The Occasional Blogger

Yaya at Night of 100 Stars

2009-02-26T14:06:00.001+02:00

If only Chipsy knew....

2008-03-11T13:58:00.004+02:00

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

2008-02-27T09:56:00.002+02:00

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....

2007-04-04T11:04:00.000+02:00

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

2007-04-04T10:58:00.000+02:00

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

2007-03-26T14:17:00.000+02:00

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

2007-03-09T12:08:00.000+02:00

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

2007-03-07T12:51:00.000+02:00

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

2007-02-14T15:32:00.000+02:00

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

Things You Don't Know About Me

2007-02-14T13:23:00.000+02:00

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

2007-02-11T19:38:00.000+02:00

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

2007-02-08T13:27:00.000+02:00

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

2007-01-28T20:02:00.001+02:00

Why I Love Working From Home

2007-01-16T14:20:00.000+02:00

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?

2006-12-27T17:42:00.000+02:00

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

2006-12-05T16:49:00.000+02:00

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!

2006-12-05T15:51:00.000+02:00

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

2006-12-01T23:06:00.000+02:00

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

2006-11-29T10:50:00.000+02:00

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

2006-11-21T18:20:00.000+02:00

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...

2006-11-19T14:42:00.000+02:00

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

2006-11-16T17:01:00.000+02:00

‘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.

2006-10-09T10:38:00.000+02:00

You have to watch this.

Listen to his descriptions of the movie stars!

Enough's Enough

2006-08-02T21:01:00.000+03:00

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?

2006-07-29T15:01:00.000+03:00

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

2006-07-22T06:49:00.000+03:00

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

2006-07-15T11:19:00.000+03:00

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

2006-07-13T18:41:00.000+03:00

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.

Final Countdown: 1 Day Till Vacation

2006-06-15T20:14:00.000+03:00

My vacation may start on Saturday, since we are actually travelling on Saturday, but as far as I'm concerned, my vacation starts right now.

I cannot stop thinking about the beach, the water, the sand under my feet, the happiness in my son and my dog's eyes when they are in the water.

To top off my euphoria, there's an awesome breeze outside, very unlikely at this time of year. Strangely enough it's so cool that we haven't needed the air conditioners on in the evenings or during the night.

It's all adding to the state of dreaminess I'm in. Very much needed. It's been a really hard two weeks. That's why I haven't been blogging. I was very depressed the past two weeks. The pain, the heavy medications, the feeling of helplessness from not being able to do things by myself, needing help... it really got to me. The beach is going to get me out of this!!

I just hope the three dogs that started to, but did not quite, attack my dog last year will not be there- but that's a long story, definitely one I will post someday.

I cannot wait. Ahhh... summer is here. I wish it were summer all year long. :) I'm still the same 2 year old playing in the sand and in the water that I was 28 years ago!

Bullshit

2006-06-06T12:52:00.001+03:00

OK, since it seems that wearing a neck brace is the equivalent of having a sign on my forehead saying, “Seeking Free Unsolicited Advice”. Every Tom, Dick and Harry seem to think it is their duty, not to mention right, to have a say.

I have decided to share with you a few pieces of advice I have received, so that your dull minds may be enlightened along with mine:

At the nursery: “Your son threw up because he’s not wearing an undershirt.”
Mind you: the temperature outside is over 38 degrees.

“You got a herniated disk because you like to do everything perfectly and you get stressed out and so this made your muscles spasm and wel 3asab tebooz.”
Yeah, ah-uh.

“The best thing to do when you get an attack is to exercise as much as you can to fight it out of your system.”
Mmhhm… that sounds perfectly sensible when you cannot move a single neck muscle and when your doctor just advised you not to move try moving it.

The physiotherapist describing to me what he’s doing:
“Da beykhaly el spinal chord t3amel colibitis m3a el gingivitis fil colitis. we el 3asab b3amelaha sconipopis el beyshaghal el jocobis ashan oshtimovis.”
Me: “Duh….., yeah, I got ‘spinal chord’, yeah….”

Overheard in the street from an idiot to an idiot (being serious):
“She’s wearing a neck brace because she’s probably afraid of sweating from the heat and catching a cold. (khayfa tokhrog fil hawa we t3araq we tebrad.)”

The best one of all I’ve heard all week is this story:
I received a phone call from someone who wants me to go see a ‘pain doctor’, also unwanted, un-asked for advice.

Her: There’s this famous Egyptian doctor coming from the States and his specialty is healing pain and stopping the causes of it.
Me: No, thanks.
Her: Why don’t you go see him?
Me: Because I’m already following one doctor’s orders and I’d like to see that through.
Her: Why? Everyone says he’s excellent.
Me: Who’s everyone?
Her: Everyone. All the famous doctors in Egypt go to him to learn from him.
Me: Yeah, who?
Her: Listen, just come meet him. I went to see him for my herniated disk and I’ve never been in pain since.
Me: You have a completely different case than me. Your last doctor told you it wasn’t a herniated disk.
Her: Yeah, but still, I’m so much better. He’s also so religious and has so much faith in God. He was telling me about a patient of his in the States who had a herniated disk and he kept treating her but eventually she committed suicide.
Me: Why?
Her: Because she wasn’t a Muslim and had no faith.
Here we go…..
Me: What the hell does not being a Muslim have anything to do with that?
Her: You see, the doctor told me that because we are Muslims, we have faith and we endure what God bestows on us. Because she had no faith, she couldn’t take it and killed herself.
Me: Are you kidding me? Of course she didn’t kill herself because she was a non-Muslim with a herniated disk, if she killed herself, it’s because she had psychological issues-obviously… and what the hell does he know, just because she was his patient for one thing, does not make it the reason of her suicide. How shallow is that?
Her: Of course it does. We are Muslims. We have faith in God.
Me: Besides, no one kills their self over a herniated disk. Comeon. That’s totally besides the point.

We go on and on in circles for what seems to be an eternity, getting nowhere… until I use my son as an alibi to get away from the phone. Geez!!!

"Hagass"

2006-06-03T15:29:00.000+03:00

Last night, I was with my husband in the car and we stopped at a Mobil station for gas. While the tank was being filled up, of course, the windshield was quickly attacked by one of those guys with a dirty rag and Windex squirting away, only making the clean windshield look streaky and gray.

My husband noticed the big advertising banner posted on the adjacent On the Run. It said in Arabic, "Mosabket A7san 3meel.... (The Best Customer Competition)". To kill time, he asked the guy 'cleaning' the window: "Howa eh el mosabka di? (What is this competition?)"

The guy, with disgust on his face, very honestly replied, "Hagass. (Crock)"

I was almost on the floor laughing because it was the last thing I expected to hear. He made such a mark in my head that I took his picture. I respect this guy.

Yesterday

2006-06-01T21:58:00.000+03:00

Yesterday was one of the worst days of my life. I don’t mean that figuratively.

I’ve been having weird neck pains for the past couple of months, and I had gone to see my doctor a while ago and he prescribed some medicines for me, asked me to wear a neck brace, presuming that it was just a strained muscle or something, but it just wasn’t getting better.

Over the course of the past week, I have been waking up every other day unable to move my neck. I was also getting these funny spasms and sensation in my neck as if a worm was wiggling under my skin. Deep down, I knew what it was.

I went to the doctor again and he asked for an MRI. I had the MRI done and returned to my doctor with the results. I was not ready for what I was about to hear. For the first time in my life, I felt truly scared. I have never felt so threatened before.

He looked at the MRI pictures and his expression changed from relaxed to apprehensive to furious. He told me that I have 3 new herniated disks in my cervical spine (neck), one of which is extremely serious and bulging out of place, even more serious than the one in my lower back.

I’ve mentioned previously that I have a herniated disk in my lower (lumbar) spine. Well, unless I’m having an attack and am in a lot of pain, I usually think nothing of it. When the attacks do come, inflammation occurs which leads the herniated disk to protrude and hit the nerves which run through my left leg, which feels like electricity is running down my leg, also causing numbness and a hell of a lot of pain. I then have to spend 6 weeks lying flat on my back in pure pain. I cannot even explain it. It is unbearable.

