocolate).
• I am grateful that when the inevitable toddler tantrum happened and he threw himself on the ground because the people he was with JUST DON”T GET IT, it was not where the blue slushy had just been spilled.
• I am grateful that while I was stupid enough to bring two children on this fateful shopping trip, I was smart enough to leave the third with her cousins.

Feel free to share your contemplations of gratitude.

In our old town, I had an awesome brow woman and a $17 haircut place.  Since our move, however, I have been searching for the right “one”.  It shouldn’t be this hard.  My hair is thick, forgiving, nearly black.  My brows are easy. No funky highlights, weird swooshy bangs, complicated brows or anything.  

“Chin length, a bit shorter in the back, and please layer it.  My brows just need clean-up.”

It hasn’t been easy:

One woman gave my left brow a Brazilian, the other simply remained cro-magnon.  I couldn’t go back.  I looked like my face was lopsided and people kept staring at me because they couldn’t quite figure out what was wrong.

Another hairdresser cut my hair it so short I looked like a coconut.  

One woman kept me in the damn chair for 2 hours and when I left I looked exactly the same.  She had pretty much just combed me.

One hairdresser got it sort of right, but my layers were all crooked, giving half of my head the look of a wild boar when it grew in, the other half was flat.

And then, this Sunday, I met Sarah.  

She was bossy, mean and wouldn’t let me drink my coffee– “I don’t appreciate hot liquids in my personal space.”  She put me in her chair, bad mouthed every cut, layer and individual hair on my head.  She trash-talked everything about my follicular appearance.  She was ruthless, like those 7th grade mean girls at the popular table at middle school lunch.  

Then started to wash my hair, and I fell in love.  The best scalp massage EVER.

She cut my hair–fast, efficient, EVEN (!!!), and gave me great shape.

When she was done, I asked her, through tears, if I could book my next appointment.

Turns out she is pregnant and I hadn’t noticed because of her floppy lab coat thingy.  I have booked myself into her life right up to her due date.

Pray that kid doesn’t come early.  it’s all about me, you know.

How DO the normal families spend their Sunday night?  Packing lunches for tomorrow? Finishing the New York TImes? Playing dominos? Watching TV? Bathing sticky/filthy children?

I’d love to know, because my inmates thought it would be the perfect time to learn the “Thriller” dance. They set up “spooky” lighting and everything.

Please note, there is nothing self-effacing about them.  They are dead serious.  No giggles.  No embarrassment.  Just grit and determination as they copy the dance moves as demonstrated by Philippino prisoners on youtube.

Don’t mind the bad audio.  You know the song.

“To put them in perspective, I think of being on an airplane. The flight attendant comes down the aisle with her food cart and, eventually, parks it beside my seat. “Can I interest you in the chicken?” she asks. “Or would you prefer the platter of shit with bits of broken glass in it?”

To be undecided in this election is to pause for a moment and then ask how the chicken is cooked.

I mean, really, what’s to be confused about?”

From this week’s New Yorker, Shouts and Murmurs. You know, the East Coast elitist rag.

Read the full article here.

The "almost" destination of a hot weekend with Matt.

Plan 1: Farm out offspring to various relatives. Get away with husband and have child-free weekend in Montreal.  Turns out we can only get rid of the anarchists for one night, so we downsize the plan.

Plan 2:  Farm out offspring to various relatives. Get away with husband and have child-free overnight in Montreal.  Turns out one set of grandparents is campaigning for Obama and also giving speech and we got out dates wrong and didn’t give enough notice. Who does Obama think he is? He lost my vote.

Plan 3:  Farm out offspring to various relatives and babysitter. Get away with husband and have child-free day hike, followed by romantic dinner.  Turns out that while I wasn’t paying attention, our Vietnamese neighbors offered to come over and cook a meal for us.  All my husband heard was “Vietnamese food” so he said “YES, we are available.”  He forgot about the romantic dinner.

Plan 4: Farm out offspring to various relatives and babysitter. Get away with husband and have child-free day hike, followed by neighbors who don’t speak a lick of English (and my Vietnamese is non-existant) coming over and eating with us.  

Plan 5: Who knows?  

If we continue at this rate, it might be a swig of cold coffee on the way to Costco? Get struts fixed on the Chevy while we wait in filthy muffler-place room with mechanic magazines?  Find the basement pipes that still need insulating and finally get it done, followed by leftovers?