The Occasional Blogger

Yaya at Night of 100 Stars

noreply@blogger.com (Mumbo Jumbo) — Thu, 26 Feb 2009 12:06:00 +0000

If only Chipsy knew....

noreply@blogger.com (Mumbo Jumbo) — Tue, 11 Mar 2008 11:58:00 +0000

I walked past a baqal yesterday and the sight of the chips on the snack stand outside made me hungry. I walked upto the shopkeeper and asked, "3ndak Chipsy bel mal7? (Do you have salted chips?)"

He held a bag of Chips up to his face intently and read, "la, fee bedoon mawad hafza. (No, I have 'No preservatives added')"

Egyptian Idol

noreply@blogger.com (Mumbo Jumbo) — Wed, 27 Feb 2008 07:56:00 +0000

Even though I had abandoned my blog, I could not resist coming back to share THIS:

Enjoy:

Classic:

"Mr. The BeeGees"
and
"I want to love a girl from the hair to the nipple."

You Know You're Mental When....

noreply@blogger.com (Mumbo Jumbo) — Wed, 04 Apr 2007 09:04:00 +0000

I was opening the door late last night to let my dog out to pee. I was really tired, grumpy and couldn't wait to call it a day.

I clumsily opened the door too wide without moving out of the way. The door hit my arm. I held my hand up in an apologetic gesture towards the door and said, "Oh. Sorry."

Teenage Guidance 101

noreply@blogger.com (Mumbo Jumbo) — Wed, 04 Apr 2007 08:58:00 +0000

Ladies and gentlemen,

I give you the smart, the talented, the hilarious Crystal on how to outsmart your smart-ass teenager.

Watch and learn. She rocks!

When Being Right Is Wrong

noreply@blogger.com (Mumbo Jumbo) — Mon, 26 Mar 2007 12:17:00 +0000

Work Deadlines + PMS + Traffic from hell + Running Late =

Driving down Gameat El Dowal St. batkhanek m3a deban weshy (fighting wiz ze flies of my face)- there's no way to translate that except basically picking fights with anything that comes my way.

It seemed that all the morons in the country were in Gameat El Dowal that day driving or crossing the street and in my way. If my temper that day could take form, I would've looked something like Cruella DeVille with Don King hair.

I finally made it to the right turn after getting through what seemed to be an eternity and from 6th of October City to Mohandessin, when just when I was about to take the turn, Mr. Hyundai in front of me decides to stop. No flasher, no signal, no wave, nothing.

I wait for about a second, maybe he's dropping someone off. No one gets out. I honk my horn. Maybe he'll wave in apology and someone will get in. No one gets in.

Smoke was coming out of my ears long before I reached this turn, so, I hold my horn down in rage. He's holding the whole lane up.

Nothing.

I bypass him and find a zabet (police officer with the mental capacity of a humming bird) about a meter ahead. I really want the guy to get a ticket. I stop to complain.

Me: "Law sama7t, yaani yenf3a 7ad yewakaf el shar3a kolo keda? (Excuse me, but is it OK for someone to just hold the whole street up?"

Peanut Brain Police Officer: "la tab3an ya fandem. ma yenf3ash khales. (Of course not, not at all.)"

Me (gloating the way tattletales in KG do): "Mesh mafrood yet3akeb da?" (Shouldn't he be penalized or something? )

Him: "Ah tab3an ya fandem, bas el lewa mestany 7ad. hayerkab we yemshy 3la tool. (Of course he should. But the General is waiting for someone; once he gets in, he'll leave.)"

Ahh.. the land of kosa (big-shot gets his way, even if it means stepping all over everyone else). How could I forget?

At this point, I shake off the impulse to remake Michael Douglas's movie Falling Down and take things into my own hands. I hold my breath, nod and drive off.

I guess we'll see who screwed who at my next license renewal when I have to pay off my next lot of tickets.

...and my Mommy told me it serves me right! :(

An Artist's Inspiration

noreply@blogger.com (Mumbo Jumbo) — Fri, 09 Mar 2007 10:08:00 +0000

These pieces were displayed in Sequoia.

Hey, I didn't say anything. Get your mind out of the gutter!
El artist t3aban (or t3abana) awi.

Silence Is Golden

noreply@blogger.com (Mumbo Jumbo) — Wed, 07 Mar 2007 10:51:00 +0000

I’m never going to a 3za again. (A 3za is the Egyptian traditional funeral where friends and family come to pay condolences to their immediate family).

What happens is I go dressed in black, say “El baqa’a lellah” (Eternity is for God- it basically means that nothing is eternal, except for God, and that is our destiny).