He told me that I have a genetic disorder which causes the material within my vertebras (a gel-like substance which asks as a shock absorber to be able to handle impact, body weight and movement) is very weak and will keep deteriorating irreversibly. This gel in my body is not tolerant and ends up piercing through and leaking, pushing on the nerves

I asked him what that meant. I said, “What are you saying? Does this mean I’m going to be crippled before I’m 50 or something?”, of course sarcastically, expecting nothing remotely close and waiting for him to say ‘but, the bright side is…’. He didn’t.

His exact words were, “No. You will just be miserable.”

I was speechless. I actually felt like I was going to burst out and cry like a baby right there in front of him. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful to God or anything, but I felt like he was telling me I had cancer.

He did not stop at that. He really gave it to me, almost blaming me. He asked me why I came to his clinic without wearing the neck brace he asked me to wear. I told him I didn’t know I had to wear it all day long, even when I was out.

He said, “Of course you do, you have to wear it even when you are sleeping. Do you think this is some sort of joke? Do you realize how serious this is? Do you realize that you are in the beginning of an attack, one who if you do not do exactly as I tell you to do, could lead you to be in the operating room in two weeks? Do you want to know what that means? It means I will have to open the side of your neck, operate on your spinal cord, which could or could not fix things, with a rehab period of 6 months to follow. If you keep insisting on skipping what you see as inconvenient like you did with your lower herniated disk, like skipping physiotherapy because you cannot squeeze it into your schedule, or lifting heavy things because you cannot get someone else to lift them for you or not doing your daily exercises, your neck will get much worse on this rate, you will not be able to move your arms and I will have to operate. Do you know what this MRI says? Do you get it now?”

I was speechless. I tried to say, “…but I don’t skip what you tell me to do”. I felt like a student in detention.

He interrupted me saying, “Yes, you did.”, and recounted them for me all over again, one by one, as if I my actions had been recorded and I was now being interrogated over them and held accountable.

I have never, ever seen him so fuming. He didn’t have to be so hard on me with the combination of the news. He could have just told me the facts. I think he was giving me a wake-up call. Maybe I was being very reckless about it, something my family and friends also cannot stop rubbing in my nose by adding insult to injury (literally).

I sat there with my mouth open, unable to think any more. I kept hearing, “No. You will be miserable. No. You will be miserable. No. You will be miserable.”, playing over and over in my head as if I was in one of those dreams where something is chasing you and you freeze and cannot run or scream.

A degenerative hereditary disease which will irreversibly get worse? I decided now was not the right time to mention the other new pain in my mid-back where I am also feeling new electricity jolts. I knew what it was. Another disk. I’m not ready to face that. Four disks are more than enough to have to absorb for now.

I am 30 years old. 30. Not 70. I love life. I love the outdoors, I love traveling, I love living. What did this mean? Four (probably five) protruding disks, 2 of which are serious? It will keep getting irreversibly worse? Ha? What will happen to my spine when I’m 40? Will my son have a crippled mother who cannot participate in his life and will live life in the passenger seat? God, no, please.

What can I say? Elhamdolelah it’s not cancer.

To whoever reads this, sorry, I don't mean to sound like Amina Rizk (nakad). I'm just still in shock and everyone is acting as if I'm so reckless that I'm going bungy jumping everyday or something. (Family and friends.)... as if it's my fault. Mesh naksahom.

PMS: Paranoid Malicious Syndrome

2006-05-30T23:20:00.000+03:00

To all men out there, married and unmarried:

There will be times when you will find the women in your lives snappy, irrational, paranoid, fight-picking and just flat-out bitchy. The answer is PMS. It is at those times when you must submit and, if possible, flee!

Do not try to make reason out of it; do not try to talk sense into them; do not try to ‘solve’ whatever emotional problem they may blame it on.

Whatever you say or do can and will be held against you. It is a lose/lose situation.

You can’t blame us. It’s really not our fault. You would be psychotic too, if your hormones were all over the place. Top that off with cramps, a headache, bloating, and extreme mood swings- you’ll end up with Dr. Jekyl and Mr. Hyde right before your very eyes.

What, you men, have to do is try to remain calm, try to ignore nasty remarks, or paranoid behavior. Most importantly, whatever you do, whatever you do- DO NOT ASK IF SHE HAS PMS!!! If that question slips out of your mouth, be prepared for war. Don’t ask me why. That’s just the way it is. That is, for some reason, in our psychopathic PMSing minds an outright attack. So brace yourself. Let me tell you- you cannot win a battle with a woman with PMS. She’ll bite your head off if she has to.

Trust me- I’m a woman. This information comes first-hand. Not only this, but I’ve had a woman boss before who had PMS 365 days a year.

My husband has mastered the art of dealing with this senseless syndrome. He won’t waste his time or energy on it any more. He has decided to completely avoid me at those times. Plan a business trip out of the country. Spend really long days at work. Have a guys’ night out. Smart guy.

Don’t believe me? Here is a typical PMSing day:

7:00 am Dr. Jekyl wakes up…

Him: Good morning, honey.
Me: Mmm. (What do you mean ‘good morning’? Can’t you see how horrible the world is?)
Him: Would you like to go out to dinner tonight with X and X?
Me: No. I hate going out with them. They’re so boring.
Him: (What the fuck?... )...But you had so much fun with them last time!
Me: So, I’m lying now?
Him: Huh? I didn’t say you were lying. I’m just surprised.
Me: Fine. Go by yourself.
Him: No. I asked if you wanted to go together.
Me: It’s OK if you don’t want me to go. I don’t wanna go anyway.
Him: I’m late for work. I’ll talk to you later.
Take the emergency exit! Get out now!

Later 11:00 am Mr. Hyde calls husband

Me: Hi honey. I just called to say ‘I love you.’
Him: Hello? Who is this?
Me: What’s wrong, sweetie? I feel really emotional over you and I just wanted you to know how much I love you.
Him: Mumbling… Yeah, I love you, too.
Me: When are you coming home, sweetie? I can’t wait to see you.
Him: I’m gonna be really late tonight. I have a meeting that starts at 9:00 pm.
I hang up and cry because he doesn’t wanna be with me… Aaaa….

11:30 am Meeting With My Boss

Boss: I was thinking maybe we change the concept of the brochure a bit…
Me: We agreed on the concept a month ago.
Boss: Yeah, but I was thinking something along the lines of…
Me: But the agency is already working on several options in this direction.
Boss: I’m not so sure about it.
Me: Well, I gave you several options initially so see what you want and choose one. Khhhhh almost emitting a hissing sound

5:00 pm Dr. Jekyl receives a phone call from an annoying relative

Her: What are you doing?
Me: Bribing my son with candy so that he volunteers to go to the bathroom without me probing every 5 minutes
Her: You finally started giving him candy?
Me: How are your son’s decaying teeth? That chocolate he eats every day can’t be helping. Khhhhh hissing

6:00 pm Mr. Hyde calls her best friend.

Me: I miss you. I feel so depressed.
Her: I miss you too. What’s wrong?
Me: Everything. Everyone is such an asshole.
Her: Are you PMSing?
Me: Forget it. I have to go. Bitch.
I hang up and tear up… Aaaaa… again.

Dr. Jekyl decides to spend the evening in solitude feeling sorry for myself, drowning in self-pity. I watch TV, because I am too exhausted to do anything else and because this will be the least amount of stress, conflict and hurt that the evil, hurtful people all around can conflict upon me.

6:30 pm: I Watch ‘Pet Rescue’ on Animal Planet, sitting buried upto my knees in used tissues, sobbing hysterically at the story of the cat who lost its eye

7:00 pm: I chuckle at a re-run of Friends playing, then somewhere along the way, the laughing dissolves into weeping because Ross and Rachel make up

8:00 pm: I watch an episode of Oprah and bawl regardless of what the topic is….

9:00 pm: I retire to bed because I cannot bare this cruel world we live in any more and because I convince myself every time that I am not PMSing and that everyone is an inconsiderate asshole.

Next day 7:00 am: Mr. Hyde wakes up. What a wonderful day! I open the window to hear the birds chirping.

WANTED: A White Bride

2006-05-21T18:38:00.000+03:00

Yesterday, I saw this elderly man who looked so familiar. I couldn’t remember at all where I might’ve met him… Was he someone I knew or did he look like someone I knew?... Was he a friend of my Dad’s or someone I know’s grandfather? Suddenly, it hit me!

Flashback: September 2000, aboard Egypt Air flight.

I had just boarded my plane, found my seat, placed my hand baggage in the compartment above and settled in my seat. Finally, a chance to relax.

