Sinanation

Everytime you start a new relationship, you are faced with a big challenge: finding an appropriate nickname for your partner. You might ask what is wrong with the regular name although you already know the answer to the question. Like everybody else you were single once and rallied against the shameful nickname calling game. You abused your “couple” friends in any romantic setting and ripped your ears to avoid the “agubugu cugu”s flowing around. Yet, deep down you agreed with them. Calling your lover with his/her first name is most of the times plain boring, uncreative and cold, especially on the phone. In my opinion, the plain name, once used multiple times during a conversation (even with a possessive adjective), creates an undesired tension, seriousness and dominance over what is supposed to be romantic, a little childish and playful.

Nicknames are essential to keep the relationship playful. Yet, picking one or even a few is much harder than it seems. That is why the first few weeks of the relationship is reserved for the trial & error period where each partner tests out the nicknames picked for one another. Baby, sweetheart, love and honey are the safe universal approach. All the other possibly humiliating-if-pronounced-in-public nicknames are the real dealmakers of the game. The trick is to use as many as possible (from vegetables to baby blurs), avoid the ones used by other “couple” friends, observe the reaction of the partner and see if it is significant enough to be reused.

Love is fun right? Yes it is.

I would kicked my ass as a child (despite the sugar-coated looks – displayed below-).

I am still amazed by my parents’ decision to pop out a completely messy, shitting, crying, splurging, disrespecting Bastas Jr. a few months into their marriage. I don’t want to dive into a competitive debate because it is somewhat unethical to look for reason in this particular decision. I guess once married, one is splashed with this completely unselfish need to produce little ones that do nothing else but ask for more.

Still, think about it, I have:

• woken up throughout the whole night just to get a ride around the house and burp my way out of it
• cried a zillion times to get those toys I wanted
• been sick to the bone and swam inside antibiotics
• been disrespectful and ungrateful in completely wrong settings
• been a nightmare with my uneasy mood on flight on the way to a “vacation” my parents have been dying for
• constantly taken advantage of my parents’ emotions to get what I wanted
• been clueless on so many levels, having no logical reason for my bad attitude
• been a dark box of unsolvable problems during the teenage years from weight problems to bullies to friends to desperate love triangles

So my conclusion is: I would have strangled my baby version, slapped my kid version and get into street fights with my teen version on a regular basis (I guess its easy to say when the offspring is not yours).

I am glad I made it to the late 20s in one peace. Thanks to my parents limitless patience, sacrifice and encouragement. I know I don’t yet have a grain of the care they provided me and my sister.

You are ready. So beautiful, so tasteful. Shall we have a cozy Sunday brunch? I will order the regular Salmon Eggs Benedict staring at your beautiful eyes. You can have whatever you want. I will enjoy my spicy Bloody Marry while my other hand will glide through your silky red hair and massage your neck. We can definitely go home, “watch a movie” afterwards. Yes you can stay over. Who cares about the Sunday paper when you are around!

My friends insist that I have a weakness for blondes. This is my reply to them. She came in a catalogue packed together with all the samples tucked in my father’s case from Prêt à Porter Paris.

Yet again the Valentine ’s Day is here. Singles and couples, we will all drown in reds, pinks, hearts, candies, balloons, teddy bears, lingerie, over-sized gift cards, massage oils and kinky sex toys. Restaurants will have those romantic courses which are always paired with red wine. Deserts will be flaming hot with melted chocolate and strawberries. Hotels will be promoting their erotic night getaways. Same plain rooms will be decorated with a few rose petals and a bottle of champagne to be sold at a higher rate. Clubs and bars, the hunting grounds of the singles will do everything in their power to avoid the romantic and try to make a little profit from the lonely ones who will be looking to escape the so called fairy tale.

Single or not, I feel like we are all on the same page. Singles try to erase the day from the calendar not because of the people who are celebrating it, but because of the scenery. Couples on the other hand are faced with a bigger dilemma. They are desperately looking for ways to be original in their celebration of the Valentine’s and after a few trials, are out of ideas. They just can’t go to the same restaurant they have been eating at for the past few months. It is just awkward to see the same surroundings and faces painted in red, covered in candle lights. Teddy bears and candies should have already been left alone after high school. Why the hotel when you can go back to the bed you have been sleeping happily for so long? Why the sexy lingerie when they could be worn any day, any time? Single or not, I feel like we all on the same page. We would rather be romantic when we are not told to be…when we don’t have everything around us yelling it so loud that we can’t even hear our own voice.

