Has It Been Weaned?

My husband has convinced me to change my mobile phone.

I used to be really into mobile phones when I was not married and working and splurging on whatever my heart desires. Now I couldn't care less about what new model was released and what super-duper features it has- as long as it dials and receives phone calls.

We were shopping and we happenned to end up in the window of a mobile shop, where my husband ended up in one of his gadget-quenching escapades. He decided that both my mobile and his were old, outdated (his is almost brand new) and that we were in urgent need of new phones.

As he went through comparisons of just about each and every model with the salesman, it turns out the shop also offers the option of trading in your used mobile for a new one and paying the price difference on the phone you choose.

If you were selling your car, for example, what would be the most logical question you'd expect to be asked by the buyer, apart from the apparent, model, etc? It would be 'How old is it?', right?

Well, apparently not.

I volunteered to give the salesman the information I saw most important on selling my phone. I told him, "El mobile da 3omro sanatein. (My mobile is 2 years old.)"

He looks at me, raising an eyebrow and curling his lip, and says, "Etfatam wala lesa? (Has it been weaned?)"

My husband and I looked at each other and we could barely keep off the floor from laughing! The way he said it was hysterical!

Now I know my Arabic can sometimes be funny, but I seriously didn't think anything was wrong with telling him how old it is. It seemed completely reasonable to me.

My husband whispered to me that they nobody would ever tell the truth anyway on how old the phone is, so the guy doesn't really care, because it's the condition of it that would concern him. Whatever.

I was then looking at another model and so I asked him what the features were, etc. He started to explain, and then added, "we da lesa matwaladsh. (and this one hasn't been born yet.)". Beyeshtaghalni! But seriously, the guy was really funny. He just had that natural talent to make people laugh. It didn't offend me at all.

I swear, if I spend the rest of my life in Egypt, I will never cease to be surprised!

Compromising Principles

Yesterday, I did what I have always seen as the unthinkable.

We did the Egyptian thing- completely against all of my principles, something I find utterly repulsive. I took my son to the movies.

You see, ever since he was born, my husband and I have basically only had opportunities to go to the movies on special occasions when we can find a babysitter- a task which I have major trust issues with.

So, we decided to play it the safest way possible and take our son to a deserted movie theatre where they would be playing a children’s movie and treat him to his first experience with the big screen.

We decided to go to Dream Cinema in 6th of October, where we live, during the daytime. The only problem is they had no animated movies playing and the only ‘children’s’ movie was Superman Returns. My husband was so excited about the outing because my son loves Superman, he has Superman t-shirts, Superman action figures, and he likes to pretend he’s Superman. Actually, come to think of it, he was the most excited one!

I kept trying to convince my husband that even if the cinema was deserted and even if T loves Superman, this is a completely inappropriate movie for him. There’s a reason why they rate movies and there’s a reason why it’s PG-13 and not PG. It’s to protect children who are too young to understand what’s going on for their own psychological welfare.

He disagreed and insisted that this was going to be a silly movie and even the action scenes would be silly. I went along.

We arrived at the movies with my son so excited he nearly had a heart attack that he was gonna see Superman, and he fully absorbed the idea then when we go to the movies, we are not allowed to talk.

As soon as we found our seats and sat down, the guilt I felt about taking him to the movies vanished. The cinema was indeed deserted, with only 2 other families, both with a tribe of kids, both with toddlers and even infants!

Immediately, my son started shushing all the brats, I mean kids, because they were talking and crying and he couldn’t hear! That’s my boy!

Anyway, Superman finally started and 15 minutes into the movie, all in the course of 3 minutes, we get this great big plane crash scene with people being thrashed around all over the inside of the airplane, the plane being set on fire, the wings falling off, people screaming. Great! He’s going to be riding a plane in 2 weeks inshaa Allah, if we go to Turkey!

I turned to my husband and said, ‘Children’s movie? I told you. There’s a reason this is PG-13. It’s not suitable for 3 year olds! He’s going to freak on the plane! He’s gonna have nightmares about it!’

My son did start to freak out. He started to curl his lips the way he does when he’s trying to hold back from crying and squeezing my arm. I got up, carried him, and said, “Let’s go get chocolate and hurry back to see Superman save them!”

Of course, I didn’t want to tell him that he was leaving because it was too scary, I explained to him that nothing was going to happen to them and that Superman would come lift the plane up and rescue them, just like T could. It comforted him.

We stalled around at the concession bar and I tried to time it so that we would be back in time to see Superman save the day, just to prove to him that nothing bad was going to happen and that the airplane was just fine. Elhamdolelah that worked too.

