December One-Liners

Bloft, whenever she says something entirely idiotic or factually inaccurate and is speaking to me: Shhhh! Don't tell Eureka! She doesn't know!

Doolittle: Interject always makes me think of ejaculate. Imagine if sperm had eyes.

Eureka: I love being referred to as the infidel. It excuses so much. For example, whenever someone declares that I have crossed the line, and says "she can't do/say/write that!", someone will pat the objector on the back and say "it's ok, she doesn't know any better. she's an (whispered) infidel."Then the objector totally gets it and nods "oohhh, ok.'

Torture Techniques: USA v. Nazis

The USA is naughtier than the Nazis. Surprised?

http://andrewsullivan.theatlantic.com/the_daily_dish/2007/12/best-of-the-d-2.html

Good read, so finish it.

Orientalist Gripes

I like being a working woman. I really do. I like the cash in my bank account. I like not having to take my work home with me, or pulling all-nighters to cram for a final or write a paper.

I don't like that question that haunts my every public move after graduation though. That evil, loaded question that is ubiquitous in this region of the world.

That question even haunted me in the middle of Christmas appetizers.

There I am, enjoying my perfectly chilled champagne, when my uncle's French wife calls me over to sit by her "parce-que je veux te gronder un peu" (because I want to scold you a little).

Frog: Eureka, comment est ta vie amoureuse? (Eureka, how is your love life?)
Eureka, visibly cringing as she anticipates that question: Ça va, tante grenouille. (It's alright, aunt Frog). Eureka clamps shut, refusing to elaborate further.

Frog, completely ambivilous to Eureka's visible loathing of the conversation, and of Frog, continues jabbering in rapid French.

Frog: Oh, but you know, I have such strong misgivings about you ever finding a suitable boy in this country. It is so difficult to form a relationship with Egyptians that goes beyond the superficial hellos and how are you's of social functions. When I was studying and travelling around the world because I am so liberal and cultured and so much better than everyone else, I made many many friends, but in all my years in Egypt, my only friends have been foreigners like myself, I could never make friends with Egyptians. It is so difficult meeting people here because they are confined to their little cliques, one cannot feel welcome. I must start setting you up on dates with boys I find suitable, because Lord knows you won't ever be married at this rate. How can you meet people here? C'est impossible, vraiment...

On and on and on she went, for a good 15 minutes of repeating herself, verbatim. All Eureka could do was nod in fake agreement because one really cannot argue with a psychotic French woman.

When Frog paused to catch her breath, awaiting Eureka's tearful gratitude for Frog offering to save her marital future, Eureka grabs the opportunity to cut her off saying she doesn't like being set up, and rushes to the kitchen muttering something about helping with the turkey.

In the kitchen, Eureka threw a tantrum, munched on semi-prepared food, and downed three glasses of champagne. Eureka spend the rest of the evening blissfully befriending a couple of bottles of wine in a last ditch effort to drown out the Frog's continuing lecture about meeting the right man and not waiting too long.

Yes this is what the world is coming to. Egypt's ardent desire to marry women off is so overbearing, that it has attacked and successfully indoctrinated unstable French minds as well.

Ho, ho, fucking French ho.

Merry Christmas!

Introducing the FSE's (Imperial Dictionary entries #s5-13)

FSE (εf εs i:) , abbrev. for Faithful Subjects of the Empire: official title bestowed upon the founding members of the Hendika (see Hendika) Empire.

These are:

Bambi (bæm’bi:), n.: 1. daughter of Co-Empress Erika-Marie of the Empire of Hendika (see Hendika). 2. Queen of the Airheads of Hendika. 3. Useless heiress to the Hendika throne. –ness.

Birdie (bз:di:), n.: 1. official message relater of the Empire of Hendika (see Hendika). 2. imaginary bird of flight used to distract oneself and others from disastrous predicament at hand ~n.

DFS (di: εf εs), abbrev. for Dolly ‘Folly’ Shahine: 1. The Empire of Hendika’s (see Hendika) First Ministress of Entertainment and Inspiration (MoEI). Noted for her notorious whirlwind relationship with Nidal (see Nidal). 2. the Empire of Hendika’s best FSE (see FSE). 3. provider of daily jokes (see jokes) to the FSE’s of the Empire of Hendika.

Dinamite (‘daιn,maιt), n.: 1. renegade princess of the Empire of Hendika (see Hendika) constantly plotting a coup of some sorts in an attempt to rebel against the Empresses for over-pampering her. 2. official but useless First Notary of the Empire of Hendika. [C?: from DINA + ‘M’ + ITE]

Fairy (‘fεrι), n.: a tiny creature in the Empire of Hendika (see Hendika) meant to grant the Empresses and FSE’s (see FSE) all their wishes. Does not function/work in times of official vacation. Known to wear cute dresses and hold a magic wand. Word has it she can even fly.

GMSL (di: εm εs εl), abbrev. for Grand Master and Spiritual Leader: 1. FSE (see FSE) entrusted with the job of advising and guiding the Co-Empresses of Hendika (see Hendika) in the direction of righteousness. 2. see Scvaxx.

Pink Suede Elephants (pιηk sweιd ‘εlιfnt), n.: The three official imaginary friends of the First Co-Empress of Hendika (see Hendika), Eureka.

Scvaxx (∫’væks), n.: 1. first GMSL (see GMSL) of the Empire of Hendika (see Hendika). [C21: from ACJ sessions Scvaxx kaleidoscope of Sabuna Island and Safingaland]

Nosebleeds? That's a New One

Apparently, the common euphemism in Japanese anime (and even Disney cartoons inspired by the artform) for sexual arousal is a nosebleed.

This is because of the nerve links between the genital and nasal tissues. For all the scientific/medical explanation your little heart desires, click on the link.

As used in anime, the amount of blood erupting from the man or woman's nostrils is directly linked to the extent of arousal, with enormous amounts representing ejaculation.

Who knew the Japanese could be so crude?

Your Friendly Neighbourhood News Round-up

Dear Egypt,

I regret to inform you that you are not as inventive in your law-enforcement techniques as you would like - and have led your populace and the rest of the world - to believe.

Yes, yes, I know. Don't look at me like that. It shook me to my very core, too. I'm so sorry to have to be the one to break it to you.

But no, you are not the pioneering mind behind mass arrests.

Once again, you have been thwarted from that honourable position of eminence by our team's QB, the good ol' US of A. Damn Yankees...

Don't look so glum, though! There's some good news! You're still leading in that other race you're in!

YES! You're in the running for gold!