With that in mind, I wish everyone (especially Hallmark) a happy Valentine’s Day.

I had the pleasure of chatting with a close friend about the aftermath of a typical breakup. Our debate lead me to write this short observation of what I see as the dynamics behind the “male move on process” and the confusion of the female within all this tornado of testosterone and emotion. I thank her for challenging me into this intense, but rather comforting debate.

Just like the chromosomes that create sex, the views of a female and male differ greatly towards the episodes that come about after a breakup. As all of us who had the pleasure of dating are aware, breakups are almost always unfinished businesses. There is always one party in the game that whispers quietly outside, but yells furiously inside “I am not done!”. In this case our views of ghosts as souls who are stuck on the Earth because of unfinished businesses applies completely to the partner who is not done with the relationship. Nobody would want the world to know that he or she is that weak, confused, angry and helpless partner waiting on the side long after the relationship is over. Thus, begins the period where both sides retrieve back to their original clans, far away from the little tent they built during their happy days together. With the prospect of having the old single days back, the male and the female steps into the gang in which, he and she once played a major role.

The male is back in the Tribe of Y-chromosomal Adam.

He fights his urges to care whether the ex has moved on and he is well-aware that she will sooner or later. Like many of his buddies he believes the best official way to declare independence and strength is to find another girl (as many name “the rebound girl”) to decorate his loneliness and support his fun endeavors. The weakness is camouflaged with the best outfit and the tribe members are there to witness it.

After the break up, the male sees Y-chromosomal Adam as the members-only, sacred ground where nobody he has cut ties with are welcome. He is there to be attended to and focused on. Going back to the old days, having the best careless fun, sharing, supporting and relaxing are the main goals of the recently separated.

Yet, there is a miscalculation in the male’s expectation. Over the period that he has gallantly and happily hung out with his partner, he has (willingly or unwillingly) forced his tribe partners to embrace and respect the female (whom he now sees as history). He is perplexed to see the history showing up at his front door. He feels betrayed to see his tribe hanging out with the woman he grew apart with. He thinks “this girl is not over me and still manages to find a way to stay in touch through my gang”. He shivers with the thought of having to watch her have fun within his sacred grounds and move on in front of his eyes. The girl on the other hand wishes to stay friends knowing that the “rebound girl” is already there to cut off any prior emotional ties. She swallows the pain and puts on a good face. She enjoys the company of her “accidental” tribe. She shows up around Y-chromosomal Adam for the formation and the continual of a mature and respectful acquaintance.

He grows furious, taking it out on the people he came to rely on. He blames them for not caring as much. Insensitivity and betrayal are to be gotten rid of. He is blinded with the breakouts of the macho testesterone flowing inside him. He is scared of the emotions he witnessed and sedated with much difficulty, resurfacing. He needs time and hopes to get rid of the addiction with the hope of rejuvenating the days before “the couple”. Back in the Tribe of Y-chromosomal Adam… Away from his special female…Close to all the unrefined urges of his manhood and gangstership.

We all go through it. We run into a friend of a friend or a distant acquaintance at a random event. If the distant hand-wave does not suffice, we walk towards each other to have the chat of the century. Taking the tiny steps towards the first hello we eat our brain to remember the name of the person we will be talking to. We are clueless.

It gets worse if he/she proudly addresses us with our name. We get loaded with guilt and hate the person for being such an elephant. We are lucky if we are without company as we can easily avoid the name tagging by diving directly into the random conversation. Yet if we have that other friend standing on our side like a huge trunk, dying to be introduced, we are done. There is no way on Earth we can hide the fact that we have forgotten the other person’s name. So like a total loser we use our head and eyes introducing the friend on our side with his/her name and then pause until the other person finally dives into the handshake with his/her name.

We all go through it and we suck at it each time.

I remember the days when I would drive her crazy. Her hair cut short, her tiny sneakers on, her cheeks peach red she would run into the living room her eyes sparkling with the grandeur of the Christmas tree. “Sinan are you decorating the tree!” she would yell her voice trembling with her tiny heart pounding with excitement. She would come back her hands washed and stand next to my feet waiting for an order to hang an ornament on the pine tree. Annoyed by her tiny presence, careless of her excitement I would pick a tiny damaged red ball from a bunch of huge ones and ask her to put it in a place where no one can see. I was an immature brother too selfish to observe his sister’s incredible spirit and blossom.