I had to bribe him again after the plane was saved and the next disaster scene was starting by asking him if he wanted to go find a toy shop in Dream Mall to pick out a toy. How else was I going to convince him to leave Superman? I stalled and stalled until the movie was nearly over and we nearly had a heat stroke.

I took him back after checking with the usher that the movie was ending in 10 minutes, just in time for the happy ending.

Superman is a prick. He’s so lame. My least favorite of superheroes, not that I like any of them, but Superman is exceptionally lame. I think my son no longer likes Superman. Where’s Garfield when you need him?

T went on and on all day yesterday about how the plane was crashing. Each time, I couldn’t help but give my husband the look of death and he ould burst out cracking up, saying, “Ok, Ok, khalas, it was unsuitable!”

I reminded T of how it didn’t crash and that Superman carried it and everyone was safe and cheering. He would then raise his arms like Superman and sing, “Super-ma-a-an!”

I only felt relief after my husband admitted guilt!

But the bright side is, we’ve found a cinema which is packed with annoying children so certainly no one will be annoyed. We’re going to the movies, man! Just pre-filtered movies. Screw principles! Hell, the whole damn cinema was packed with kids. Think about it- which cinema in Egypt isn’t anyway, deserted or not?

Anyway, I have to go now. We’re going to Ain El Sokhna today since our weekend plans for the North Coast were ruined by just plain na7s (bad luck). I’m bloated like the Pillsbury Dough Boy because of the cortisone I’m on- or self-inducing cortisone- whatever the hell that is. My face is so swollen, my eyes are practically oriental and glued shut. I look like I did when I was in labor from the oxitocin they were giving me to induce labor. It swells you up like a balloon. Not very flattering in a bathing suit. Couldn’t this have waited until winter?

Gotta go. The beach is calling….

Like Father, Like Son

Marrying a man who lives and breathes for boobs has finally taken its toll. He has now passed this obsession to our 3 year old son.

When it comes to boob ogling, my husband becomes so distracted that he does not even attempt to hide his interest and fascination from my son. My son, in turn, quietly observes what is being said or squeezed in front of him, and notices my objection and my husband’s persistence, absorbs it all in like a sponge and learns from his idol, Daddy.

He has become captivated by boobs.

It all started with the following scenario repeated in front of him several times:
in front of the TV, when a woman with Pamela Anderson sized-boobs appears and my husband instinctively and childishly yells, “Wow! Look at those boobs!” This is the boob-declaration phase.

The next phase is the boob-admiration phase. This is when my husband is so intensely concentrating on whatever the boob-owner is presenting and perseverely resists any distraction.

The next phase is the implementation phase. Of course, he cannot reach across and grab the TV’s boobs, so who’s boobs must he grab? My, small-but-still-boob boobs.

Next is the objection phase. (Not from my husband, of course.) This is when I shout out, “H, stop it! T is watching!” I push and shove him but his hands are like glue.

He insensibly protests to my objection and continues grabbing and squeezing my boobs like a leach, and says, “No, he’s not watching. He can’t see. He’s playing.”

I say, “What do you think he’s blind or stupid? Look at him. He’s laughing!!”

He ignores my argument and continues molesting me until I interrupt his little fantasia by biting a chunk of his arm. My son, of course, thinks this is hilarious. He’s cracking up.

That’s when my son’s fascination with boobs began. I took him to the supermarket for some grocery shopping a few days ago, and while I was busy crossing items off my list, I was cut off by a hand on my boob. I look over at my son sitting in the child seat of the cart, and he’s smiling over at me saying, “Mommy, enti 3andek boobs? (Mommy, you have boobs?)” and goes into a fit of laughter.

O-H M-Y G-O-D.

I casually brush his hand off my breast and say, “Di nadaret Mommy.(These are Mommy’s sunglasses.”, playing dumb referring to the sunglasses hung on my shirt.

He stretches his t-shirt down from the neck, exposing his nipple and says, “Ana Kaman 3andy boobs. Bas el boobs bet3aty soghayara. (I, too, have boobs, but mine are small boobs.”

Yekhreb beitak ya H.

I quietly say to him, “3eib, ya T. Don’t touch this. This is a private part.”

He looks at as if I’m joking and says, “la. Da boobs. ( No. These are boobs.)”

I say, “No. da esmo ‘mammary glands'. (These are called mammary glands.)”. I figure if I can choose a difficult enough name for it, he won’t be able to pronounce it, and even if he does, no one will ever figure out what he’s talking about.

He repeats, “mammam dads”.

I clarify, “Ma-mma-ry gl-an-ds.”

He makes another attempt, “Mmm…mm..”