16 more people have perished in yet another ferry accident, totalling about 30 this holiday season.

Feels good to be number one, doesn't it. Don't blush and scuff your shoe on the ground like that, you know you deserve it. Modesty doesn't become you, dear.

Now don't you fret about the whole mass arrest thing. Look on the bright side, Hoover suggested it in 1950, and didn't even go through with it.

So, I guess you still win on a technicality. You're still at it, 57 years later.

You go, girl!

Yours,

Eureka.

P.S. I'd look into setting up a YouTube channel if I were you. Can't have QEII all hip and you still admiring your picture in the newspaper. Get with the times, love.

Drivers and Robbers and Pavements, Oh My!

Once upon a time,
Not so long ago,
A city named Cairo
Was ruled by Big Boss Pharaoh.
Being mighty and smart,
And – sigh – yes, a half-god,
Pharaoh began to wonder
What was in store for his city yonder?

So off he went, back to the future,
Where the world was not ruled by Pharaoh, but by the computer.
Shaken but not stirred, Pharaoh explored
What he was told was Cairo, but where –
Strangely enough – mighty Pharaoh was (GASP!) ignored!
No royal barrage for him, no siree,
Instead the street he roamed,
In a strange contraption called a taxi.

Around downtown Pharaoh commanded his steed,
Caring little of where this unusual stallion may lead.
All of a sudden, Pharaoh yelled “STOP!”
A beautiful vision had just made his heart drop.
A large grey building towered above,
But all he could see were gorgeous women; he was in love!
He asked his slave (the driver), “what is this place of pleasure?”
His slave/driver replied, “AUC, Master.”

Pharaoh smiled in delight and said to himself,
“I shall build one back home, all to myself!”
Pharaoh, being astute, noticed that most
Had a strange symbol manifested on her purse.
Pharaoh asked his driver what this symbol meant,
And driver responded “that her daddy has spent
All the money in my bank, and 7 more,
Which is why he’s fled to Paris, London, or Singapore.”

Chuckling at the thought of someone being so stupid,
Pharaoh said to the driver, “thank you for a ride so fluid!”
Then out Pharaoh stepped, giving the driver a tip;
The tip of his finger that is,
For that was how Pharaoh blessed
His loving servants – they liked this finger best.
The driver however, was far from amused;
Oh poor Pharaoh, how he was abused!

Bruised but unfettered,
Pharaoh continued on foot,
But little did he know…
Oh, the danger he withstood!
Walking between those confounded coloured (and ugly) camels,
He did so with clout;
Until one almost hit him,
It was then that even Pharaoh started to shout.

Being Big Boss Pharaoh, we know he is clever,
So when he looked around, he noticed a feather.
It was lying on the ground, but that wasn’t the attraction.
The blocks it lay on were black and white,
Was that yet another contraption?
With a quick calculation, he figured the stones were high
Enough to keep his feet safe
From those zooming creatures that made him fly.

So if Pharaoh from 7000 years ago
Could work out the following:
That the pavement is for people,
And the streets for vehicles with wheels ever-turning,
Then why can’t our populace
80 million strong,
Understand a simple concept,
What could be so wrong?

2007 US Patents: Groundbreaking

I love NYTimes Magazine, they come up with the most random articles. Here are some of this year's patents, and what Alexandra Horowitz believes inspired them:



Some of these are priceless.

Eureka v. Egyptian

All rise, Honourable Justice Etiquette presiding.

Thank you, you may be seated.

Case No. 3983/2007-B, Plaintiff Eureka is suing Defendant Egyptian for psychological and emotional distress, lost income, and punitive damages caused by Egyptian's disruption of Eureka's day-to-day life.

Your Honour, I shall not bore you with the usual introductory appeals to your empathy. I shall merely list Egyptian's transgressions, from which you will certainly understand my distress.

Having lived with and around Egyptian for the majority of my life, I have had to endure:

1) Abhorrent disregard of Egyptian's surroundings, whereby he finds it acceptable to dispose of phlegm, gum, urine, faeces, vomit, and other such excrements and/or trash on the pavement I am thus habitually forced to endure soiled shoes and trouser bottoms, nausea, and visual and environmental pollution.

2) Deafening noise pollution. Egyptian has consistently and unapologetically engaged in the use of his outdoor voice, indoors. This has hindered my concentration, thus resulting in the loss of valuable working hours, thereby resulting in lost income. It has further led to damage to my auditory system, causing physical and emotional distress due to skyrocketing medical and psychological bills.

3) Complete flout of the fundamentals of personal hygiene, thereby forcing me to endure the sickening mélange of sweat and cheap perfume.

4) Egyptian finds it acceptable to publicly scratch, expose, or pleasure his male member in my and other women's presence, causing irreparable emotional and psychological damage and assault.

5) Egyptian persistently displays condescension of any and all education, refusing to read anything while assuming he knows everything. Thus, he insists on disseminating false information, directions, and the like, with complete indifference to the consequences of this misinformation, thus resulting in my wasting countless hours lost in Maadi, Mohandesin, and other incomprehensible areas of Cairo.

6) Egyptian finds it unnecessary to consider those around him when eating, thereby forcing me to endure his loud, open-mouthed chewing, his dripping of food all over his shirt, his smacking, and spitting out food when he speaks. He also insists on placing his fork, knife, and glass on the wrong sides of his plate, and using his wine glass as his water glass. This has forced me to leave many a meal uneaten due to exasperation and disgust, leading to malnutrition, and economic difficulties due to meals paid for while unenjoyed.

7) Egyptian is convinced of a deep-rooted Zionist conspiracy against him, where the smallest problem, like lack of parking in Cairo, is Israel's fault, and part of Israel's plan to destroy Egypt. This has created innumerable headaches for me because of my need to bang my head against a brick wall to numb the exasperation felt by such nonsense.

8) Egyptian assumes the West is a perverted hedonistic culture, when he is the exact same way, but feebly attempts to hide it by claiming that issues such as the influence of Western clothing in Egypt is an attack on Egyptian civilization and culture, while really he finds it necessary to take said clothing in Egypt at face value, requiring the most fashionable Western designers available to dress him. This has once again caused me to bang my head against Valentino's boutique wall, forcing me to pay for the hole caused by said action, and thus causing me physical, psychological, and monetary harm.

9) Egyptian insists that he descendant and son of the land of civilization, where the Ancient Egyptians were the first and best doctors, scribes, lawyers, politicians, rulers, architects, engineers, blah, blah, blah… While remaining in this dream world of his past, Egyptian has managed to render his country in complete backwardness and disarray. This has caused me irrevocable harm, as it has hindered and reduced my quality of life in Egypt.