The plane took off and I started to search through the movie menu to decide which movie I was going to kick back and watch. It had been a really stressful couple of months at work and this seemed like my first chance in a long time to unwind without feeling obliged to toil towards finishing my never-ending to-do list.

Luckily, the seat beside me remained empty which made me feel even more peaceful without having to sit beside one of those suicide-inducing snorers or one of those people who fall asleep on your shoulder, or hog up the arm shared between the chairs.

I put my headphones on and fiddled with the channels when I was interrupted by this elderly man. “Fi 7ad a3ed hena?” (Is anyone sitting here?)

My first thought is ‘Damn! YES! Go away!’, but I the man was so old and grandfatherly that I just couldn’t let him down. He looked more like someone I’d like to give a big grandfatherly hug to. “La’a etfadal.” (No. You may have it.)

I remove my magazines from the empty seat and he slowly sits down. I put my headphones back on, not as unwound as I was a minute ago, but what the hell. He disrupts my thoughts again, “Enti metgaweza?” (Are you married?)

So, I think this sweet little grandpa is making conversation, may not be a very tactful start, but probably in the way Egyptian adults think, this is a very normal question, one they seem to concern their selves with very much. “La’a” (No.)

He proceeds. “Makhtouba?” (Engaged?)

“La’a.” (No.)

Grandpa starts getting carried away… “Metkharaga? Menein?” (Have you graduated from college? From where?)

I don’t want to embarrass him, as sometimes old people have the tendency to lose focus of what they’re saying. I reply.

He goes on with the interview, “Babaki beyeshtaghal fein?” (Where does your father work?)

OK, now Grandpa is getting nosy. I despise nosy questions. So, not wanting to be rude or aggressive, I give a stiff face and lie to avoid answering. “Babaya tel3a 3la el m3ash.” (My Dad’s retired.)

The old man doesn’t take a hint, and pursues his game of 20 Questions. “Enti beteshtaghali?” Man, this is no way to make conversation! Lay off already!

I answer abruptly, “ah.” (Yes) I put my headphones back on, trying to show through my discontent body language that this conversation is no longer welcome and that I am starting to get offended, not to mention freaked out. Sweet little Grandpa is quickly becoming horny old pervert.

This does not stop him. Questions start coming at me like bullets.

Next, he starts to advise me how women belong at home and that they should not work because women’s goals should be to get married, have children and mind their homes and raise their children. I’m not even about to get into this debate, so I try to cut it short, with a quick, “Kol wahed loh tareeka.” (Everyone has his own way.)

“Enti mamtek agnabeya?” (Is your mother foreign?)

Now I’ve gotten used to the curiosity of Egyptians as part of the culture, with the prying questions all too familiar, but it was high-time to stop this interrogation. I gave it to the dirty old man. “Howa hadretak beteskalny kol el asela di leh? Ana ma3rafsh hadretak ashan arod ala kol el asela di.” (Why are you asking me all these questions? I don’t even know you to answer all these questions.)

He immediately takes a defensive position, making me feel guilty just with his expression, even though he was way out of line and in his defense, explains, “Asl ibn okhty beyeshtaghal fil seoudeya, modeer kebeer, we beydawar 3la arousa beida helwa, fa ana shoftek we olt agi ashan law fi naseeb…” (My nephew works in Saudi Arabia; he’s a big manager and he’s looking for a pretty, white bride, so I decided to come over to see if there’s any chance of fate…)

I didn’t know whether to laugh or to tell him to go away! People do the strangest things. Was he going to pick him up a bride from an airplane, and maybe stop on the way home and pick up some tomatoes, too?

Basically, I told him that I do not believe in arranged marriages and am very focused on my career and am not interested in getting married… and well, he went away… and so did my would-be de-stressing session.

My Dear Husband,

2006-05-16T17:54:00.000+03:00

My Dear Husband,

This is to request that you erase the conversation we had last week from your memory. It is now clear to me that I was hallucinating, babbling and uttering pure non-sense. I must have been possessed by a wicked demon that made me say those things. I am now clear-headed and rational and I beg you to obliterate that thought.

After we had already agreed over two years ago that one child is enough, I made a feeble-minded suggestion that we re-open the subject and reconsider this. I romanticized about having two children, and how we need to provide our son with a sibling so that they would be there for each other in this cold, lonely, harsh world.

We discussed the whole sibling value issue and decided it would be best that we probably do have another child in maybe 5 years. Not only for that reason, but we decided it would be best to have another one, for a more selfish reason that we agreed not share with any friends or family members- that reason is just in case one turns out to be an asshole, we have another kid- for own egocentric purposes.

Today, I am turning in my resignation.

After 7 days of me and our son both being sick and home together, tired, energy-less and fussy, topped off with toilet training- I have lost patience and I quit!

Today, all the pain of raising a child came back to me… the days before my big break- the nursery… the whining, the crying, the “I don’t wanna’s”, the irrational temper tantrums…, everything. It all came back to me. I was there- feeling like there’s no light at the end of the tunnel, like life will never get any easier.

I was reminded of every agonizing moment, every sleepless night and it became clear to me. I am not cut out for this job. I do not take it lightly. I put my entire essence into every detail, into every sneeze, every diaper change, every ouch and it is so draining. It is so wearing. I cannot do it all over again. I got by miraculously the first time and I simply will not be able to relive it all again and start from scratch. I would lose my mind! Honestly.

Now most mothers will give you some shit about how raising a child is a delight and it is such a joy. What a crock! Raising a child is hectic, draining- especially if you’re anything like me and insist on doing everything yourself.

I have never had any part-time or full-time help with child care. I dedicated every second to our son after he was born. The only break I ever got after he was born was a few months ago when he started going to the nursery. I chose to put him in the nursery so that I would get the peace of mind that in turn, would allow me to give him quality time. It was only then that I even started working again, and I chose to work part time, also to dedicate my time and mind to him: my priority. I chose to put my career on hold so that he would get all my focus and attention and know how valuable he is to me.

Us, mothers, never get a day off, not even an hour off. We don’t have holidays, we don’t have vacations, we don’t get sick days, we cannot sleep in. We do not get any compensation for sleepless nights. We don’t get any Thank You’s. We get a lot of Fuck You’s, however.

This is how I feel on days like this. God help me through them. In spite of all this, my child, is undoubtedly the light of my life. I guess that’s the high price we have to pay to raise what will become decent, honorable men.

So after careful consideration, I take back my suggestion. One is more than enough.

Sincerely,

Your Wife.

Wish List

2006-05-15T16:14:00.000+03:00

I always believe in the saying, "Be careful what you wish for, because it just might come true..."

1. I wish I could travel to each and every country and city within it on the globe… well, most of them.

2. I wish I had more time to spend with the people I love the most.

3. I wish that my best friend and I would stop drifting further apart, consumed in our now very different lives.

4. I wish that people would question matters and follow their inner voice.

5. I wish I could do intensive full time charity work for an entire year, without disrupting anything else in my life.

6. I wish I could dance like Britney Spears (even though I can’t stand her music).

7. I wish my husband and I could bumb around and explore the Far East for 6 whole months (That’s barely enough time).

8. I wish I could live in the States again, if only for a year.

9. I wish my son will grow up to be open-minded, tolerant and cross-culturally intellectual.

10. I wish that one day when my son is married (in shaa Allah), that my daughter-in-law likes and befriends me.

11. I wish I had the time, inspiration and peace of mind it takes to start painting again. It’s been ages!

12. I wish I had more time to play with my dog. I hope she knows how much I love her anyway.

13. I wish I can teach my child to love and accept himself for who he is. This is the greatest gift a parent can give a child.

14. I wish I had more patience for my brother.

15. I hope my parents know just how much I do love them. I moved away once I graduated from college to pursue my career; I had to build a brick wall around my emotions to be able to bear it- now it’s hard to let it down. I don’t want to see my Mom cry.

16. I wish my Mom knows to what extent I mean it when I tell her she deserves to have a statue built in resemblance of her strength and endurance. I don’t think I could’ve handled the things that have been thrown at her in life.

17. I wish people would see that money really does tear families apart. I’ve seen the closest people turn to sworn enemies through family business problems. It’s the dirtiest, dirtiest demon.