Even though the age difference, I have always been addicted to her company. She was my cabin crew when I turned my bed into an airplane. She was my gatekeeper when I turned the living room sofa into a cave of wonders. She was my avid shopper when I turned my room into a shop of weird gadgets. She was my forced wingman when I watched horror movies. She was my financier when I ran out of my weekly allowance. She was always there for me (although sometimes unwillingly). She has changed a lot since then, but never ceased to stand beside me for the good and the bad.

It took me a while to catch up after I left for college. 8 years away from home overseas, I kept thinking it was only her voice that changed. First she was smart enough to decorate the tree before I made it home. Then came the high heels. I was shorter. Then the trips to the hairdressers. I was bolder. Then the switch to a healthy diet. I was chubbier. I no longer dived into her room without knocking. She was strong enough to watch the horror movies alone in a dark room (although she might end up sneaking to grandma’s after the movie). I would have never imagined her to grow up so fast. Never imagined to be the one taking advice. Never imagined to be the one so proud of her decisions and determination. I felt privileged to be the cavalier to my tall, sexy and confident sister. We had our ups and downs, but she has always been the princess of our home.

On my most recent trip back, she found his prince to become the queen of her own home. I am heavy with emotions, motivated with pride, happy with her happiness and somber with farewell. Her engagement was the first step. Her wedding will be the next to a new life she is set to build up with her husband. Her address might change, but she will always be a call away from me to bug her anytime, anywhere. This time I promise to be a little more mature and call during reasonable hours.

Congrats to my princess, Ayse and her prince I welcome as a brother, Serkan.

A heart that is worth a thousand words, a thousand guts, a thousand kisses, a thousand fights, a thousand make-ups, a thousand welcomes and a thousand farewells… It comes surprisingly soon, unexpectedly easy. Delivered on a ripped piece of paper with a borrowed pen. It is surrounded by daylight, music, food and wine. It is brought to life at a small restaurant in New York. You are having the most intriguing conversation with an Italian girl sitting at the table next to yours. You tell her about your Italian business partner and she starts teaching you the language. Your pronunciation makes her laugh. You both enjoy each other’s company in this overly-crowded and eventful restaurant you both happen to be in. An accidental acquittance, a pleasant conversation, a short piece of reminiscence  stored in your ever-expanding library…

This little piece of evidence popped out of my blazer’s inside pocket and pulled me back a few years to Le Bilboquet. One saturday, one brunch, some tuna tartare, a medium rare filet mignon and too many glasses of the famous rosé. That was how it all started…

Girls think it is so easy. Gather a few cute friends. Blow-dry the hair. Put on the make-up, a cute smile with a flirty mimic, some short tight skirts, sexy tops and high heels. Once out the door, they are ready to conquer the nightlife in New York. 80% of the bouncers will be happy to let them in and mingle with us poor guys who are forced to drink at least a few bottles of alcohol at a table with a fake sexy waitress who is looking to suck out the limits on our credit cards.

Do not tell us that we can (maybe) avoid a table reservation. We don’t have the luxury, the character or the patience to deny the rules of the game. It takes ratios, bribes, credit cards and a totally superficial acquaintance to make it to the famous club where you want to dance us until bedtime.

The moment we are behind that red velvet rope we are reminded that we are there to be spiritually abused and financially raped. We get the attitude from the host who probably can not come close to the education, vision and culture we have been injected with over the years. We become the victim in front of an “average Joe” looking to abuse all the power he/she has been surprisingly given as the person who decides who to let into this luscious club that will only be popular for a few more months. We are constantly asked how many is in our party as we watch weird guys cutting through the line with their whole clan. We point towards the faces of our friends hoping they will pass the “beauty” test. We overhear the bouncers deciding the faith of our night by asking each other “what do you think?” with an extremely arrogant face. We wait. We ask for attention like a helpless puppy although a lion roars “you are too good for this” inside, grabbing onto our male ego. We are finally slapped with the sentence “I.D.s out!”. We hug although we despise. We shake hands although we hate the deal.

Each time we walk up to that club door we have cramps thinking about the next step. Yet, we walk the line with the prospect of a fun night with close friends. We take the attitude with the hope of a kiss from a girl we fancy. Alcohol helps only to ease the tension built up at the start of a night out in the city.

We pay the bill with a bad hangover and a regret that reminds us how we will pull through another night out in the city that never sleeps.

Yasmin brought this quote to my attention yesterday. She says it is currently her most favorite and I think she has all the reasons to make it so. It summarizes all the things I wanted to say in Precious in one single sentence. Its author is Samuel Langhorne Clemens, also known by his pen name, Mark Twain.

Never allow someone to be your priority while allowing yourself to be their option.