10) Finally, your Honour, Egyptian is just plain annoying, aggravating, and asinine, and I should not be forced to deal with him on a daily basis.

Judge Etiquette looks at Eureka, and then looks at Egyptian, who is busy using his pinky finger's elongated nail to pick wax out of his ear, while playing with his toes, with his shoes emanating an awful stench.

Judge Etiquette rules in favour of Eureka, and sentences Egyptian to life in etiquette class.

I only wish it were that simple.

Santa, Baby

A list of dares to try out on your local Santa, from Vanity Fair:

One-Point Dares

1. After your child has finished itemizing everything he or she wants for Christmas, press a dollar into Santa’s hand and say, “For your trouble.”
2. Tell a mother and child waiting behind you that Santa’s throne is made of Blitzen.
3. Rehearse your child so that when Santa asks what the tyke wants, he or she bursts into tears and says, “I just want Mommy and Daddy to be married again!”
4. Using both hands, foist a squirmy toddler upon Santa while saying in an Eastern European peasant accent, “I bake just for you … I bake just for you … ”
5. Wearing an airport-security badge and holding a Rubbermaid tub, stand at the head of the line and announce, “Nobody gets to see Santa unless they take off their shoes, take out their laptops, and dispose of all liquids that aren’t in three-ounce bottles!” Repeat every 30 seconds.

Three-Point Dares

1. Scrutinize Santa up and down, then ask witheringly, “Why do you have to dress like such a whore?”
2. Show up in a rented red suit and false beard and announce to Santa, “You’re out, fatso. Manager’s making a little change.”
3. Show up in a rented elf suit, pass Santa a résumé, and plead, “I really need this gig.”
4. Get on both knees and snort the fake snow.
5. Hold up a copy of Paula Deen’s memoir, It Ain’t All About the Cookin’, and say, “Don’t get me wrong, Santa, I admire you, but you did some bad shit to Mrs. Claus.”

Five-Point Dares

1. Tug down on Santa’s false beard, point at him in alarm, and scream, “Megan’s Law! Megan’s Law!”
2. Sidle up to Santa and say conspiratorially, “Hey, I got the stuff.” Then drop a dime bag in his lap.
3. Bow your head, perform a sign of the cross, address Santa as “Father Christmas,” and confess to having impure thoughts about someone within earshot.
4. Dressed as a character from Pasolini’s 120 Days of Sodom, step up to Santa and announce, “I’ve brought the children, Master Claus, just as you requested.”
5. Tell the gathered children that Rudolph is dead—his nose turned red because Putin poisoned him with polonium.

Guess Who

Noma Bar's new book Guess Who is genius. He creates images of famous personalities using symbols and lines.

Check out http://www.creativereview.co.uk/crblog/guess-who for more.

FMF, in a Nutshell

As I have spent a good portion of my life explaining the inanities of FMF, here, once and for all, is allyouwouldeverwanttoknowbutaretoolazytoGoogle about one of biology's more pointless disorders, whose sole purpose is to drive its sufferers to the brink of suicide, hallucinations, and the fourth dimension, but never pushes the poor sufferer over the brink. Yes, not only is it tortuous, it is a total tease, too (check out that alliteration. I'm so good I amaze myself).

Thinking caps on? All the medical jargon learnt from Scrubs, Grey's Anatomy and the like in check? Good. Moving swiftly on.

Familial Mediterranean Fever is a genetic mutation (and thus hereditary, d'oh) affecting ethnicities originating from the Mediterranean Basin (hence, the name. Doctors can be so original). It is prominent in Armenians, Turks, Arabs, and Sephardic Jews (and just so they don't feel left out, Ashkenazi's are also susceptible, but to a lesser extent).

Now that we know who gets it, what exactly is it?

There are seven types of attacks, all causing immense pain and fevers, which in my case tend to be high. Yours truly tends to get the first three.

1. Chest attacks, where the pleural lining (your rib cage muscles) and the pericardium (sac holding the heart) become inflamed. I used to get this one exclusively as a child, until I developed 2 and 3 in my early teens. (Affects 40% of patients)
2. Abdominal attacks, which basically inflate my entire abdomen like a balloon and often can be misdiagnosed as appendicitis. I had mine taken out years ago because of this. But Egyptians who like to pretend to be doctors claim I should get my appendix taken out again. And again. And yet again. (Affects 95% of patients).
3. Joint attacks, where the joints become sore and inflamed to the point where you can't move them. My left knee has attained volleyball proportions. (Affects 75% of patients).
4. Rash.
5. General overall muscle pain (Myalgia).
6. Inflammation of the scrotum (umm, yeah, because I have one of those).
7. Fever without any symptoms.

Now all of these are inconvenient, but totally benign. The real Jaws theme moment is what follows:

Chronic renal failure.

Beethoven's Fifth plays menacingly here.

This is invited by the secretion and buildup of amyloid protein in the kidneys, as well as heart, intestines, etc… caused by AA-Amyloidosis.

So yeah I have solid proteins cementing inside my vital organs. Fun, yeah?

This is where Colchicine works its magic. Colchicine is like a wonderdrug because not only does it prevent amyloidosis from occurring, it also helps reduce the quantity of attacks.

Side affects include hair loss, fetal death (note to self: do not take while pregnant to save child, and suffer nine months of attacks where you will freak out thinking you've gone into labour. When you actual do go into labour, ignore thinking it is an attack and have the child suddenly pop out on the living room couch), abdominal and muscle pain (sound familiar?), etc…

Are there any cures? No. It's a genetic mutation. My best bet is having my genes replaced. Get on it, Dr. Seuss.

Questions? No? Good.

Eureka, MD, at your service.

Imperial Dictionary Entries #3 & 4 (as they are closely related)

Focus (the Diva likes to FUCK US!), n.: 1. to be used in conjunction with hoppa (see hoppa) to encourage one to pay attention to the work the Diva (see Diva) likes to pile on the poor FSEs and Empresses (see Hendika). 2. clever pun actually meaning fuck-us, or as the German-speaking members of the FSEs like to say, foch-us, mainly used whenever the Diva is mentioned.

Hoppa (HOBBA!), adv, Egy. Inf.: 1. outcry, call for immediate action, used in the context of despair and utter zan2a (being stuck). Primarily applied by both Empresses (see Hendika) and the Ministress of Entertainment and Inspiration, DFS (see DFS). 2. heard in football matches in the context of hoppa eh, hoppa ah ... and complemented by:
a) insha2allah haneksab (God willing, we will win)
b) insha2allah hanes2at (God willing, we will fail)
[C?: from Egypt colloquial hobba!]