At these things, usually people start chatting with each other and you always end up finding out that you know the person’s relatives or friends or friends of friends.

You end up exchanging stories of things you may have in common and how you all know each other. Eventually when it comes time for me to leave, I want to tell the people I have newly met that it was nice to meet them. You can’t always say it in English; sometimes people think you’re being cocky. So I blurt out, without thinking too much of the meaning-, “forsa sa3eeda”.

This is the second time I have gone to a 3za and left saying, “Forsa sa3eeda.”!!!! (It literally means “This was a good opportunity to meet you.”) I can never think of something that comes out smoothly meaning plain “Nice meeting you.”

Then I hear myself say it and want to shoot myself.

It’s basically like saying, “It’s a good thing he died because we got a chance to meet.” Please someone shoot me. That’s not even mentioning WHO I said it to.

I should walk around with a manual of situations and what you’re “supposed” to say in them.

Calling Egypeter

noreply@blogger.com (Mumbo Jumbo) — Wed, 14 Feb 2007 13:32:00 +0000

Enta fein ya ragel? Long time no (hear).
Everything OK with you?

Things You Don't Know About Me

noreply@blogger.com (Mumbo Jumbo) — Wed, 14 Feb 2007 11:23:00 +0000

Tagged by Alluring.
They were supposed to be 5 but I got carried away. ;)

1. I have absolutely no interest in chocolate or any sweets for that matter. Walking down the candy aisle in the supermarket doesn't move me. Pickles, however, are a different story. ;)

2. I look much younger than I actually am. When I wear my hair in a pony tail and wear no makeup, I can easily pass for a teenager. I get a lot of "Enti fi sana kam ya habibti? (What grade are you in, sweetie?)
My husband hates it because it makes him look like a pedophile.

3. My deepest fear is for my son to ever get into drugs. I've lost so many people I've known to drugs (both physically and mentally).

4. I think Sharm El Sheikh is heaven on earth.

5. I'm prejudiced against veiled people. I can't help it. My mind automatically paints a negative image.

6. I have never understood advanced math like Calculus. God knows how I ever passed it. My mind was always more artistically-inclined than scientifically.

7. I once beat up a guy when I was 11. He made fun of me so I punched him in the nose. He punched me back. He almost broke my nose.

8. I have really small feet. (I wear size 4.5 US size and 35 Egyptian size.) Sometimes I have to buy shoes that are slightly bigger than my feet out of finding no other choice.

9. I dream of travelling on my own (or with my husband alone) again to Europe, the Far East, Australia (without a kid- the really far distances would be really hard on a 3 year old.)

10. I'm afraid to watch horror films. I can't sleep for days if I do and I become a big baby.

11. I have a terrible fear of heights. I actually get dizzy and nauseaus.

I'm gonna shutup now.

I tag Sukie, Usual Suspect, Seneferu (where is your blog?), Halal Hippie. and I know Forsoothsayer and Carmen have already been tagged. So we're waiting for yours, OK?

Winter Butt Plea

noreply@blogger.com (Mumbo Jumbo) — Sun, 11 Feb 2007 17:38:00 +0000

Each winter, my ass decides to get a mind of its own and to double in size. (OK, I'm exaggerating, but it does get bigger!)

I lust over hot chocolate, soup and anything else that's rich and creamy and drips calories.

God damn those hip-hugging, low-waist jeans and pants! When will they go back to making regular-waist jeans?!! I cannot find a single pair of stylish pants that don't leave half your ass and butt-crack hanging out! I mean does the world need to know whether each person is wearing granny panties or a thong and the color of them?

I have the shopping bug and I'm just itching to go splurging on shopping but I can't get my winter butt into these eensy weensy pants that are everywhere!

For the sake of my winter butt, someone get me a pair of normal pants!

Uff!

Fade Away

noreply@blogger.com (Mumbo Jumbo) — Thu, 08 Feb 2007 11:27:00 +0000

I promised myself it wouldn’t hurt. I promised myself it wouldn’t bother me. I promised myself it was too late and too much had happened to begin hurting. But I was wrong.

I can’t believe I’m actually crying. I thought I had gone numb over it permanently. It had been clear for a long time now. I was just in denial. Strange. Carmen wrote a post about this recently. The same thing. I read it and thought that I didn’t go through the same stages she spoke about but I was just shoving it aside, blocking it out. Until today. That was the last straw.

It’s over.