18. I wish I didn’t have to get PMS every month and become a paranoid psychotic! (So does my husband!)

19. I wish I had the self-confidence in big groups that I have within myself.

20. I wish I could meet Oprah.

21. I wish I could work as a journalist for some time. (and had the time and freedom it takes to do it)

22. I wish I could stick to my word and do aerobics every day for one hour.

23. I wish I could write poetry again like I used to and deal with my emotions (if I wasn’t so drained every day from working and the patience child care sucks out of you)

24. I wish I had me-time every once in a while (or any at all)

25. I wish I could go back to being 15 and going to concerts every weekend, always living for the next concert!

26. I wish that my big college group were more accessible and less complicated than we've all become.

27. I wish we could have sleep-overs with my best girlfriends like we used to all the time.

28. I wish we could do more of what we did in college. Those were the best days.

29. I wish I could go on a 2nd honeymoon with my husband- with no kids and no chores.

30. I wish my son will always look up to me and not hate me when he’s a teenager.

31. I wish Egypt would move forwards.

32. I wish that people were sensible and could actually put a stop to terrorism by discussing and reasoning.

33. I wish the world was a safer place.

34. I wish Islam’s reputation had not been damaged by the lunatics polluting its name.

35. I wish I can make a difference in the world, however small.

36. I wish I could save enough money one day to open an orphanage.

37. I wish I can maybe have another kid one day AND afford to put both my kids in the best schools in Egypt.

38. I wish my husband and I had more date nights.

39. I wish a lot of people would get their heads out of their asses and start seeing things the way they really are.

40. I wish I didn’t have to deal with judgmental people- ever.

41. I wish that the extent of self-righteousness, self-superiority that’s becoming shocking in people would disappear.

42. I wish there were more good people in the world.

43. I wish people would smile more often.

44. I wish people would say something nice when they do have something nice to say. You cannot imagine how it can change someone’s day!

45. I wish people would keep quiet rather than say something mean or nasty to someone.

46. I wish that if I ever have another kid, they come out 3 years old, with communicational skills, toilet-trained, and I can pick up from there. I dread the thought of dealing with a new-born baby again.

47. I wish we lived in a hut on the beach and owned only a swimsuit, pair of shorts and a t-shirt and maybe flip-flops. (with our cat and dog, of course)

48. I wish that my parents lived in the hut next to ours. (My parent's dream life also)

49. … and that my best friend lived in the hut next to that one. (Her dream life, too)

50. I wish it was summer all year long, with a few days of spring.

51. I wish someone would cut my ex-boss down to size! She’s such a sadistic bitch!

52. I wish that I never upset or lose connection with God and to always feel His presence in my life.

53. I wish my husband would pray.

54. I wish my son will never get sucked into religious extremism. There are so many loonies out there now!

55. I wish I could say ‘I don’t care’ and really mean it.

56. I wish some people didn’t have inferiority complexes and always try to prove how much better they are than you.

57. I wish I didn’t have to be such a perfectionist in everything. It’s so exhausting.

58. I wish I was more athletic… or athletic at all.

59. I wish I could rescue each and every sick, injured or hungry stray animal I come across and gather them all in a closed retreat just for me and them, where I would care for them myself at my own high standards.

60. I wish Egyptians would have the luxury to know what it's like to have rights, and the confidence to act upon it.

61. I wish there was someone to take responsibility, take charge and more importantly, take action when a higher authority is needed to interfere.

62. I wish my son will always have a conscience. If he has a conscience, I needn’t worry about anything else.

My Friend at Khan El-Khalily

2006-05-14T21:01:00.000+03:00

My husband and I went to Khan el-Khalily this weekend. I love that place! You get a taste of real Cairo. We were there until 2:00 am, and everyone is still wide awake, the restaurants are still serving. Now THIS is the city that never sleeps.

As we were walking through the narrow alleys, I discovered this tiny little puppy- couldn't have been over 4 weeks old, huddled under some shredded cartons. I lured him out, and he was adorable! He couldn't believe anyone even noticed he was alive! I kept asking the shop keepers where his mother was, if he had one, and they said she's around, but completely ignores him. The poor thing was abandoned.

I spent a while with him, playing with him and he was ecstatic! He was jumping all over my hands and flipping over on his back, showing his belly.

If I didn' already have a cat, dog and child, he would've been a new member in our family! My husband had to practically drag me away, telling me to forget it, and this is probably the 1000th time I've begged him to take another pet home. I always end up devastated!

I later brought the puppy left-overs after we had dinner, here is a picture of him chowing down! (You can't really tell, but he's no larger than 2 palms (not mine because they're too small) put together.

A cat came over and tried to steal his food, you should've seen that pup! Suddenly this helpless little puppy turned into an agressive, defensive lion! For these unfortunate strays, it's all in the name of survival. This little guy had attitude! He barked at the cat and chased her a few feet down the alley. He scared the hell out of her! I was so impressed and proud of my new little friend.(This is one of those extremely rare instances where I will be joyfully saying something about someone scaring a cat away. )

xycligpra

2006-05-11T16:07:00.000+03:00

What is with these word verification thingies?! You know... the ones for posting comments on blogs...

These things are becoming more and more impossible. I feel like I'm failing an eyesight examination. I can't see where some of the damn letters end and the next begin... and I've got 20/20 vision! It's like trying to solve a puzzle just to write a comment.

A Toddler and A She-Man

2006-05-11T15:55:00.000+03:00

Last week we went to have lunch in a hotel restaurant. My son had something gooey (probably the remains of some stale candy he discovered in his car seat) all over his hands, so I took him to the rest room to wash his hands.

My son is usually very well-behaved, but it’s really difficult for a toddler not to release uncontrollable outbursts during certain situations.

As he was washing his hands, I noticed he was very distracted and not being the maticulous germ freak (a quality he inherited from his mother) that he usually is. He was staring in the mirror, not at himself, looking utterly astonished. I took nothing of it and finished off washing his hands. As we turned to head towards the paper towels, he stood straight in front of this very strange-looking woman and said in the loudest voice possible, pointing a finger straight at her, “DA EH DA YA MOMMY? DA SET DA??” (What is that, Mommy? Is that a woman?)

I then came to notice the woman my son had been so mesmerized by during the course of washing his hands. She was a very odd-looking woman, very tall, very big-boned, and very unattractive; hiding her unattractiveness under piles and piles of red, blue, pink and every other color on the makeup pallet she could find. She had very striking manly facial features.

I don’t like to make fun of unattractive people, but she did look pretty scary, I have to admit. A She-Man. Really, she could’ve been a man with a sex change.

I could not find anything to cover up what my son just said. That must’ve really hurt her feelings. I scurried him out, pushing him from behind before he embarrasses her any further or before she bites his head off (whichever would come first, I didn’t want to wait to see it).

We had just made it to the door of the rest room, almost safe, when he hastily turned again and pointed directly at her again, topping off the episode by shouting, “DA EH DA YA MOMMY? DA SET DA WALA EHH?” (What is that, Mommy? Is that a woman or WHAT??)

Needless to say, I was in ze middol of my cloze (Kont fi nos hodoomy)-... An Egyptian saying meaning I was extremely embarrassed. My blameless son could not understand why Mommy could not stop laughing hysterically after we left the bathroom. This was a classic!

More Idiot Encounters

2006-05-08T21:17:00.000+03:00

Why? Why me? Why must I be subjected to these idiots?

It's not me, it's them... but it can't be, because there's so many of them... so it must be me.

I had another one of my many run-ins with another security guard today.

You see, these things get under my skin so much and seem so minor to bring it up in a conversation without being seen as 'el weleya el magnoona' (crazy lady), so I have to let it out.

Bare with me.

I was home and I heard this cat meowing rythmetically, as if she was calling out for help, or desperately hungry. In all cases, to me, this is a calling. Of course Crazy Lady (me) put some left-over food in a disposable plate and hurriedly my her house, walking down the pavement following the meowing sound.

I wanted to find her and help her so badly and at the same time, I didn't want to scare her. Finally, I spotted her. She was so cute. I slowly approached her, reached my hand out and she froze. I spoke to her very softly, very gently to come to me, trying to gain her trust. Her tension started to ease, giving me the green light to approach. I let her sniff my hand and gradually started stroking her. I then noticed she had a flea collar on. Poor baby. She's probably lost.

I spotted the security guard assigned to that street and approached him. I said, 'fi ota tayha labsa tok hena. Ma7adesh sakalak 3ala otta?' (There's a cat with a collar on here. Has anyone asked you if you'd seen a cat with a collar on around?)