'Tis the Season to be Jolly?

Firstly, I really must apologize for what Nesticleez so correctly labelled "weak" blogging as of late. However, Nesticleez conveniently neglected to acknowledge the fact that I've continued to succumb to my FMF/IBS drama over the past couple of weeks, which as always have rendered me quite usless. For shame, Nesticleez, for shame.

Now that that's out of the way, let us move on to my favourite time of the year: CHRISTMAS!

The Christmas tree went up on Friday, as did the garland that is placed above the entrance to the kitchen. My mother and I decided to light the tree differently this year (which basically means we wanted to be totally kitsch and add a million and one more lights). Lo and behold, with our new lighting system, we did not have enough to cover more than the bottom two rungs of the tree.

Uh oh...

Rush around Cairo trying to find Christmas lights. Zoom zoom zoom went the Mummy in her gas guzzler, ring ring ring went Eureka's phone to Lord knows how many stores.

EUREKA! (It's Christmas, I can be corny) we found the specific type of lights last night! Where? All the way across town. Typical. So we now need to wait until they are shipped from Mohandeseen to Zamalek (two different districts in Cairo) where a friend will pick them up along with her Christmas shopping.

Ah, the logistical nightmares of the holiday season.

However, it is worth it. I can confidently boast that my house is always one of the best decorated in Cairo. Because we're wicked like that.

As an added bonus during my deathly hours this week, I actually had real live honest to goodness work to do. Perfect timing. I told you Murphy's Law should be named after me.

Picture a doubled-over hobbling girl in a suit and overcoat sitting at a computer working on a presentation. On nothing but painkillers (that really do not deserve to be called anything other than stupid pointless ulcer-causing compressed powder that serves no purpose whatsoever) and tiny, terrified sips of water to avoid complete dehydration.

Saturday through today has been FMF. Monday through Wednesday was IBS. I should be awarded something for my bravery and fortitude. Or maybe someone should do to me what one does to a lame horse. Save us all the trouble.

Computer Wars

Eureka: my computer decided to stick the power thingie in front of my foot to see if i'd kick it dead. It won.

Bubba: computer 1. Eureka 0. I think your computer is staging war.

Eureka: it most definitely is. I don't know why though, it's not like i work hard enough to abuse it.

Insolent Bodily Systems

I believe I am perfectly within my rights as a principled, courteous, thoughtful, and engaging member of the human race to expect my body to do as it is told.

Granted, as with even the most dependable of machines, my body will sometimes break down or need a little rest, but I believe I am perfectly reasonable in expecting reliable performance the majority of my time on this generally lovely place we call Earth.

However, seeing as I am of those accursed individuals suffering under our Almighty Lord's incorrigible and inexplicable humour, I have had no such luck.

I began life as a healthy baby who, as the entire family's firstborn, was pampered, lavished with toys and attention, and essentially spoiled rotten. But soon enough, it became evident that I would be destined to live with this enormous chip on my shoulder, because seriously, this is getting on my last nerve.

I was born with what must be the world's most irresponsible immune system because in my short years, I have probably had just about every non-tropical disease or condition known to man, have had every removable organ removed, and been on more pills on a daily, long-term basis (I average 8-10 a day) than the sickest 90-year-old.

I am the reason you should invest all your money in Pfizer.

I won't bore you with my endless list of problems, but I will indulge my deep desire to complain about one of my less threatening but more annoying issues.

Ladies and Gentlemen, allow me to introduce you to the bane of my existence, Irritable Bowel Syndrome.

Otherwise known as:

Irrefutably Bitchy Stomach,
Impossibly Bleak Soul-snatcher,
Innocuous Bedan Shitfest, and
I Beg Shooting, among others.

I'm usually pretty good about it. I don't complain endlessly. Instead, I take pride in sucking it up and taking it like a stoic prisoner who is never going to break.

But when I really can't eat ANYTHING anymore without getting violently ill and being paralyzed with pain (and BELIEVE ME, I have a HIGH threshold for pain), then someone needs to start answering some questions.

I really just want to be able to chew without fear. Is that so much to ask?

Career? What Career?

I've been asked many times recently about my career aspirations. What is it that I want to do with my life? What career path do I see myself taking? Where do I see myself in whatever number of years?

Prior to graduation, I had all these questions firmly answered. I wanted to go to law school, to become a judge at the ICJ or another equally powerful court, and eventually, I wanted to write the next ground-breaking legal textbook. I wanted to be a legal scholar. I wanted to make a difference in this world.

Sitting here in a financial office now, I wonder what happened to those lofty dreams. Upon graduation, I realized law wasn't the way to go. I didn't really want to leave Cairo anytime soon, and practicing law here isn't an option for me. I'm not fluent in the language; I am not ready to face the challenges of being a triple minority trying to fight her way up.

I find that my interests lie in fields I do not realistically see myself pursuing. I love literature, and I love editing. But I am disenchanted with the publishing industry in Egypt. I'd love to take my chances in New York City or another publishing hub, but I don't see myself living abroad.

Is it fear that is forcing me to hesitate? Possibly. Am I spoiled? If comfort is a form, then yes. I don't mind hard work if it produces results. I do mind the lack of direction I've been struggling with.

I mind the fact that I have yet to find something I am truly passionate about. Yes law and literature engage me, but what is it that I go to bed and wake up thinking about? Where do my true passions lie? What is my calling?

At this point, I feel that a line from Lionel Shriver's We Need to Talk About Kevin describes my status:

"Like most people who did not answer a particular calling from an early age, you placed work beside yourself; any occupation would fill up your day but not your heart."

I hope that is not what I am destined to live with. It would be a shame.

Stoopid 'Puter

Don't you just hate it when your pc decides to suddenly die on you in the middle of work and neglects to auto-recover?

I hate computers.

Attention Readers!

As requested by the family tyrant herself, Munchkin is hereby rechristened "Bloft".

Thank you.

November One-Liners

Bubba: you know what I like [about work]; it's how my biggest real concern is lunch.
I don't think I've ever given lunch this much importance in my life.

Bubba: There's a really nice herbal tea that's like peach and rosehip. It's RED. A happy color.
Like... blood.

Roonies: My mental farts are mad cool.

Daddy: Munchkin, I hereby rename you Li Fu.