I have this uncontrollable urge to call her up and lash out at her. Bring up the past, bring up every single thing. It wasn’t what she did, it was what she didn’t do. How could you go from being soulmates and understanding every unspoken word, feeling every suppressed emotion, to bland nothingness? How could you go from years of spending every single minute together and practically residing at each others’ houses to this eerie void?

I want to throw up. Literally. I feel sick to my stomach, the kind of sick that you get if you’ve just been dumped by a boyfriend or rejected by a crush.

I reacted very passive aggressive today. I dropped a hint to show I was annoyed but I did not directly confront her. Why? I’m very straight-forward usually.
I know why. What good would it do?

Would it make amends? Don’t think so.
Would it bring things back to the way they used to be? Never.
Would it fill in the gaps from things un-said and un-done? Impossible.
Would I be even willing to try after that? No.

It wouldn’t be the same.

What would’ve happened?
She would’ve put me on a guilt trip, blaming me for loading this on her after all she is already going through and how ‘miserable’ she is. She would’ve turned the table on me and made it all seem that it was me who was not there, who did not do, who did not say…
She would’ve had a nervous breakdown following the confrontation and I would feel like shit.

Whatever is bad now would become hideous. Whatever is left of our now insipid friendship turned bitter, spiteful and ugly. Too many people would get involved. Too many people would not understand. Too many people will talk too much about something with so little to do about it. Too many people will make too much of something that is beyond repair.

I believe that anyone who wants to do something, can. Anyone who wanted to be there, anyone wanted to see someone.

Since when did my down-to-earth, simple, free spirit friend become one of them? Since when do we care about Yves Saint-Laurent bags that cost $3,500! Bite me. For the love of God, there are people starving.

Since when do we care about seeing and being seen? Since when do we care about what ‘they’ say? Since when do we judge people? Since when is a person deemed ‘good enough’ by a quick up and down evaluation? Since when can we not attend a wedding if our dress is no less than an Escada? Since when do we name drop?

I guess there is no more ‘we’.

She now lives in a world which I despise, a phony world with phony pleasures and phony friendships. A shallow world based on fraud. I find no appeal in this, I feel no desire to be part of it. On the contrary, it repulses me.

I’ve lived a life a lot of them would never dream of living, spiritually and materialistically, but I am humble enough not to brag about it or walk around flaunting it. It does not make me who I am. It does not put value or worthiness to me. No one will stand at your grave and say, “Allah yer7amha. She had some nice diamond rings.”

Money comes and goes. People don’t.

I keep picking up the phone, feeling the adrenaline run through my veins, then thinking, “What is my goal?”, and putting the phone back down again.

She’s ruined my day. I cannot function and I cannot get my work done. Just when I was thinking, “30 is such a comfortable age. You no longer worry about what people think. You no longer feel the need to win acceptance or belonging.” There is this comfort with one’s self that comes with being 30, sense of self-loving and self-acceptance. A sense of fulfillment that comes from within, from no longer caring what other people think, do and say.

Today, I feel 20- in the sense of the emotional roller coaster, the hurt, the drastic and devastating let-downs.

Today is the day I will have to face it. Today is the day our friendship died.

Was' Up

noreply@blogger.com (Mumbo Jumbo) — Sun, 28 Jan 2007 18:02:00 +0000

Why I Love Working From Home

noreply@blogger.com (Mumbo Jumbo) — Tue, 16 Jan 2007 12:20:00 +0000

I can wear my pajamas even when I’m at “work”.
I can wear my fuzzy animal slippers all day.
I have a cat for a colleague. (I’ve always thought animals are better than humans.)
My other colleague is a dog.
Colleague number 1 likes to sit on my lap or laptop and purr as I try to type.
I have meetings at coffee shops over nice hot cappuccino.
I can work whenever I feel like it, morning, day or night.
I can not work whenever I feel like it.
I can decide to go jogging whenever the hell I feel like it. (Awesome on sunny winter days)
I don’t have to worry about driving in traffic from hell or trying to find a parking spot.
I can have conference calls while plucking my eyebrows (or picking my nose for that matter)
I don’t have to wear the constricting piece of clothing which is better known as a bra all day.
I can freely give the finger to my computer screen, something of instant gratification and satisfaction over containing myself from an uncontrollable urge to curse at or punch my boss in the face.
If there’s a fart smell in the room, I know who did it.
I can work in my lingerie or skimpy nightgowns in the summertime.
My boss trusts me blindly and does not ask what I am doing or when I am going to do it. He knows it’s going to get done.
I get to do things that only unemployed people can do, like meeting up for breakfast or shopping with a friend.
I can work 12 hours one day and 0 the next.
I don’t have to listen to shitty French music my ex-boss used to torture us in the office with all day.
I can attend and participate in functions or special days at my son’s nursery.
I can care for my son when he is home sick.
I can take personal calls without worrying about which eve’s dropper is silently listening in.
I can actually get more done without the interruptions of office discussions on sex, guys, mascara, our ex-bitch boss and unfulfilled schemes of revenge on our her, and other office gossip.
I can ditch work to play fetch with my dog.
I like to see the look on the faces of the stay-at-home moms who don’t work when they find out that I work from home. (It seems to intimidate them.) *Dr. Evil laugh*
I don’t have to drink gross coffee-machine coffee that tastes like the remains of brown mop water in a bucket.