Well, kick me in the ass for trying. Well, what else was I gonna do? Nothing? No way! Well, it would be just a question. If it helps, great, if it doesn't, at least if someone did ask, now he could tell them where the cat is. Besides, I've managed to get a few lost cats back to their owners before anyway! So here goes:

He looks at me with this silly grin and says, "aslan ma 7adesh beydawar 3la otat." (No one would search for a cat.)

I said, "el otta di beta3et 7ad. labsa tok." (This cat belongs to someone, she's wearing a collar.)

Him: "Labsa ehhh?" (Wearing what?)

I didn't realize that would sound so shocking and amusing.

Me: "Labsa to-ok. Y3any monkin tekoon tayha." (She's wearing a col-lar, meaning, she's probably lost.

Him: "Aslan ma 7adesh be7ot otta fi beito ashan monkin tenot men el shebak." (No one ever keeps a cat at home because she could jump from the window.)

What the fuck??!! How the fuck did we end up in a debate over whether people can have cats as pets or not??! urrggh.. Why me???

Me: "Ana baskalak law 7ad sakalak 3la otta. Khalas. Shokran." (I'm asking you if someone asked about a cat. Thank you.)

I went on doing my thing, offering the cat food. He still didn't leave and return to his post. Instead, he stood and stared like a s3eedi in Las Vegas with his jaw hanging open. Then he started to bend over and very untactfully tried to grab the cat saying, "Law 3yzaha, khodeeha 3ady." (If you want her, take her.)

I couldn't help but snap. I said, "Enta hatokaf tetfarag? Ana sakaltak sokal wenta radeit. Khalas, emshy ba'a. We b3adein ana ma talabtesh menak nasaye7." (Are you gonna stand there and stare? I asked you a question and you answered. Now go away. .. and besides, I didn't ask for your advice.)

He looked at me like the crazy woman I am, and walked off. I still don't care. I'm still gonna do my thing... even if it's not them, and it is me.

So Moving...

2006-05-03T12:57:00.000+03:00

This song is amazing. Every word of it moves me.

I saw James Blunt perform it live on TV with tears in his eyes and since then, every time I hear it, I can hear the emotion in his voice.

Goodbye My Lover- by James Blunt

Did I disappoint you or let you down?

Should I be feeling guilty or let the judges frown?

'Cause I saw the end before we'd begun,

Yes I saw you were blinded and I knew I had won.

So I took what's mine by eternal right.

Took your soul out into the night.

It may be over but it won't stop there,

I am here for you if you'd only care.

You touched my heart you touched my soul.

You changed my life and all my goals.

And love is blind and that I knew when,

My heart was blinded by you.

I've kissed your lips and held your head.

Shared your dreams and shared your bed.

I know you well, I know your smell.

I've been addicted to you.

Goodbye my lover.

Goodbye my friend.

You have been the one.

You have been the one for me.

I am a dreamer but when I wake,

You can't break my spirit - it's my dreams you take.

And as you move on, remember me,

Remember us and all we used to beI've seen you cry, I've seen you smile.

I've watched you sleeping for a while.

I'd be the father of your child.

I'd spend a lifetime with you.

I know your fears and you know mine.

We've had our doubts but now we're fine,

And I love you, I swear that's true.

I cannot live without you.

Goodbye my lover.

Goodbye my friend.

You have been the one.

You have been the one for me.

And I still hold your hand in mine.

In mine when I'm asleep.

And I will bear my soul in time,

When I'm kneeling at your feet.

Goodbye my lover.

Goodbye my friend.

You have been the one.

You have been the one for me.

I'm so hollow, baby, I'm so hollow.

I'm so, I'm so, I'm so hollow.

Steel Sharks

2006-04-29T00:36:00.000+03:00

If you’ve never driven in Egypt, then you should never complain about traffic, rush hour, bad drivers or hazards – of any type.

People in Egypt cannot drive. In fact, they are disasters waiting to happen- and they usually do.

Egyptian drivers can be divided into several categories:

1. Slow-poke-40-KM-on-the-highway-in-the-left-lane-driver: These imbeciles have never even been informed that the left lane is the fast lane. (or of anything else for that matter). They’re the drivers of the Fiat 127 in the left lane, who look at you with irritation, as you flash them from behind, as they wonder what the hell is wrong with you.

2. Right-Side-Over-Taker: Another one of many types of Egyptian drivers who were never taught the basics of driving, and would never care. These guys cut you off, attacking from the right lane (right to left lane), when you least expect it, without any signals. One of the worst.

3. Trailer-Carrying-3-Tons-of-Bricks-on-the left-lane-of-the-highway: Never been taught how to drive, doesn’t give a damn. These fuckers cause traffic jams on the highway all the time. You get one of them on the right lane going on 60 Km/ hour, the one behind decides to over-take him, by moving to the left lane… and staying there. Piles and piles of cars get jammed behind. When this happens, I stay clear out of the way. You don’t wanna be stuck between these two, when one decides to switch lanes abruptly without notice, you’ll get crushed like a bug. These guys take advantage of their size and practically bully other cars with their ‘Get out of my way or I’ll run you over’ attitude.

4. Trailer/Pick-up-Truck-Heading-Down-the-Wrong-Side-Driver: Anything for a short-cut. They come up the highway down the wrong side, at the right lane at first, then when they approach the turn they want to take, they move to the left lane and challenge you in a face-off. I’ve complained to officers so many times when I see this. They look at me with no empathy, nod and do nothing.

5. Niqabi-ninja-driver: These are women that wear the face-veil with just their eyes barely showing. They can’t see where they’re going so I don’t need to comment any further. They shouldn’t be given licenses. If they want to live as we were in the stone ages, well, there were no cars then…

6. College-Student-in-a-Beamer: These are the kids that just turned 18 and their daddys buy them a BMW. They think they’re on a race course for God’s sakes. I always want to scream at them for nearly killing me, but they zoom by at 160 km/ hour in a 80 km/ hour road long before I get one word out. Very frustrating!

7. Normal-Drivers: These are a handful. They’re the average person who knows the basic rules and follows them when convenient.

8. LAST BUT NOT LEAST: Steel Sharks – These are the mothers of all fuckers! The infamous microbuses.

Microbuses always make me feel like I’m swimming in shark-infested waters- ready to take a bite out of you- just fighting to live! Whizzing from right to left, swinging from left to right, like they’re doing frenzied needle-work.

You don’t want one of these reckless, gutless drivers behind you. They appear out of nowhere, stick to your rear bumper, leaving barely enough air in between you, and blind you with their frantic flashing.

These guys are lunatics! You never see them coming, and when they do, they want you out of their way so fast, that they won’t give you a chance to check the middle or right lane for clearance to shift. By the time your sight is restored and are clearing the way for them, they have already switched lanes again haphazardly, swerving around you, almost smothering you into oblivion.

I have two rules when driving in the midst of microbuses:
1. Get the fuck out of their way.
2. Always assume they will do something unforeseen. Whatever you would do in a situation, assume they will do the opposite, and act upon that. It’s never failed me.

I’m usually driving with my 2-old son in the car. This makes a person much more aware when driving. It’s a hell of a responsibility.

Sometimes I just want to scream “Haram aleko! I have a toddler on board! (despite the Baby On Board sign in English of course, useless in a country with an illiteracy rate of over 40%). I feel like pleading not to be harassed and bullied, and not bombarded and shoved aside.

I remember once I was in Paris in a cab and the cab driver said to me, “Too bad you have to witness Paris during rush-hour. People drive crazily here!”

I kept looking around me thinking, ‘This is rush-hour? God! This is nothing!’

I said to him, “You haven’t seen anything, if you come to Egypt any time, I’ll show you rush hour and I’ll show you crazy!”

If I were an authoritative figure, I would be the traffic department’s worst nightmare! I would have all the traffic officers and all drivers on their toes. Follow the rules or your ass goes to jail!

The Story of Two Cows

2006-04-26T09:56:00.000+02:00

DUBAI SYSTEM: You have two cows. You create a website for them and advertise them in all the magazines. You create a Cow City or Milk Town for them. You sell off their milk before the cows have even been milked to both legit and shady investors who hope to resale the nonexistent milk for a 100% profit in two years time. You bring Tiger Woods to milk the cow first to attract attention.