Nesticleez [after reading an article about a U.S. judge who had everyone in his courtroom imprisioned due to a telephone ringing]: Wow, someone totally peed in this guy’s cheerios.

Heaven & Sex

Eureka: If I were a man I'd definitely want to go to Muslim heaven. All those hot virgins. In Christian heaven we get stupid little wings and hymnals. I can't even sing. So I'll be demoted to cloud sweeper.

Bubba: Muslim heaven? Yes the virgins... fuck virgins. I want to sleep with virile HOT men.

Eureka: Do women get hot men in Muslim heaven? Or are they transformed into the virgins the men are promised? We must ask about that.

Bubba: Depends on who interprets it. I assume the whole idea is you get what you want. So yeah, virgins, ho men.
Hot*
Whatever

Eureka: I prefer ho men. They tend to be better in bed.

Bubba: really?

Eureka: I'd assume a horny well practiced man would be more capable than an inexperienced one. An inexperienced one will a) want to please himself, and b) not know how to please the woman.

Bubba: Although I'm sure there are experienced men out there who suck ass.

Eureka: Oh, of course there are. Those are called the impotent and the selfish in bed.

Bubba: Asses.

Eureka: Yes.

This Could Only Happen to Eureka

Somebody kindly EXPLAIN how a mosquito managed to get INSIDE my ear canal and bless me with a killer bite that I

a) cannot reach, and
b) is irritatingly painful whenever anything goes anywhere near it.

I'm so suing God if this (say that with extreme disdain) is how I get malaria and die the slow, miserable death He promised me.

Open Mouth, Insert Foot

So you know how it is considered courteous to express condolences to someone who loses a loved one? You know, call them up or go to the memorial service or something to show your support at a difficult time.

I'm not doing that anymore.

Why?

Not because of the extreme discomfort and uncertainty it invokes, not because it is depressing, and not because my Mummy didn't raise me right, but because of a little but mortifying incident I inflicted upon myself last week.

I have a friend who currently attends an East Coast university. Our parents have been good friends since before we were born, so it is natural that we know each others news pretty quickly. His grandmother passed away one morning last week, so as we are practically family I offer my condolences as soon as he pops up on my MSN.

The conversation went something like this:

Eureka: Teeth, my condolences.
Teeth: Your condolences? What? What happened? What are you talking about?
After a pause during which Eureka has simultaneously pissed her pants, banged her head repeatedly on the keyboard, and inflicted irreparable damage to her cranium, all she could come up with was:
Eureka: Oh, fuck.

Smooth, right?

So I told him what had happened. Turns out he'd just woken up and hadn't returned his parents' phone calls.

Eureka, you stupid brainless git, of course he didn't know! It was something like 7 a.m. on the East Coast; he was in deep sleep when it happened.

Idiot.

Now that was the easy part. I obviously had to add insult to injury (literally) by calling his mother to inform her that I had fucked up. I braced myself for the insults as I dialed.

…

Ha! Got you there! You expected some Eureka bashing, didn't you, you sadist. His mother was so busy with the funeral and people paying their respects and all that jazz that she really didn't have time to deal with me.

Phew! Thank the Lord Almighty! Hallelujah God doesn't spend all His time plotting against my every waking moment.

Sigh…

Murphy's Law should be renamed after Eureka.

Insultingly Funny in That Cute Sort of Way

Ahmed the Terrorist: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ouDRDzqTu0M

First three minutes are what's worth watching.

Indignation

In yesterday’s Al Masri Al Youm, an independent Egyptian daily newspaper, Mohamed Salmawy wrote an article entitled “Long Live Free Egypt” about an important milestone in Egyptian and Arab literature.

This week marked the fiftieth anniversary of Nobel laureate Naguib Mahfouz’s Cairo Trilogy, what is arguably his most famous work.

Salmawy wrote this about the celebrations that took place to commemorate his trilogy:

A critical scholarly symposium commemorating Mahfouz brought together, among other things, literary masters from around the world in order to shed light on the different facets of the trilogy and some of its previously unknown aspects. This symposium won an equally critical coverage on the part of the international press.

A wonderful literary evening was also organised, during which the talented actor Yousif Abo Warda narrated excerpts of the trilogy accompanied by original Arabic musical recitals played by the talented musician Albert Elias.

The literary evening also drew heavy attendance despite the fact that it was a paid, rather than an open event, which cost LE40…

Such a literary legacy is also a source of pride for the nation… and [this celebration] enshrines the eminent value and ranking of Egypt’s most renowned literary figure, Naguib Mahfouz, before the whole world.

So, have you heard of this commemoration?

If the answer is in the negative, then it would not be your fault, for the anniversary was not held in Egypt, the birthplace whose alleys and narrow streets Mahfouz immortalized, but in Israel.

Yes. The commemoration took place in none other than Israel under the title “Cairo Yesterday and Today”. It was organized by the prominent professor of literature, Sasson Somek.

I read those last two paragraphs twice in disbelief. No, no, I must have misunderstood since my Arabic is weak (read: practically illiterate). I asked my mother to read it to me again to make sure. I then asked her to translate because I must just not understand the sentence structure. I looked for the article online, and found it in English. With no other possible reason to doubt my understanding, I hung my head in shame.

I thank professor Somek for putting literature above politics and celebrating this work. I thank the attendees for putting their own prejudices aside.

Unlike many who view “Cairo Yesterday and Today” as having a hidden political agenda of mocking the Arab world, and specifically Egypt, I choose to view this as positive appreciation of a literary masterpiece.

I thank you, Israel, for this slap in the face.

A slap in the face we brought upon ourselves.

This should be seen as a wake-up call. We do not deserve to parade Naguib Mahfouz as an Egyptian if we do not have the courtesy to celebrate him and his work.

We do not deserve to claim the Ancient Egyptian civilization as our own if we insist on using it as an excuse to never move forward.

We deserve nothing more than having the very country the common Egyptian has been indoctrinated to believe is our arch enemy teach us what is right.

Yesterday, I was ashamed of my country.

Rather than call it yet another Israel conspiracy, I pray that tomorrow, my country takes this as a lesson learned, and offers praise and recognition where they are due.

Maybe then our country’s talent will stop fleeing to more civilized pastures.

Imperial Dictionary Entry #2

Diva (conflicting emotions), n.: 1. Public and International Law professor. 2. mentor to Empresses (see Hendika) and FSEs (see FSE). 3. mean, unbearable, inconsiderate, tyrant/bastard, yet entirely loveable and loved hilarious person who teaches as a hobby and likes to push Empresses and FSEs to the very ends of our limits; claims to think of them as the children he never had. 4. has a deep, repressed ambition of starring in a movie with or as Julia Roberts.