That’s just to name a few.

Coincidence?

noreply@blogger.com (Mumbo Jumbo) — Wed, 27 Dec 2006 15:42:00 +0000

Since I cannot decide whether I ever want a 2nd child, or how soon or late there might ever be one, I have decided to socialize my son as much as I can, by arranging play-dates with his the mommies of the children he likes best from the nursery.

I’m making it a point that at least once a week, he can have someone over, go over someone’s house, or make plans with someone else for us to take them to an amusement park, etc.

One of the Mommies I have been doing with this recently is an American woman married to an Egyptian man. I really like the woman and I am one of the only people she finds she can relate to, so she is especially excited about this idea.

Her house is still incomplete and she says things are pretty much upside down. So every time we make plans, she wants to bring her kids over to our house. I don’t really mind since we have a garden and the kids can play outside.

I have come to a very disturbing conclusion about hanging out with this woman though.
Every time she comes over, after she leaves, my husband and I get into a huge fight and end up on the verge of divorce. This is very strange considering that my husband and I get along great.

Judge for yourself and tell me: Coincidence?

From the minute she comes over, it’s “Wow, you have that? Wow, you’ve traveled there?; Wow, your son has that toy?; Wow, you’re so thin.; Wow, you’re such a good Mom.” You get the picture…until it becomes kind of creepy and weird.

My husband later calls and I’m like, “Hi habibi. How’s your day? Talk to you later. Love you, Bye.” …

Then the kids play, we talk, they go home after a few hours.

After she leaves, I get a phone call from my husband… the conversation always takes some strange turn and *KABOOM*, we get into a huge fight. We hang up abruptly. We talk later, we fight some more. He comes home later, we get into an even bigger fight and suddenly we’re talking divorce.

This has happened a few times.

I’m not superstitious, but el 7asad mazkour fil Quran. So you tell me: 7asad or coincidence?

More On My Threenager

noreply@blogger.com (Mumbo Jumbo) — Tue, 05 Dec 2006 14:49:00 +0000

Three going on Thirteen, I swear.

My son would not wear a jacket this morning and it was cold. So, I was trying to explain to him the concept of winter and how we wear a jacket in the winter. I told him, "We're in winter now. We have to wear a jacket because it's cold outside."

The little bugger gave me a face and replied with attitude, "We're not in winter. We're in the house."

-----------
I usually turn into a raging maniac when I'm driving from all the idiots around me. I didn't realize how much I curse when I drive until a truck cut me off today and I started waving my arm at him. Before I said anything, my son asked me, "Howa 7ayawan ya Mommy?"

I really have to start watching my mouth.

Oops! I Did It Again!

noreply@blogger.com (Mumbo Jumbo) — Tue, 05 Dec 2006 13:51:00 +0000

Yesterday, I had the pleasure of renewing my license with the ever so cooperative Morour (Traffic Department). I'll spare you the gory details of what that entails.

When I speak Arabic, I mix in English words for the words which I do not know or am not sure of in Arabic, as do a lot of people. My spoken Arabic is almost perfect, (at least in MY opinion) even though a lot of my friends STILL make fun of me. The problem comes when I have to speak Arabic with no English substitution and maybe fill out a form in Arabic, as I did fil morour.

My reading skills are that of a retarded 9 year old and my even worse writing skills are those of a 3 year old. My handwriting always looks like I'm left-handed trying to write with my right hand.

One of the steps of the entire procedure for renewing a car license is to pay any traffic or speeding tickets that you owe. My husband had gone a few days earlier and paid my traffic tickets in advance to save time. When I first arrived, I didn't know where to go from there. There was so much chaos around with people moping around doing absolutely nothing, to people running around looking lost, to people screaming at the top of their lungs at each other.