QATAR SYSTEM: You have two cows. They've been sitting there for decades and no one realized that cows could produce milk. You see what Dubai is doing; you go crazy and start milking the heck out of the cows in the shortest time possible. Then you realize no one wanted the milk in the first place.

SAUDI SYSTEM: Since milking the cow involves nipples the Gov't decides to ban all cows in public. The only method to milk a cow is to have a cow on one side of a curtain and a guy milking the cow on the other or to hire females and train them to milk the cows ... the debate is still going on.

BAHRAIN SYSTEM: You have two cows. Some high Gov't official steals one, milks it, sells the milk and pockets the profit. The Gov't tells you that there is just one cow and not enough milk for the people. The people riot and scream death to the Gov't and carry Iranian flags. The Parliament, after thinking for 11 month, decides to employ ten Bahrainis to all milk the cow at the same time and so cutting back on unemployment.

LEBANON SYSTEM: You have two cows. One is owned by Syria and the other is controlled by Hizbollah.

EGYPTIAN SYSTEM: You have two cows. Both are voting for Mobarak!

AMERICAN SYSTEM: You have two cows. You sell one, and force the other to produce the milk of four cows. Later, you hire a consultant to analyze why the cow dropped dead.

FRENCH SYSTEM: You have two cows. You go on strike because you wanted three cows.

RUSSIAN SYSTEM: You have two cows. You count them and learn you have five cows. You count them again and learn you have 42 cows. You count them again and learn you have 2 cows. You stop counting cows and open another bottle of vodka.

BRITISH SYSTEM: You have two cows. Both are mad.

AUSTRALIAN SYSTEM: You have two cows. You give one to the Americans and one to the British and you go back to shagging sheep!

"Shark Layer"

2006-04-20T22:20:00.000+02:00

My son is going to be 3 years old this July in shaa Allah.

This is definitely the cutest age, because as they’re learning to talk, first of all, they pick up things when you don’t think they’re listening, store them, and use them later when they see appropriate. Secondly, they mispronounce things in the cutest way.

A week ago, I was holding a bunch of books stacked up, trying to balance them to make it to the book shelf, without having to making two or three trips to get them there. They, off course, fell. I looked at the scattered books everywhere, and said, “Shit!”

The next day, my son was holding a bunch of teddy bears in his arms. One dropped. He tried to pick it up, the other dropped. He tried to pick that up, they all dropped. He said, very nonchalantly, “Shit!”

I, realizing what a bad mother I had become, in my desperate attempt to correct this, said, “What did you say, sweetie? ‘Sit?’ Are you telling the teddy bear to sit?” Then to quickly change the subject before he has time to process and compare, said, “Let’s pick up the teddy bears together and put them in your bed so they can sleep.”

He looked at me, puzzled, but didn’t let it go. He mumbled, “Sit”.

He looked at the teddy bears, seemingly unconvinced of that ‘sit’ was not the word I used yesterday when my books fell down, and that ‘sit’ is what we do in a chair, and said again, “Shit!”

Shit? You can say that again!

Sometimes the more focus I put on something that I want or do not want my son doing, he notices, and that sometimes has the opposite effect. Putting too much stress on trying to correct my boo-boo would’ve confirmed to him that ‘Shit’ is a word and that he did use it correctly. So I decided to ignore it and instead, watch my mouth.

Thank God the ‘shit’ incident is over and done with. He has not repeated it yet, and I sure hope he hasn’t repeated it at the nursery.

Today, he was watching one of his favorite cartoon movies- Shark Tale. His favorite character is Will Smith’s- the Shark Slayer. My son loves him so much that he pretended to be swimming, motioning his arms as fins, swaying across the room, pretending to scare away the sharks, roaring and said, “ana el shaaaaark layer” (I’m the shark layer).

He was so cute and innocent that I couldn’t help cracking up at the thought of my son, the “shark layer”, while he so was so caught up in his shark slayer act!

That’s what you get for having a dirty-minded Mommy. :)

El Moqat3a ya Madame

2006-04-18T23:33:00.000+02:00

A few days ago, I was coming home from the supermarket. I parked my car and started to take the grocery bags out. Thankfully (uptil that moment), the new helpful security guard noticed my heavy bags and came over to carry them for me.

This guy was by far the most cooperative security guard our neighborhood has ever seen. He was, up to that moment, a blessing! He always took initiative to give a helping hand and he was polite.

One of the items I had bought from the supermarket was a carton of Pepsi bottles. As he lifted it out of the car, he looked at me with his eyebrows raised and said “al moqat3a, ya madame.” (Boycotting.)

I said, “Na3am? Betkool eh?” (What did you say?)

He looked at me the way you would when if you were scolding a two year old, again with his eyebrows raised and placed his index finger over his lips, as if to shush me, and said again with nerve, “Kelma wa7da. El mo-qa-t-3a.” (One word. Boy-cot-ting). He broke it up into syllables, as if he was teaching me a lesson and shedding some light onto me.

The first thing that came to my mind was to snatch the stuff from his hand, tell him to mind his own business, and to never dare interfere in my life or repeat this ridiculous shit in front of me again! A glimpse of reason overtook me, as I thought, “Oh no, I’m gonna have to bitch him out, I’m gonna have nobody to help me carry the groceries again, and my back is going to get fucked again!” (Some Background: I have a herniated disk and when I lift heavy things, I get ‘attacks’ which have led me to spend 6 weeks lying flat on my back before).

To salvage my back, I quickly counted to ten, and then I proceeded to lecture him instead of snapping at him.

I said, “Moqat3et eh bezabt? (Boycotting what exactly?)

Him: Moqat3at el sharkat el americani (Boycotting American companies)

Me: Awalan: Pepsi ma to3tabarsh sherka americaneya, Pepsi sherka 3alameya, so7ab el sherka so7ab ashom men hawalein el 3alam kolo.
(First of all, Pepsi is not considered an ‘American company’. Pepsi is a multinational company, owned by shareholders.)
My muscles start to stiffen all over my body… My teeth start to grit…

Him: La’a dol sharekat americani wel foloos di betrooh lel american we beydoro felesteen
(No. These are American companies whose money goes to help hurt Palestine.)
At this point, I’m really trying to control myself from snapping, especially fromt the way he said ‘la’a.’, very matter-of-factly.

Me: Moqat3et eh bas? El sharkat di fat7a boyoot fi masr, meshagala oloofat el masreyeen fil masan3a beta3etha wel makateb. Law sharekat zay di meshyo men Masr, eqtesad masr hayok3a, nas keteer mesh hat3raf takol. Lazem tefham en lama el nas temshy teshag3a el moqat3a el homa mesh fahmenha aslan enohom beyekhrebo boyot’hom bi eidhom!
(Boycotting what? These companies employ thousands of Egyptians in their factories and offices. If these companies close down in Egypt, our economy would be devastated, thousands of people would go hungry. You have to understand that when people go around encouraging boycotting of American products, they are hurting theirselves with their own hands.)
Flames start to come out of my ears…

Him: Ana lazem abalaghek. El-mo-qa-t-3a. (I have to ‘inform’ you. Boy-cot-ting)
Again, in that condescending way. That’s it. Fuck off..

Me: Abl ma tebalagh ay 7ad 7aga zay di, lazem tekoon fahem enta betkool eh mesh tekarar el betesm3ao we bas. Enta betekzy baladak keda. Shokran. Ana hasheel el hagat khalas. Mesh me7taga mos3ada.
(Before you go around repeating something like this, you have to understand what you are saying. You are hurting your own country. Thank you. I’m gonna carry my own groceries myself)
I tug the Pepsi carton from his hand.

I got so furious, I ended up carrying the bags myself anyway, and I felt like shit for not biting his head off.

I’ll never forget how frustrated I was from what the absurd stuff he had said. I just cannot get over it.

What are these people doing? Apart from the Danish products boycotting (which I don’t agree with either), why the hell are they boycotting American products? Do they know what their cause is? What do they expect to accomplish? How the hell do they expect this to affect matters in Iraq or in Palestine?

Do they not see that the existence of these companies in our country is bringing foreign investment into Egypt, which brings dollars and liquidity, which opens employment opportunities, which boosts the Egyptian economy, which allows us to live the lives we all live???

Can you imagine what would happen to Egypt if foreign companies boycotted us and left Egypt? It would be a domino effect of catastrophes. Thousands unemployed, thousands hungry, eventually homeless, the Egyptian pound would depreciate and be worth even less than the toilet paper it is worth now. Salaries would be even lower than they are now due to supply in human resources versus demand, and Mr. Smart-Ass security guard and the likes of him would have laid out his own death bed.