HEAR FUCKING HEAR

Bubba has a genius (therefore obviously female) friend who said the following:

"There are three sexes: male, female, and Jolie."

Damn straight.

Idiot Box

Now usually, I'm a patient person. I have no problem queuing at the drug store. I have no problem giving pedestrians the right of way. Even the little old lady who takes a good 15 minutes to come down from the pavement, then helps her even smaller husband and his cumbersome cane. I can wait if the valet takes a little longer than usual bringing me my car. And the mid-season hiatus most shows take doesn't bother me, all because I know that everything will go my way eventually.

Patience is a virtue.

But this writer's strike? Now that's more than I can take.

This uncertainty is killing me. I might have to wait till 2009 to find out what happens next on Desperate Housewives, Weeds, Nip/Tuck, Dirty Sexy Money, Grey's Anatomy, Dexter, Prison Break, Private Practice, 30 Rock, Heroes, One Tree Hill, Scrubs, and Gossip Girl, just to name a few.

I'll have finished all my trusty reruns in the first two months of waiting.

This can't be happening to me. Make it stop.

I never used to be like this. I was the occasional Friends watcher. I rarely watched TV. Didn't have the time, really. But then these new shows started to trickle into my system. First it was the O.C. yes, I'm not afraid to admit it. Then it was Prison Break. Then, before I knew what hit me, McGrey's brought in a flood of 15+ shows.

Now I need my shows at lunch, at dinner, in the bathroom, in the car, at the bar, at my best friend's wedding, at my grandfather's funeral, and in bed with me.

I even have a colour-coded schedule for when each episode airs.

My name is Eureka, and I am addicted to my TV characters.

Studios, pay the writers for the worlds they have created. You'd have nothing without their genius.

Please.

I want to live vicariously through my TV characters again.

Deep and Profound Brain Things Inside My Head #1

Would you rather know a lot about a little bit, or a little bit about a lot?

Scary Sea Monsters Are REAL!

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/science/nature/7104421.stm

Introducing the Empire of Hendika

During inane classes where a monotonous drone explaining the workings of Egypt's Supreme Court lulled and ushered us into the land of fluffy clouds and unicorns, a couple of us struggled to stay awake by establishing a world where I was (and still am, by the way) supreme ruler of all you survey. This utopia is known as the Empire of Hendika.

The Empire of Hendika was co-ruled by yours truly and my good friend Hendo-Nintendo, who insisted on having a hyphenated name as she was jealous of my own given name's hyphenated glory.

The Empire was complete with Ministers, who comprised of other people suffering in class, a coat of arms, and all sorts of things befitting the Empire of the World.

Among our more unique creations was the Imperial Dictionary, in which Her Imperial Highness Eureka, Ruler of All You Survery, compiled all the made up words and phrases we concocted in our boredom. The Imperial Dictionary of the Empire of Hendika is currently in its 7th Edition, and is updated regularly.

In order to acquaint you, dear readers, with the Empire, HIH Eureka will occasionally post definitions from the Imperial Dictionary.

Today's word is: Empire of Hendika

Hendika, Empire of (Ooooooh, aaaaah), n.: Hendika and the territories under its control, which continues to grow as its Co-Empresses Eureka and Hendo-Nintendo pursue an aggressive expansionist policy. Currently embraces over a quarter of the world’s population and land surface. The Empire's official colours are orange and brown, representing the Co-Empresses' personal preferences. It enjoys a unique system of rule, combining the Co-Empresses whims with the advice of the Grand Master and Spiritual Leader (GMSL) and the requests of the Faithful Subjects of the Empire (FSE's) who have ministerial posts.

Highlight of My Day #2

Eureka: University of Oxford scientists are trying to harness the energy released when bubbles burst to kill off cancer cells.
Bubba: And to THINK all those bubbles we popped as kids. So many lives lost.
You know, that's actually pretty cool. I mean, chemo and radiation is... pretty damn nasty stuff. I wonder if this is any better in the long run.
Eureka: I'm glad they're finding alternatives.
Bubba: Me too. Maybe by the time we need this they'll find a way to kill tumors with love.
You know, coddling the tumor, making kissy faces.
Because really that's the most noninvasive there is.
Eureka: I'm pretty sure tumors hate kissy faces, so that'll run them off pretty fast.
Bubba: That's what I was thinking, too.
Eureka: Curing cancer, one kissy face at a time.

Family Follies #1

My aunt is driving my 11-year-old cousin to a friend's house the other day. Upon arrival, my cousin opens the car door, scrunches her face, lets out a whopper fart, jumps out with a big goofy grin on her face, looks at her mother and says, "so you remember me all the way home."


"Eureka, Eureka, come quick!"
Eureka grudgedly gets off her ass and shuffles to where Munchkin (aka the younger sister aka the Devil Incarnate) is sitting.
"What is it, loser?"
Munchkin grabs Eureka's left boob and *squuuuueeeeezzeessss* while pinching Eureka's right.
"No, mine are still firmer. You can go now."


Space Cadet (aka the youngest and the boy): Munchkin, where's the baby?
Munchkin: Under the bed.
Space Cadet leans over and peers under the bed expectantly. He finds no infant.
Space Cadet [in same monotone]: Munchkin, where's the baby?

I WANT!

Seeing as I am in a self-centred, childish, and wholly materialistic mood on this fine Sunday evening (meaning I feel like shopping and my next flight out of here isn't for another month at the very least), here is my current list of impossible things I ardently desire.

1) I want to BE Meryl Streep. I am not satisfied with being anything less than on par with that kind of talent, intelligence, wisdom, and iconic status. Move over Meryl and allow me to take over your body, mind, and soul.

2) I want a huge library in my house. It will be the biggest room in the house. With infinitely high ceilings covered wall to wall with mahogany bookshelves, stocked to the brim with books on everything in the world, and those huge ladders with wheels to reach the top, and a fireplace with comfortable sofas to sit on, and a beautiful desk, and Prince Charming who of course paid for it all serving me hot chocolate and cookies, while I was lost in literary heaven. I'd live in just that room. No need for a house.

3) I want to meet a man who appreciates the beauty of the English language and the importance of using your vocabulary, so he'd understand why I can fawn over a sentence. Why is that so hard to understand?

4) I want Egyptians to pronounce my name correctly. My name has been distorted and mutilated beyond repair or recognition because people cannot seem to pronounce certain vowel sounds, turning a perfectly good name into a string of elongated E and A sounds that resemble a kindergarten sing-along.