So I found a police officer and asked him, "law sama7t ana daf3at el tazaker khalas, 3emel eh delwakty? (Excuse me, I've already paid off my tickets; what do I do now?)"

He said, "Tazaker? Tazaker eh?" Neither of us were getting anywhere after that. So he explained the entire procedure to me from a-z mentioning, "...we b3adein betroo7y tedf3ay el mokhalfat...". Oops. Mokhalfat. That was the word I was looking for.

After a couple of hours of being sent from the an office outside the traffic department, to the office on the 2nd floor, to the office on the ground floor, to the office on the first floor, etc, etc. all because the envious government eployees want to enslave your lazy rich ass a little, I was already dizzy with all the sending me back and forth. Trying to keep my poise, I walked up to the cashier window to pay. I said in my most sophisticated voice, trying to sound very Arabically confident amidst the Egyptian governmental employees, "3ayza adf3a el dareebat men fadlak." The guy cracked a smile and said, "Dareebat? aahh..."

Oops again... I realized when he repeated it that it must've sounded funny so I quickly coughed as if I had choked, "ahem... darayeb. 3yza adf3a darayeb." That's what happens when I get tired, my Arabic becomes drunk. Oh well.

I did save myself one embarassing moment though. I was asked to fill out this huge form in Arabic. I couldn't even understand half the things requested, so I told the woman, "Bas ana mesh m3aya nadara. (But I don't have my glasses with me)". A little secret: I don't wear glasses :P. She said, "Tab khalas, ekteby bas esmek. (OK, just write your name)" Phew!

Corruption pays sometimes! :)

Mr. Bean Meets Animal Rescue

noreply@blogger.com (Mumbo Jumbo) — Fri, 01 Dec 2006 21:06:00 +0000

About every couple of months, I have my very own episode of Animal Rescue, except usually, it’s more like Mr. Bean Meets Animal Rescue because of the way things always take some goofy, unplanned twist.

Since nobody in Egypt gives a rat’s ass about animals in general, I have taken it upon myself to rescue and nurture animals (specifically cats) who have been injured, or need help.

I was once on the way to a meeting with my boss, on the way, while I was driving on the highway, I noticed a kitten crossing the street frantically. As she crossed, the car in front of me ran hit her. She flung in the air, landed and hopped back and forth hysterically, obviously in pain and not knowing where to go. Eventually, she managed to run across the road.

Without thinking, I pulled over at the side of the road in a lane where there was a tractor blocking it from traffic, got out of the car and went searching for her. There I was in a business suit and heels, heel-deep in dirt towards where she ran, walking around going, “psss psss psss”.

The construction workers nearby, of course, got a kick out of this. The only thing I could think of was to see whether she was alive, how bad she was hit and then to see if I could take her to the vet. I finally found her. She appeared completely fine from the outside, there was no blood visible. I was afraid that she may have broken bones or internal bleeding, so I decided to grab her, put her in the car and take her to the vet.

I slowly approached her, tried to pet her, of course in her frantic state, she would not allow it. I finally grabbed her from her sides and holy shit, did she resist! She was twisting and turning like a worm on acid! I finally got a good grip on her and ran to the car, opened the door and threw her in the back seat.

Now there was only one small problem. The meeting. Woops. I figured a life or death matter is more important than a measly business meeting. I called my boss, told him I have something urgent that came up and that I would explain later and to delay the meeting one hour.

My vet doesn’t have morning clinic hours, so I decided to take her home, leave her in the spare bathroom so she doesn’t fight with my cat, leave her food, water, etc and take her to the clinic in the afternoon.

I got home, went and got my cat’s kennel, opened the car door, now if I could only get a hold of the cat. She went ballistic inside my car! She swung and she swiped. She scratched me about a dozen times, until she finally bit down through my nail so hard that she pierced it. I finally got her in the kennel, took her home and left her in the kennel with food and water so I would be able to get her to the vet later. I washed and disinfected my hands. My finger started swelling so much that it started to look like I got bit by a vampire!

I called my vet who has saved my number from the amount of times she is used to getting calls over the period I’ve known her over injured cats or injured me from injured cats. I took an appointment for the evening.

When we go to the vet, we opened the kennel so the doctor could check her out and she kept flinging across the room like a bat out of hell! It took four people and two shots of anesthesia to pin her down. It turns out, the poor thing survived without internal injury but had a completely shattered hind leg. It was shattered at the joints which supposedly could not heal and she would walk around dragging it permanently.

Not only this, but from the way her extremely aggressive behavior was, the vet said she could not rule out rabies. She said I should not keep this cat until she has healed and that I should go get rabies shots immediately. I was flabbergasted.