Regrettably, it’s not only people from the security guard’s social or intellectual standards who are of boycotting American products. It’s the high-class well-educated people, too. It’s our neighbors, our cousins, our colleagues. A while back, when Iraq was being invaded, and in amidst the heat of the Palestinian intifada everyone was boycotting American products- even people who work for American multinationals! They stopped buying Coke, Pepsi, stopped eating at McDonalds, KFC (even though these are 100% Arab FRANCHISES owned by Arabs), etc.

Suppose this boycotting thing worked. Would they feel triumphant after they have lost their jobs? Would they feel triumphant if they had succeeded and resulted in driving out foreign companies and institutions such as Coca-Cola, HSBC, Microsoft, Mobile/ Exxon, Shell, General Motors, and the hundreds of others? Would it be so victorious when they come home and tell their wives that they have won their war against the west but there will be no food on the table?

We have received over $50 billion from the United States alone since 1975 (over $2 billion a year)- the same country these people want to boycott. I’d say we’re lucky the west is not being dim-witted about it, and saying, “OK. Hold the Aid. Boycott giving aid to Arab countries.”

Who is going to rescue us then? Iraq? Palestine? Our other cooperative fellow Arab countries who are busy back-stabbing each other? Hmm…

Egyptianisms

2006-04-17T23:25:00.000+02:00

Egyptians are such peculiar people.

They think they know everything and yet they know nothing. They think they do everything better than everyone and when they don’t know any better.

No matter what type of Egyptians you meet or where you meet them, you’ll find these very Egyptian things they do that make them so… Egyptian.

This degree of Egyptianism increases the longer the person has lived in Egypt for. If a person was born and raised in Egypt, you’ll find they rate very highly on the Egyptianism scale- I don’t care how open- minded they claim to be or how open and exposed they are or have been to the outside world and people outside of Egypt.

There’s the very Egyptian Egyptians, who are the more conservative, traditional and flat-out dull whose lives center around having babies and nagging and serving their husbands, and the other end of the spectrum of Egyptians who think they’re citizens of the world, when they’re just citizens of Mohandessin!

Some of these things REALLY get on my nerves!

1. Saying “in shaa Allah” about their intention to do something, when they have absolutely no intention of doing it!

2. Believing any rumors that pass through their ears, no matter how ridiculous or untrue they sound (not to mention trivial). i.e. which famous restaurant is serving donkey meat

3. Nagging newlyweds to have a baby, then when they eventually have their baby, nagging them to have another one

4. Veiled women nagging others (whether they know them well or not) to get veiled

5. Talking about ‘rahma’ (mercy) all the time, when they would never consider feeding a hungry cat in the street, or helping an injured animal

6. When a new janitor or security guard or gardener has been hired at work or home (whose just as useless as the one before him), who every time he sees your face, he goes on and on about how things have really turned around since he started working here

7. How every time you have to ride a cab, the cab driver has to give you a sob story- to ensure a big tip- about how his wife has to have an operation which he cannot afford, and how he has 10 kids which he cannot feed –Why the hell did you have 10 kids then? Ever hear of birth control?

8. The dirty looks women give other women when they are not looking

9. The quest for gossip and more gossip

10. When you meet someone new at a social gathering that you don’t necessarily like and they ask to exchange mobile numbers, when you both know you are not interested in meeting again

11. Always telling you how you should raise your kid, even if their own kids are brats

12. Interference. Always telling you how they would have done something differently and better.

13. Always telling you how to live your life, when they don’t live theirs. “You shouldn’t go camping, because you might get attacked by wolves!!!”

14. People in Ramadan telling you that you shouldn’t wear lipstick while you are fasting, while they’ve spent the entire day gossiping and spreading some secret they were supposed to keep

15. Overall hypocrisy

16. The nosy questions they cannot seem to control theirselves from asking, and then getting offended when you show reluctance to answer or annoyance

17. The way the more Egyptian Egyptians, at crappy gatherings we all get stuck in, like to gather the men on one side and talk about ‘men things’ and leave the women aside to talk about ‘cooking and raising babies’. If there has to be a split, I’d rather be on the men’s side.

18. The way men like to dictate to their wives about what they’re wearing, meanwhile, they’re drooling all over other women. The reason they want to cover up their women is because they are perverts. Thank God my husband is not anything like them!

19. The way fat women wear at pubs wear skin tight clothes with cellulite oozing out of every corner and think they look like a Hollywood celebrity.

20. How people give theirselves the right to say something cynical or sarcastic and if you answer back, even subtly, you are the rude one. Where the hell does that come from?

21. The ongoing newly surfacing lists of things that are “haram” (sinful). i.e. smoking cigarettes, getting a manicure, etc

22. The way that anything bad that happens in Egypt or anything they don't approve of, even movie subjects, goes back to the 'Jews conspiracy theory'.

I love the link below about being Egyptian also. I’ve certainly seen those things in so many Egyptians.

http://www.egyptsearch.com/forums/Forum2/HTML/004704.html

At the end of the day, I love Egypt and I love Egyptians (most of the time), but I still love to bitch about them! They just have so many annoying habits and behaviors!

Losing My Religion

2006-04-13T18:47:00.000+02:00

WARNING: Not suitable for sensitive viewers.
If you take offense, are intolerant, closed-minded, quick to jump to conclusions or judgmental: Save your time. You are in the wrong place. GET OUT OF MY BLOG.

_________________________________________________________________

Over the past decade, the words “Islam” and “Muslim” have become correlated with bombings, terrorism, suicidal bombers, and violence.

Like any beings, there are good Muslims and there are bad Muslims. Unfortunately, we have earned ourselves a reputation, as Muslims, of being evil.

It's reached the extent that just for someone to find an Arab-looking person on the same airplane flight makes them break into a cold sweat!

I believe that just like anything in life, religion should be practiced by heart and mind. God gave us brains to use them. If, when He created us, He meant for us to follow blindly, He would’ve given us bird brains.

For some reason, following without questioning has become the only acceptable way of practicing Islam. People are being taught, as Muslims, that they have to take for granted what the Islamic figures teach them. Those who question are deviant strays, who are destined for hell.

Surely, I believe that the Quran is the essence of Islam. However, there are so many different categories of ‘teachers’ now who each translate the meanings of the Quran into what they see. Not just the Quran, but the Prophet’s (a7adeeth) speeches, who have been passed on from generation to generation. Some of them frankly don’t make sense. Some of them are too fanatical. Couldn’t it be possible, that, as these a7adeeth were passed from person to person, over hundreds of years, that they had been altered?

Of the Islamic teachers, there are the Saudi Arabian Islamic Sheikhs, the many modern ‘Sheikhs” by God knows whose seal of approval and “ostaz”, who also, God knows who gave him a license to ‘teach’ others. Does everything they say get filtered by an Islamic authoritative figure? I don’t think so. A lot of it sounds like bull to me.

Apart from those, there are the ‘other’ organizations, with agendas of their own. Politics. Power. Money. It’s a dirty game. They prey on the less-privileged, the weak, the ignorant, the lost. They lure them in, make them their ‘brothers’ and slowly but surely begin to infest their minds, filling them with hatred, envy, jealousy and vengeance. Thus, the vendetta launches into action, as deviously planned.

They convince them that they are the righteous, the chosen, those who must sacrifice, in order to rectify the world. They must eliminate sin and the sinners who commit them. They must rid the world of the infidels and the nonbelievers, even if it means to terminate them like cockroaches. They are brainwashed to believe it is their holy duty, one that will lead them to the divine afterlife.

Do they think God will be smiling down at them on Judgment Day? Don’t they wonder whether their wicked deeds actually sound like something God actually wants? Will they be able to confront God’s rage and anger?

So why is Islam an exception to using your brain? Why is it an exception to thinking for yourself and judging how God expects us to behave? Why is Islam an exception to question the disturbing Islamic teachings, especially about what our attitudes are supposed to be towards people from different countries, religions, or even about other Muslims who don’t practice Islam the way these people are trying to dictate- referring to them as “kafara” (atheists, nonbelievers, destined for hell).