5) I want to take the international publication industry by storm with the greatest of ease… using my flying trapeze. I’d love to wake up one morning to find myself in NYC and editor-in-chief of some glamorous and intellectual monthly, where I am revered and idolized by all and sundry. Megalomania is fun, you should all try it.

6) I want Haagen Dazs to grace my freezer with its presence. I especially want their chocolate ice cream to set up permanent residence in my mouth and stomach.

7) I want a certain three letter unmentionable (as it is a taboo in Egypt and is considered a topic unfit for respectable ladies like myself) that shall remain unmentioned. Said unmentionable pops into my head approximately once every three seconds (which is probably akin to the average teenage boy) and really should be at the top of my list. I’m hiding it here in the vain hope that it goes unnoticed. Because it is an unmentionable. And shall continue to remain unmentioned.

8) I want an iPhone. One that actually works here without the hassle of having it unbricked every time I plug it into iTunes because Apple hasn’t sent any properly working ones to Egypt yet.

9) I want to be able to teleport. Saves on gas, saves time, decreases traffic, and generally makes my life a lot easier.

10) Most importantly, I want to exchange my current DNA for a set without mutated pyrin variants A726 and L479. In plain English, I want those geniuses busy cloning sheep and discussing the merits of human cloning to focus on using their knowledge of the human genome to actually cure stupid disorders like Familial Mediterranean Fever and other more deadly but definitely less annoying diseases. Get on it!

"The Lord made Adam, the Lord made Eve, he made ‘em both a little bit naive." - E.Y. Harburg

Every morning, I eat an apple for breakfast in the car on my way to work. This morning, in my grouchy stupor, I open my fridge and reach into the apple drawer, blindly groping for a round, red, succulent apple.

Right then and there, catastrophe.

Lo and behold, there are no apples in the drawer. Some poor unfortunate soul committed the sin of sins and ate the last apple. They ripped away my only source of pleasure during the time of day I despise the most. I had nothing to eat for breakfast. Somebody had to pay.

Fuming, my mind listed the countless forms of torture, cruel, and inhuman punishment I could inflict on the perpetrator.

Should I bind them to the Metro rails and watch giddily as they were shredded by an oncoming train? Should I pull out their toenails with a pair of tweezers? Or maybe dangle their mangled, bleeding bodies over a pool of lunging great whites. Ooooh, waterboarding's another option, and quite appropriate in a region infamous for its creative torture techniques.

In what must have been an intervention from the tummy Gods on behalf of the apple-stealer, I turned around and found a bountiful bunch of beautiful bananas in the fruit bowl on the kitchen counter. The starving tyrant otherwise known as my stomach appeased, my brain slowly revved to life, the squeaking, rusty cogs churning.

With the themes of those ten minutes being apples and sins, it was only natural that my mind move on to think about the origins of sin, Adam and Eve, and the Garden of Eden.

In a nutshell Adam and Eve first sinned when they disobeyed God and ate the forbidden fruit. God incensed, He banished them from the Garden of Eden and forced them to live on the lowly land of planet Earth. From then on, the human race was destined to sin and sin again, stealing my breakfast as I peacefully slumbered.

With all the sins we commit each day, I would love to know just how wracked with guilt Adam and Eve must be. With every act of adultery, murder, theft, etc… I can just see their faces contort, wincing with regret.

Yes Adam and Eve, it is because of YOU and YOUR inability to control your urges that MY apple was eaten by someone else, that Bubba's pretty rainbow mug has mysteriously disappeared from her office kitchen, and that thousands of people may go without a whole season of prime time television because studios won't pay writers a percentage of DVD sales.

Eve would definitely have castrated Adam if she knew that this was what would become of their progeny.

To Thine Own Self Be True

One would think that a national identification card would be issued with accurate, necessary information informing the authorities of your name, rank, and serial number. The basic information that serves as evidence to your individuality, to avoid mistaken identity or whatever.

If my memory serves me correctly, in the majority of the world – that is, the civilized world – the requisite information would be name, possibly physical characteristics, social security number, address, and some other form of emergency information such as blood type.

No where in the world is RELIGION designated as a requirement.

Except in Egypt, the land of civilization.

Why?

Why is which faith – if at all – I follow at all important to the policeman writing up my parking ticket? Or the bartender looking at me with suspicion because even though I'm a university graduate I still look no older than twelve? (Except for the boobs. Those give me away every time).

Assuming (and this is a long shot but I always give people the benefit of the doubt. Even the Egyptian government and it's phenomenal stupidity) that a plausible reason can be established, then any faith should be allowed onto my ID card, right?

WRONG AGAIN, BUCKO.

Not only must I allow my private, personal beliefs to be branded and publicly displayed to all and sundry to see, but I must fall under three distinct categories, those of the three "revealed" religions: Judaism, Christianity, or Islam.

So if I'm Buddhist, tough cookies. I have to pick one of the aforementioned.

Can I leave it blank? Uhhh, no.

Can I have it say 'other'? Nuh-uh.

Can I put in atheist, non-believer, apostate, or even infidel? Nope. Nein. Non. La2.

This is a dramatic debate in Egypt at the moment, with entire communities being shunned, tossed into bureaucratic limbo, or worse. Thousands of people, including Baha'ai's, atheists, and those wishing to convert from Islam are being denied the fundamental human right to choose their personal beliefs.

Now Egypt has signed and ratified the UDHR, the ICCPR, and the ICESCR; documents collectively known as the International Bill of Human Rights. In more than one article, these documents specifically guarantee every human being's right to believe in whatever they want, whenever the want, wherever they want. Islamic Shari'a calls for tolerance and acceptance of those outside the three "revealed" religions.

Thus Egypt, as a Shari'a implementing country, as a member of the international community, and as a signatory of countless human rights conventions, has no right or reason to limit individual freedoms.

Aside from finding pleasure in ball breaking and generally creating more problems for an already struggling populace, what benefit or reason allows the state to use religion as a way to further torture us?

Highlight of My Day #1

Eureka: I need to get out of Cairo.

Female J: I hear Aswan is nice.

Eureka: I was thinking Jupiter.

Nesticleez: Uranus is nicer.

Oh but the strawberries will never taste so good again and the thighs of women have lost their clutch!

Now that the initial rush of being gainfully employed has passed, I have a bone or two to pick with the powers that be, the almighty Job Gods, sitting in their spacious corner offices in the sky.