Since she had 2 shots of anesthesia, there was no way I was going to let her go out on the street and fend for herself drugged and with a shattered leg. I decided to keep her in the spare bathroom for a couple of days isolated until she gets a bit better.

I then headed to the hospital. I went to the ER to have someone have a quick look at my hand and to ask for a rabies test, if there was one. They prescribed the name of the seven-course rabies shots I should take and off I went to the pharmacy. I spent the whole drive thinking, ‘Shit, this is what I get for trying to save a fucking cat’s life. Risking my own fucking life. Great, fucking great.’

I walked in and to my luck, the pharmacy was packed with people. The pharmacist asked me what I need and I handed him the prescription in silence to spare myself the humiliation of saying out loud, “ I need rabies shots.”

He asked me in a very loud voice over the chatter in the pharmacy, “Enti 3yza tat3eem rabies? (Do you want rabies shots?)” The room went silent. Everyone looked at me and took one step away from me as if I was a fucking drooling rabid dog! I nodded in silence.

He asked again, “Leh? Howa kalb 3dek wala eh? (Did a dog bite you or what?)” Everyone was waiting for my reply. Not wanting to prolong this moment any longer with any details, I said , “Ah. (Yes).”

He told me to go in the back where another pharmacist would give me the first shot and instruct me on when and how to take the other six. While I was going to the back, I heard him say to the pharmacist giving me the shot, “Khaly balak la te3odak. (Be careful, she might bite you.)” I just wanted to get out of this mortifying situation, and I was so consumed with the possibility that I might actually have rabies which I had read is a sure killer, so I let it go. Looking back, I should've turned around and barked at him.

That story is now history and I can assure you, I am neither drooling, nor do I bite, but today, I have been pissed on twice, my finger is swollen and maybe bit down to the bone this time, from today’s episode of Mr. Bean Meets Animal Rescue. Today’s cat, however, is safe and sound.

Things My Three Year-Old Said

noreply@blogger.com (Mumbo Jumbo) — Wed, 29 Nov 2006 08:50:00 +0000

One thing my son loves is to sleep in between my husband and I in our bed.

Last night, I read him a bedtime story, as I always do, and tucked him in his bed. I heard him whisper while covering his mouth, with a cheeky grin on his face in a childish 'na-na-na-na-na' teasing tone, "Ana h3a-mel pi-pi 3la naaa-fsi ashan sireeeeri yet-bal we agi anam fi sereeeerek!" (I'm gonna wet my bed tonight, so I get to sleep in your bed!)

A few days ago, after I picked him up from the nursery, we arrived home and I was preparing his lunch. Since he would rather starve than be interrupted from playing to eat, he said, "Ana mesh 3yez akol ya Mommy. Ana Sayem." (I don't wanna eat, Mommy. I'm fasting.)
Where and when he heard and stored that in his memory, God knows!

When my cousin's son was only 2, they were once in a supermarket. He saw a very pregnant woman and kept staring at her belly. His Mom said to him, "There's a baby in there."
He hollared in terror, "SHE ATE A WHOLE BABY?"

My Venture into a Male Fantasy: The Turkish Bath

noreply@blogger.com (Mumbo Jumbo) — Tue, 21 Nov 2006 16:20:00 +0000

I went to visit Turkey this summer a few months back. It really amazed me to be able to literally see East Meets West before your very eyes. I’m not talking about the fake East Meets West- as in the AUCans who have been born and raised in Egypt but have fooled themselves into believing they’re in California; I’m talking about genuine East Meets West.

There’s a charm in Turkey, where you feel like you’re in Europe, but kind of like with an Oriental theme- the architecture, the mosques all around, the restaurants, etc. There’s a broad spectrum of people, from the conservative veiled Muslims who actually look very Palestinian, to the free thinking, liberal European lifestyle, who are mainly Muslims also, but have the best of both worlds. (With all due respect to conservative Muslims- I’m not mocking one and praising the other).

I long to live in an Egypt that would ever come remotely close to Istanbul. The best thing about it is that everyone seemed to live in peace and harmony together and letting each other be. Everyone minds his own business and his own religion- and THAT is ultimate.

One thing that did surprise me though is how un-Turkish the Turkish look! All my life, I’ve been told that the reason a lot of my family and I have white skin and blonde hair is because my Grandma (my Dad’s Mom) is Turkish and my other Grandma (my Mom’s Mom) is half Turkish. To my surprise, I found that the Turkish mainly look very Arab. Sort of a mix between Palestinians and Iranians- that type of look. Not that I care, but I was just expecting something else. When I spoke to my Dad about this later, he said it’s because of all the mixing of the Turks with the Arab countries around them, they’ve become very middle-eastern looking versus the older more European features. It just made Turkey all the more fascinating to me.