Last Friday, at Friday prayer time, our neighborhood mosque was flaring the Friday preaching on its speakers. God knows who assigned the preacher, or what credentials he had to be preaching to people in the first place? Was he really a sheikh? By whose standards? According to whose teachings? How is someone declared fit to recite preachings at Friday prayer anyway?

This guy was clearly uneducated, and judging by his accent, a fala7 (peasant)! Not to mention, from the shit he was saying, he was completely disconnected with the today’s world and today’s people, and hadn’t the faintest idea about anything! Clueless. Definitely a graduate of the Predators’ Academy of Brainwashing. The perfect candidate: uneducated, ignorant, naïve and plain stupid.

This idiot loudly and audaciously claimed that:
1. Parents should never let their teenage boys out of the house unchaperoned. According to him, any teenage boys that are allowed out without their parents’ supervision, will surely and indisputably do drugs, and in turn, become a drug addict.
2. Not only this, but he will become a drug-addicted pervert who will rape his mother and sister.
3. To top off this very enlightening speech, it sickens me to even repeat what he said: “They will become like dogs and pigs, just like the Jews and Christians.”

Now I am neither Jew nor Christian, but I am a person who respects other people’s beliefs. I was profoundly offended.

Do you know what the worst part of all was? People continued listening. No one had the morality or guts to object and say, “Excuse me? Who allowed you to preach? Are you teaching people to hate an fester disgust at each other instead of love, kindness and giving? Shouldn’t you be preaching about how each person can influence the world by good deeds- to feed the hungry, charity to an orphanage, donating to the childrens’ cancer hospital, etc?

Welcome to the world we live in. Welcome to the new Muslim world; a world of ignorance, hatred, and intolerance; a very sad, sick world.

It’s no wonder I’m feeling alienated from Islam. I don’t doubt Islam. I never doubt God. It’s got nothing to do with either. It’s got to do with that the label “Islam” has been put in the hands of people who know nothing about it and are using it for their own goals. Islam is not a religion of terrorism, hatred, violence, aggression, brutality, and barbarianism. These people stand for just that. They have made it seem ugly.

What do you expect? Anytime you turn on the news, on any given day, you’ll hear of a bombing by an Islamic terrorist, or an Islamic suicidal bomber. I shudder as I turn CNN on, afraid to hear of who has been killed or what has been destroyed by Muslim terrorists. I hold my breath.

People were surprised when the Danish cartoons were printed in the press? Why? What else are Muslims doing besides killing and destroying? They’re giving the message loud and clear. We are terrorists. We are evil. And how do they handle it? How do they react? They burn down embassies, they send death threats. Nice. Very peaceful. Boy, we really showed them they were wrong!

Couldn’t we, instead, have educated people about Islam? Couldn’t we have released advertorials, if not allowed articles, in every newspaper, magazine possible give examples and prove how Islam is a religion of peace?

Not only are Muslims intolerant, but culturally ignorant. People could not understand how these cartoons were allowed to be printed. They cannot understand the fact, that away from these semi-communist Arab countries, in the west, people have freedom of speech, freedom of religion, freedom of the press. They are free to say and believe what they want. Not that I think it is acceptable to make fun or wrongly depict our prophet, but I understand the culture. They make fun of Jesus, too. It’s a culture. It doesn’t shock me. Besides, I think Muslims should take that as a wake-up call. Time to reform. Time to change the image of Islam by action. Time to do good deeds around the world in the name of Islam.

But who’s listening? I feel so alone on this.

Quotes

2006-04-06T13:08:00.000+02:00

As I was growing up, mainly throughout my teen years, I had a notebook in which I collected quotes that really rang in my ears, with deep meaning, which really made me stop and think.

Words are very powerful, which is why I love writing.

I think I'm going to start collecting quotes again.

First quote:
"As nervous as a whore in church."- Pretty much sums up what it's like to feel out of place. Bottom line.

Becoming My Parents

2006-04-05T21:37:00.000+02:00

I remember when I was a kid, whenever I would be in the car with my parents and I would turn the radio on, they would get so annoyed and complain about how loud it was or how heavy the drums or guitar was and claimed that each and every singer was 'screaming', not singing and that it was 'noise'.

My parents are very open-minded cultured people who find a sense of appreciation in everything they come across, so, I couldn't understand. Why the geeky attitude? They also seemed so irritated or bothered so much of the time.

I vowed to myself that I would never become my parents. Don't get me wrong- I love my parents and I think they're two of God's most wonderful creations, but I certainly didn't want to find myself one day irritated and just uptight a lot of the time.

A couple of days ago, I was in the car with my 18 year old sister-in-law. I was driving. We were playing Craig David, whom we both love. We were in one of the most crowded, noisy streets in Cairo and it was rush hour. She cranked up the volume to the max. That day, I really had to wonder who I had become.

I felt so irritated when she cranked up the volume and suddenly, the sound of the honking cars, the bright lights, the bumper to bumper traffic topped with the loud music all became overwhelming. I turned the volume down and said to her, "I hope you don't mind. I can't take the sound of the music and the traffic together. I just wanna turn it down a bit."

She looked at me like, 'OK....' and then it hit me. I had become my parents.

Suddenly, years of puzzlement all made sense to me. It was as if I had gone back to being 13, sitting with my parents in my Dad's car, and thinking how old-farty they had gotten. Only this time, I was my parents.

All the stress of dealing with paying the bills, wondering for how long will you be able to afford the high standard lifestyle you've set for yourself, meeting spousal expectations, meeting work expectations, providing the best for your kids, saving for that dream summer vacation, wondering whether you'll afford to buy a new car, having to deal with whatever is thrown at you with a smile on your face...

Not to mention the hour by hour, minute by minute demands. The ongoing internal dialog and planning just to manage your day- just to squeeze what seems like 30 hours into 24 hours! '...30 minutes until I have to pick up my son from the nursery, with this traffic I'll get there in 45, take him home, bathe him, that then gives me 30 minutes to cook lunch, just enough time to send that last work email, which needs to be sent so I can do tomorrow's work...' ...Leap onto tomorrow's plan... go on and on and on and... I've become my parents.... frowning in that car, with the volume turned down, tuned out of this world into their own internal dialog, worrying and planning and wondering.

Now I know why loud music in a car can sometimes be very irritating. :)

But hell, I'm still no old fart and am not about to start. I'll just have to keep my eyes open so stress doesn't take over my life and look out for the signs of old fartedness! Stay young :)

Insecurities

2006-04-04T12:43:00.000+02:00

It's so funny how everyone's mind functions, seeing things from their angle, from their little world with all it's complexities and insecurities- struggling to find a way to fit in with everyone else.

You see, my husband has also started his own blog. The question for both of us (seperately and internally) was:

"Should I let my wife/husband know of my blog and share this diary with my soulmate?"

Or :

"Should I keep this very personal diary to myself and completely let loose, let every thought, every emotion out uncensored and not have to choose the words careful not to hurt anyone?"

Hmm...

Well, we both decided that we would like to share our blogs, but still to keep them very honest and forthright. Then the insecurities came in... :)

I asked him: "Where you planning on keeping this a secret and writing bad things about me?" ... (which led to....) "Is there something you don't like about me that you are uncomfortable with confronting me about?" (which led to....) "Don't you love me?"

The female insecurities came pouring out! Damn! We (females) do go illogically nuts sometimes, don't we?

Jump to next scenario:
He says to me: "Are you going to judge my story-telling skills if you read my blog? Are you going to tell me I could've been more descriptive or arranged it differently?"

What??!

My insecurities shift... "Do you think I'm a control freak or something?"

What??!

Thank God we both then had the sense to stop and laugh about where our insecurities were taking us!

Women constantly worry about whether they are loved by their partners, or will be still loved in the future. Men don't like to be judged and analyed and told what to do.

It's the clash of Mars with its testosterone andVenus with her estrogen levels soaring!

Sorry, honey! ;)

Therapy

2006-04-01T11:57:00.000+02:00

Wow! I've been wanting to do this for the longest time. Now I kind of don't know where to start!

Every time I read someone's blog, I feel very envious. I think, hey, this blogging thing was probably invented just for me! It's just what I need- something to babble to, without filtering what is improper or inappropriate or offensive or whatever else we burden ourselves with and waste our and energy worrying about!

Finally, I've decided to let go and spill my guts to my new therapist... my blog.

I hope to find relief and to meet interesting new people with a lot to say. I hope whoever reads my blog will enjoy it as much as I'm gonna enjoy writing it!