1) If you're not going to give me anything to do for two weeks, why am I required to sit staring at a computer screen reading random webpages for 8 hours? Why not allow me to be more productive, like sleeping till noon or sitting on my throne for an hour? (Believe me, it's where I do my best thinking).

2) Administration and HR departments must die. 17 times. If you're going to demand that all employees present their office IDs upon entering the goddamn building, then fucking issue IDs promptly. Don't make me stand down there convincing the security guards that yes, I do work here, we have this conversation every morning. You know you speak to me every morning because if you could undress me with your eyes any faster I'd be missing three layers of skin. And stop biting my boobs. That doesn't turn me on anymore.

3) As one of the biggest MNC's in the country, you really should have faster internet. You can afford it. C'mon, be wild. Go for broadband.

4) Give me the motherfucking office you promised me 3 months ago. The rest of the analysts have offices. FIND ME ONE NOW, BITCH. I need to be able to read my beloved Perez without the office boys staring at Lindsay Lohan's side boob.

5) Get me Illy's coffee. This Nescafe poison doesn't do it for me.

6) For that matter, add more restaurants to our immediate vicinity. A girl cannot live on Casper & Gambini's alone.

7) Seriously, the stock talk over lunch needs to stop. What's wrong with more conspiracy theory talk? That was fun. Or more on how King Juan Carlos told Chavez to shut up. Or that Italian football fan who was shot by police a zillion miles away. Or Xbox. Or hot chicks. See? I'm even giving you hot chicks. Just puhleeez, no more stock talk over my penne.

8) So this one hour of work a day? I'm still not over that.

Aside from all the aforementioned, I really must stop mumbling "I love my job I love my job I love my job" a la Emily from The Devil Wears Prada in the vain hope of actually indoctrinating myself. Grasping at straws never looks sexy. Even in a suit.

Middle School Matrimony

Last night I had the (insert moan here) pleasure of attending yet another wedding. Wedding season has just refused to end this year. Not only am I fed up with having to stress over wearing a dress that:

a) Is considered appropriate, which is impossible to gauge if you don’t know who’s invited;
b) Hasn’t been seen to recently by those invited; and
c) Insert debasing comment regarding my weight here,

but I cannot believe the diminishing ages of the brides and grooms. We’ve returned to playing ‘Wedding’ in our elementary school playgrounds.

Although I’m a staunch proponent of marriage, I cannot understand the current Egyptian trend of marrying straight out of university.

I believe graduation ushers entry into the real world, and thus, adulthood. But funnily enough, Egyptian society seems to believe adulthood is not marked by university and then entry into the real world, but instead that process is merely a tool used to gain access to the real ‘real’ world – marriage. Why is marriage the only truth or acceptable path?

Why is it no respected when one chooses career or personal growth over such an institution – one irreparably marred in our society? Marriage is no longer a happy union but a necessity; a new age debutante ball for the couple, introducing them as eligible, veritable adults worthy of membership in society.

Otherwise, no matter what you do, or how old you are, or how successful you become, you’re still a child living under the care and protection of your parents.

Care to ‘splain, anyone?

My Blue and Green Polkadot Debauchery

In the midst of a conversation about the joys of slacking off at work with my friend Bubba, the other day's upskirt adventure came up.

Eureka: that was such an embarrassing 2 minutes of my life
Bubba: was it really as bad as it sounds?
Eureka: I'm talking flew up in my face instead of covering my crotch bad. And I was wearing revealing underwear. Because I'm an IDIOT like that.
Bubba: HAHAHAHAHA
Did you flash your leopard thong to the public?
Eureka: yes…
Except it was blue and green polka dots.
Bubba: HAHAHAHAHA
How could you NEGLECT to mention that in the entry?

Let's all applaud Bubba's unique title; chapeau!

Don't You Just LOVE a Good Conspiracy Theory?

Sometimes, you’re faced with the curse (or blessing, depends on which way you look at it) of a slow day at work. That’s not a particularly bad thing to have to endure if it is a welcome respite in the midst of an otherwise hectic week, month – what have you. I have been blessed with several slow days recently.

Mind-numbingly slow days.

So slow that I have actually managed to read every single available article on the New York Times website.

Yes, even the classifieds.

And the society pages with those nauseating wedding announcments.

And even the corrections.

It has been so slow recently that the boys and I have been enjoying wondrously long lunch hours, where our discussions have deviated from normal stock talk to a medley of unlikely topics.

Today’s topic: Freemasonry. For those unacquainted with the Freemasons, they are basically a secret society (read: fraternity) established sometime in the seventeenth century for powerful men, on an astonishingly large scale.

This initial mention of the Freemasons led to a conspiracy theorist discussion of how the world’s major decisions are controlled by the desires of the Grand Master of the Freemasons, who – after hand picking world leaders – has them follow his commands, lest he has them killed. Because that’s the rule. If you’re a Freemason, you have to follow orders. Or else they kill you.

So, good ol’ George Dubbya invaded Iraq because the Freemasons told him to. Israel was created because the Freemasons declared it so. The conversation went on, declaring several influential families to be of the Freemasonic clan.

Now, I don’t claim to believe in a conspiracy theory involving a higher world order dictating international politics. But, I have to admit, the idea of some old geezers sitting around with cigars and whisky in some historic lodge playing a game of chess or Risk – and using the entire world as their playing pieces – would explain a lot of the stupidities Man has concocted over the last four centuries or so. I just think it makes for a pretty funny mental image. Hmmm, if I kill off 6 million or so Jews, that would lead to a FUN four year war culminating in the deployment of the atomic bomb. Good times!

In other news, the baby spit up into my cleavage. Again. He finds pleasure in doing that. Little bastard.

Upskirt Moment #1

There are those rare days when I wake up in the mood to wear a skirt. To the average female reader, skirts shouldn’t be a problem. On the contrary, they are rather comfortable little things that allow one to feel quietly pleased with oneself all day. A sort of mini pick-me-up if you will.

Sadly, skirts are also prone to morphing into quagmires.

Aside from the obvious harassment issues so ubiquitous on the streets of Cairo, I feel it is imperative that I warn all skirt-donning women that – thanks to Al Gore’s version of the weather forecast – November in Cairo is now blustery (read: gale force winds). Yes, that is when the air comes up from underneath you and decides to assist you in the undressing process. In the middle of the corniche. Thereby giving everyone exiting my office building prime view of me in all my glory. Thereby also allowing the security guards to audibly snicker and snort with glee. Early Christmas present, folks.

Special thanks to the three men on that rickety Vespa who decided I was in need of a firm reprimand as they puttered by.