A Kick In The Chops

When I lived in London, most Sundays would see me wake up, throw on some cloths and walk to the corner shop for the Sunday Times. I would return home, make a cup of tea and start my way through the brick of a newspaper. I had a little ritual. I would unfold the newspaper separating each section until I had a pile of them for my reading. I would place the regular sections on top of the special Sunday sections and place the two magazine supplements beside them. I would ritualistically read the magazines last, except for the Aunt Sally column at the back of the Style magazine which I would read first.

If I was sitting somewhere with a girlfriend we would often read the column aloud and share what advice we would give to the inquirer before finding out what Sally Brampton had to say. Usually, our advice was similar to hers, however she had a clever way of giving the letter writer a soft lecture about what it was in themselves or their behavior that had engendered their problem, before informing them of a way out of their mess.

Unfortunately, as most people, Ms. Brampton couldn’t see a way out of her own mess and last Tuesday, walked down to the sea near her house and simply kept going. Her body was found washed up on shore by a passerby and no attempts at resuscitation were successful. Sally Brampton’s ‘mess’ was chronic depression. As well as an Agony Aunt, she was also the past editor of the UK edition of Elle magazine (in fact she was its first editor when it was debut in the 1980’s) and a writer of books, one of which was entitled Shoot the Damn Dog. It was a memoir of sorts detailing her ongoing battle with depression. The dog was a reference to another sufferer of depression, no other than Sir Winston Churchill who referred to his depressive episodes as his ‘black dog’.

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I Hate Chicken!

I hate chicken. I really, really detest chicken. I freaking loath it. I do not really hate anything in the universe. Nothing that most people would think was hateable. Things like colds, or investment bankers or Donald Trump. Colds, non-discriminatory illnesses that I usually get once a year – nothing to do about them. Cannot conjure up negative emotion for a little virus that wants to live in my body until my immune system boots it out. Investment bankers, just mostly men who have families to feed. They probably also have small penises or inferiority complexes or inferiority complexes brought about by having small penises which cause them to gamble with the world’s economies in order to make pots of feel-better money. Oh well, money makes the world go around and a guy has to make a living. Donald Trump, I’m not American so cannot vote in their election and although I might take umbrage to some of his statements, most are so laughable and pathetic that the most negative sentiment I can conjure towards him is pity. Pity for being so stupid really.

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Everything Inbetween


Today was a crap day. I just could not seem to get into the flow of things, that or my mood fought the flow all the way. We woke up after an unbroken night of sleep which should have set me up for a fabulous day but didn’t. We ate breakfast and then my husband went off to work, although that is a bit of a misnomer. Work, right now for him, consists of waiting in the area that is assigned to his taxi, for a job that never seems to come. It is still early in the season and folks are not yet filling up our little area of the world with their presence and their cash. Business will pick up in a few weeks when people come to the boat yards, where my husband works, to get their vessels sea worthy, but now they are few and far between. He had one job yesterday and made 15TL, about $7. Ho hum… Yet it is not our financial situation that put me into a funk today but nothing in particular and everything in between.

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Morphine, Good Genes and British Bulldogs


When I was eight years old my parents took my sister and I out of school for a month to go to England. My grandfather was dying and my father wanted to see him and wanted him to see his grandchildren before he went. I remember going on the airplane and being fascinated by the whole experience. I loved the music that I could command though the buttons on the side of the seat and spent most of the plane ride listening to the Pop Rock station. I clearly remember Diana Ross singing: Upside down, boy you turn me, inside out, and round and round… I also remember waking up in my seat to see the well roasted arm of a murder victim in the onboard film showing of “Who is Killing the Great Chefs of Europe”. Unfazed by the gruesome image, I simply fell back asleep. The next time I work up it was in another country; the country of my mother’s birth and my father’s childhood. We spent a month with my grandparents. I remember coming out of the room that I was sharing with my sister and seeing my Grandfather getting dressed by the side of bed. He was naked from the waist up and had a huge hard belly. I thought it funny how an old man could look pregnant. I didn’t understand that he had a massive tumour in his stomach. I have many memories of that trip; one very visceral one of falling down the winding stair case in my new shoes, my grandmother rushing over to my prone body, hugging me and crying as if she couldn’t handle one more dying family member. Other memories are of visiting aunts and cousins, family friends and their children. There is always joy to be had in sadness it seems.