When you visit a country, in order to fully experience it, you have to experience everything you can about it. The food, the museums, the late night pubs, the music, the streets, chatting up the people, etc. When in Rome, you do as the Romans do; and when you’re in Turkey, you have a Turkish Bath.

We headed for one of the most reputable Turkish Baths and was said to be one of the cleanest. My son was with us. Knowing that were going to be somewhat naked people inside, we decided that it was best not to feed my son’s fascination. (An update on the little pervert I am raising later. ) My husband would take him with him to the men’s section and I was to go to the women’s alone.

Let me take you on a virtual tour.

Step inside, you find signed pictures of celebrities who have been there before (Cameron Diaz, Cindy Crawford). They proudly engraved on the marble floor at their entrance, that this Turkish Bath was rated in Time Magazine’s Top 100 Places To See Before You Die.
At the main entrance, you are received by this giant usher whose expression reads “Don’t fuck with me and don’t waste my fucking time.” You choose which type of massage you would like and go inside. I opt for the entire service, the works.

At the hallway of the women’s section, you are greeted by a questionable young lady, with what sounds like a Russian accent but is actually Turkish and looks like she’s here to offer range of sexual services, but is rather a receptionist. She hands you the key to your locker room and a towel with an elastic to cover yourself, taken from a stack of folded towels. The cleanliness of the towel brings suspicion, but she swears it’s because they just came out of the dryer.

You enter your locker room, each has a bed for God knows what purpose, with wooden clogs placed below the bed for use at the Bath. I put on the towel, the clogs and walk outside. I preferred to have a shower before the whole thing to freshen up and so I did.

I then enter the actual Turkish Bath. It was kind of surreal because it felt like a movie set in the Middle Ages. The place is a big dome with marble walls and marble heated floors. Everything is humid and smells clammy… a rather unpleasant initial impression. There’s a sunroof at the top of the dome which let in a dim light which somehow reminded me of my Grandmother’s house. I felt a sense of sweet nostalgia. The actual place itself is like a giant circle with the water taps all around the edge of the circle which seem to flow endlessly like waterfalls. Water is running everywhere and it is pretty slippery. At the center, the floor is like a platform, slightly elevated above the rest and this is where the actual scrubbing and massage takes place.

The place is filled with naked women of all walks of life. All nationalities: Spanish, Chinese, German, British, American. All sizes and shapes: fat, short, tall, hairy, ugly, beautiful. They all have one thing in common. They are all naked.

There are women everywhere getting wet, being scrubbed, massaged and just relaxing around naked.

I felt like I had walked into a guy’s mind and became part of his horny fantasy.

I am approached by this butch of a woman. She looked about 50 years old and was kind of rectangular shaped. She had a slight mustache and was short and stubby with no curves and was wearing a one-piece bathing suit.

She signals at me to take my towel off and instructs me in broken English to go and sit under the faucet until it is my turn.

I’m not uncomfortable about my body but to have to sit around with a bunch of other naked women sitting around staring at each other unnerved me. I felt like a harem in the Haramlek on display for some powerful medieval tyrant to choose one of us concubines for his sexual leisure.

I then sat under the faucet and let the water run over me like I was under a waterfall and it actually felt orgasmically good. I tried to avoid looking at the women around me so I stared at my toes for a while and after feeling like an immature idiot, I just decided to let go. I was surprised at how most of the other women were perfectly comfortable walking around with not a stitch on them. There was one woman who was so hairy, she could practically braid her pubes.

Pretty soon, I was called by my butch masseuse for my turn. She started to sweet talk me the way Egyptian taxi drivers do to show you how hard they are working to ensure they’re tip. I know that act all too well. She asked me if I was part of the Spanish tour group and insisted that I must be European. Turks don’t know the word “Egypt”. You have to say ‘Missir” for them to understand.

She started soaping me up, rinsing my body and then scrubbing the shit out of me and flipping me over like a hamburger. She finished off by giving me a quick massage. The whole four and a half minutes was ecstatic.

I had heard the Spanish group earlier choose the option with half the services which I chose and half the price, yet I did not see a single difference. I felt so revived though that it really didn’t matter. I was in too good a mood.