I thought, ‘Ok, I took care of that temporarily. Now it’s time for a 217th discussion with H on how he gets so carried away that he doesn’t care if T is watching and that is against everything else we’ve agreed on and are already raising him as.’

Yesterday, we were swimming with my aunt and she was holding my son, T, and floating him around in the water, when he, against any good fortune, noticed her boobs. I knew by the look in his eye. He gave them a great big toothy smile. That deliria. The same deliria his father experiences.

Before I got a chance to act, he patted her boob and said, “Enti 3andek belly button? (You have a belly button?)” Thank God! He couldn’t remember the new name, ‘mammary gland’. So he used what the next sure thing would be ‘belly button’. Thank God my plan worked and he doubted the word ‘boob.’

She looked at me and smiled and told him, “No. My belly button is down here.”

He was happy to show her his belly button, too. So he voluntarily stood up and stuck his finger in it and said, “My belly button is here.” Thank God! She distracted him. Phew!

I dread finding out what boob-related incidents happen under someone else’s supervision. I really don’t wanna know what my little Hugh Heffner does with those little nursery girl boobies.

Reminds me of the days my husband and I were dating and we’d be walking and I’d be spilling my guts in a really deep discussion when his head would violently turn sideways, ogling a girl with big boobs in a way where she wouldn’t notice, but I would always catch it, and then resume listening to me or pretending to show interest after the boobs had passed.

I should’ve known.

Bloggers Anonymous

OK. So it’s been almost a month since I’ve blogged. I’ve been really busy and besides, blogging steals time from other things. Time which I don’t have. It steals from work; it steals from quality time with my son; it even steals relaxing and veging out time. With it being summer, with too many fun summery things to do, I thought I’d quit.

I had almost quit…but damn it, I couldn’t! It’s too addictive… the same reason that made me quit is the same reason that brought me back!

“Hi. My name is Mumbo Jumbo and I am a blogaholic.”

It’s the part of me that wants to talk about things that I can’t say to just anyone… and the people I would say them to, I don’t see them enough.

It’s the part of me who wants to share some silly experience that I had… so silly and meaningless that the only place it would have any meaning is in a blog.

It’s the part of me that cannot find enough people on the planet that are the same ‘mix’ as me. Not American, Not Egyptian, somewhere hanging in between, never quite making it as either. If only my parents had left me in the States, I never would’ve had this identity crisis… I would’ve just been who I already was. Moving away changed my destiny. It took me from one very solid sure path to a very different staggering one, left to find my own place in it- a place where I see the pros and cons of each culture very clearly… to clearly… only adding to my confusion and to my identity crisis. At least pure Egyptians bred and raised in Egypt know who they are. Most of them have fucked up mentalities, but at least they know who they are.

I’m convinced with who I am and I like who I am. It didn’t happen by accident. I think that I have the advantage over both cultures. I’ve lived both cultures and have taken what I see as valuable from each, and dumped what I see corrupt. Having very few people truly understand me though, well, that’s OK, too. That’s the price I have to pay to, without conceit, have vision, open-mindedness, tolerance and a broader view with more angles.

Sometimes I feel as if I am an a different physical place than others, floating above, seeing and feeling and sympathizing with things others don’t see and feel- things they routinely bypass or have unreasonable prejudices about, or just plain stupidity and narrow-mindedness. Sometimes I experience this out of body experience in a way.

Because of this identity crisis though, I cannot most of my opinions out loud. I am not interested in sharing childhood stories or adult experiences with most people, especially in large gatherings, out of fear of being judged or criticized or feeling odd and different… and I certainly hold back my emotional views on issues. Mostly because, when Egyptians get into debates, I end up sitting there wondering what made them so fucked up and so biased on a completely ignorant, misinformed basis. World peace certainly won’t come about if I open my mouth amidst a group of 20 Jew-hating, US-despising, pro-Egyptian (whatever that stands for) Egyptians. So bakabar demaghy and ignore unless I am expressly asked.

I’ll only go through the trouble with someone like-minded… seeking relief… to ascertain that I am indeed sane.

It’s difficult to find people who are a combination of two worlds, and who think alike and have the same values and interests… or to compromise… just open-minded people who have different interests or opinions, but nevertheless are cool to hang out with. Blogging, I feel, connects like minds, brings us together. Even unlike minds, debating is quenching and similar opinion-holders gang up with each other and back each other up. It’s something else.

Sometimes the real world is frustrating though. Most people who know me don’t really know me. I’m reserved a lot of times and this holding back has made me sometimes even quiet when I’m uncomfortable around certain people.

Blogging is so therapeutic. I think my blog is going to be a much more personal and unreserved one than it has been previously. There’s much more I can get out of this for myself.