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A Wife’s Life Not For Me

A few years ago if I had a time machine and could have travelled forward to motherhood, I would have still made the decision to become a mother. As much as I found the first year of my daughter’s life extremely challenging, I wish I had become a mother sooner and hope that I still have another chance later. I definitely cannot same the same for marriage. I have to say that I am not the sort of person who enjoys being a wife, in fact I loathe it. I guess it is important in my case to distinguish between being married and being a wife. I like being married. I like being part of a team. I like walking along the journey of life accompanied. I just hate being a wife. More specifically, I hate doing wifey things.

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“Everything Is On The Road”


I’ve been thinking about roads lately. Where I live in the world, it is never more obvious that modern roads exist in the same place as they always have. Where ever there are people there are roads. Roads are a manmade invention; a manmade necessity, now and in the past. As you drive along the roads around here you can never be surprised at seeing an old water tank, ancient wall, crumbling Roman dwelling all within view of your carriage. It is these vestiges of the past which made the thought occur to me, that although pavement has replaced what was once just a dusty clearing worn down by the numerous feet, of human and animals and later the tracks of carts and carriages, someone long ago put down a road there. Someone long ago decided to move from one point to another and tried to find their way. Perhaps their way was a good one; a direct and easy amble from one place to another and so others started to tread that same path. That was the start of a road. The road began to get established as it was used again and again. If a stranger came along one day and asked a local the way to where the road led, the local would point them in the direction of the new road. A road thus used, draws to it buildings that service those going along the road. In a case like this when I think of necessity being the mother of invention, I remember sitting on a stopped train in India years ago, deciding which of the vendors’ along the track would provide my lunch. It amazed me then and amazes me now that one could sit on a train and get everything provided to her by passing money through a window and being handed their tea, samosa, or puri.

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Good dog? Bad dog? Dog.

My husband and I got into quite the argument tonight. At one point he tried to get me to answer a rhetorical question, but I just looked at him blankly much like a stoned kitten would. His rhetorical question was this: Are you a good person? I just couldn’t answer him positively or negatively. I just couldn’t relate personally to the question whatsoever. Are you a good person? What the hell is a good person? Sometimes I lay awake at night plotting your murder, you bastard – does that make me a bad person? I go out of my way to talk to old people on the bus, even though I only understand half of what they say because of my basic Turkish – does that make me a good person? I argued with the employees at two Vodafone offices when I could not pay for my weekly Internet and they couldn’t tell me why or figure out how to help me – does that make me a bad person? I would take a bullet for you, even though at this moment you are the biggest bastard in the world, and I would also take one for my daughter, my family, your family and anyone in fact because there is something in me that wants to protect every and any being from harm (except when I plot your murder in the darkest night). Does that cancel everything else out, the murder plotting, the fighting with dense customer service agents, the time I told our two year old to f-off because she threw a tantrum at the exact moment I thought I was going to pass out from my hunger and from repeatedly blowing up her balloon so that she could then take it and release it so it made farting noises as it deflated in a weird, circular flight around the room? Is that how this works? Is it a point system? If so then I am definitely a bad person, because admittedly I am a real bitch half of the time; probably 51% of the time or is it that each behavior is weighted differently? Such as being a fantastic mother 99% of the time, cancels out telling my toddler where to get off. I am confused and therefore cannot answer the question because I do not think of myself as good or bad and do not think of others this way either. In fact I am vehement in my belief that this type of thinking which is creating all of the problems in the word right now.

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