I headed back to the locker room, got dressed and went to meet up with my husband to exchange stories! It turns out the men’s side keep their towels on and is not half as seemingly sexual as the women’s side. I also found out that my son got the whole treatment, too! He loved it. Till today, he still asks for a ‘mashaj’.

Bottom line: The Turkish Bath? Strongly recommended. Certainly an experience.

You Know Your Cat Is Sleeping Around When...

noreply@blogger.com (Mumbo Jumbo) — Sun, 19 Nov 2006 12:42:00 +0000

You know your cat is sleeping around when she gives birth to puppies!

I might believe this because before my cat was spayed, when she was in heat, she would be practically jump my husband!

(I wonder if they're going to meow...)

Law Mo'akhza

noreply@blogger.com (Mumbo Jumbo) — Thu, 16 Nov 2006 15:01:00 +0000

‘Law Mo’akhza’ has always been a term that puzzled me. I just don’t get why it’s used when it’s used. ‘Law mo’akhza’ means ‘Excuse me’ or is the equivalent of the way Americans use ‘Excuse my French’, to excuse themselves for saying something that may be offensive.

Egyptians use it in the most odd ways.

Case in point:

I went to buy a pair of earrings and it came down to three choices. So I decided to try the one I like best on. It wouldn’t go in. It was too thick. Then the salesman said to me, “Mesh rady yodkhol asl law mo’akhza el khorm bet3a 7adretek dayak.” (It won’t go in because, excuse me, your hole is too tight.)

Eww, eww, eww!

Now there’s nothing wrong with the fact that the earring wouldn’t fit into my earring hole, but to say ‘it won’t fit because your, excuse me, hole is too tight’??? How sick is that? He took a perfectly normal situation and made it sound so pornographic!

I mean, why ‘excuse me’? We’re not talking about sex here and to say ‘excuse me’ would be to imply that we are.

I suddenly felt stark naked in the shop and no longer felt any desire for any earrings. I crossed my arms to cover my chest, out of feeling invaded, thanked him and left.

It’s like Faten ‘law mo’akhza’ Hamama. Faten Hamama is a famous Egyptian actress. Her last name happens to translate into both ‘pigeon’ and ‘penis’, so they say Faten ‘excuse me’ Hamama. Why do they have to imply that we are talking about penises?

I mean, do men named Dick say ‘My name is, excuse me, Dick.’??!!

The electrician came to our house yesterday and as he walked in he said, “Bas law mo’akhza el gazma feeha teena.” (But my, excuse me, shoes are filthy), again, implying that shoes are dirty, therefore it is a dirty word and therefore, he should be excused for saying it. It just takes a perfectly normal situation and makes it sound twisted.

How messed up is that?

Ladies and Gentlemen, .... Yaya.

noreply@blogger.com (Mumbo Jumbo) — Mon, 09 Oct 2006 08:38:00 +0000

You have to watch this.

Listen to his descriptions of the movie stars!

Enough's Enough

noreply@blogger.com (Mumbo Jumbo) — Wed, 02 Aug 2006 18:01:00 +0000

As I lay my son to sleep this evening, I was overwhelmed with guilt.

I thought of all the mothers in Lebanon who have lost their children and will never be able to lay their children to sleep again. I thought of the children who lost their mothers and will never feel the warmth and security of their mothers’ arms again. I thought of all the families that no longer had homes or beds to lay in. The innocent people in Lebanon whose homes are in ruins, whose children have been massacred, whose fathers have been slain. The people who have had no say or no choice in this sick power-trip.

I thought of the children that lay in graves or hospital beds when they should be in schools or playgrounds. The mothers whose eyes should be filled with joy and pride, but have been filled with tears and sorrow instead. I thought of how their lives were raped from security. I thought of their futures that had been robbed. I thought of the families that had been torn apart.

I thought of the sick bastards that didn’t think twice about the innocent souls taken, the lives they did not hesitate to gamble with, their happiness that has now been irreversibly destroyed.

I hope that God has reserved a special place for them in hell to burn for eternity. Both Israel and Hezbollah. I cannot understand or accept any excuse that would justify any of this. We live in the age of technology, of advancement, of communication, yet people are being massacred. I cannot begin to comprehend any of this.

I wish the U. N. would stop talking about it and somehow forcefully, through threats, put a stop to this now.

I really want to donate money to the people who have lost their homes or need medical care, but I’m not sure how. I want to do it through someway that is guaranteed to be neither through the MB, nor going to Hezbollah. If anyone knows how, please let me know.

Has It Been Weaned?

noreply@blogger.com (Mumbo Jumbo) — Sat, 29 Jul 2006 12:01:00 +0000

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!