La Vie Et La Danse

Me: Mom, this guy wants to take me out.  He is divorced, with a kid.

Mom: Oh?

Me: Yeah, but so were you.  (Before she met my dad, when my brother was 3 or so, my mother divorced.)

Mom:  Well, he should be taking me out, then.

Today, while I was in the shower, my friend, with whom I’m staying for the weekend, came into the bathroom, used the toilet, left without closing the door, and turned out the light, all while carrying on a conversation on the telephone.

I’m concerned about the direction our friendship is going.

At my show tonight, there was an actor from a popular television drama in the audience.  I didn’t realize it at the time, because I don’t follow Muteşem Yüzyıl.  I found out later–from the singer with whom I share the stage.  Apparently, the actor and I took a bunch of pictures together during my performance.  When I left, there were papparazzi waiting at the door with photo and video cameras.  I’m still not sure which one of the customers the actor was.  I didn’t notice any extraordinarily big tippers.

I need to start watching more TV so I can get starstruck.

This January, I came back to Istanbul for the first time in three years.  I kept wondering when I was going to run into my ex.  We had a good relationship followed by a nasty, drawn-out breakup.  I was in Istanbul three months and didn’t see him.  I knew he hadn’t left the city, because he’ll never go anywhere (in the world or in life.)  I left Turkey and spent two blissful weeks in the US.  I returned to Istanbul and after the exhausting flight, friends picked me up and dragged me down Istiklal Avenue on a shopping trip.  Feeling faint, I walked into a sandwich shop for an orange juice.  When I turned around to leave, I found myself face to face with my ex.

He was rude and it was awkward.  I must admit, though–he still looks good.  I have great taste.

I don’t agree with the grammatical adjustments the editor made to my article before publishing!  Cringe.

It seems I’ve aged at an accelerated rate during the last 2.5 months while in Istanbul.  Perhaps it’s the frequent exposure to second-hand cigarette smoke.

When I returned to the United States last week, my sister looked at me innocently and said, “Lara, you look more mature.”

What the h*ll is that supposed to mean?