Tying Up Some Loose Ends

Seeing as I am in a wholly uncreative and/or funny mood (creativity and humour do not necessarily coincide, hence the /), I shall take this opportunity to keep you informed rather than entertained.

1. Today, June 30th, is Space Cadet's 15th birthday. Never mind the fact that he looks 19. He is 15 as of 35 minutes ago. Space Cadet's first words to Mummy when she called to wish him a happy birthday (she is currently out shisha-ing with the father - told you I'd be informative tonight) were "What did you buy me?" This would seem to be a completely normal question coming from a 15-year-old on his birthday. However, my vaccuumforbrains brother was physically present at the purchasing of his present as he picked it out himself (how'd you like all that alliteration). And no, he was not joking. How I wish he were.

2. Bloft's MacBook (black) arrived from NYC yesterday afternoon. I haven't seen her since. Thankfully, there isn't the tell-tale stench of rotting flesh wafting from her room, so I believe it is safe to assume she is alive. She won't be much longer, though. The parents are plotting her slow and excruciating demise due to a terrible report card this year. Pray for her. The parents are vicious. And their executions are akin to medieval public hangings. Scratch that, medieval public hangings are akin to my parents' executionary skills. They taught ye olde people everything.

3. I don't mean to jinx myself, but it seems like Mr. Boss Man just might be lightening up the workload this week. Cross your fingers!

4. Bloft, the mother, and I leave to London on July 5th (the males will join us a week later). That's 5 days and counting. I cannot wait; I've been dying for a break for what feels like 29 centuries and a millennium. We shall be gone for about a month. During this month, I do not think I will be able to post much, if at all. This is due to my almost utter shunning of all things internet while in London. It is my annual internet detox. No email, no blogs, no MSN, nothing. Nada. Zilch. Maybe email one time. Twice at most. Unless I happen to visit the Apple store. Checking mail at the Apple store doesn't count. This is because internet at the Apple store is free. We like free.

5. If by some magical random crossing of url connection this blog has any readership based in London (or will happen to be visiting London while I'm there) please feel free to drop me a line and we'll grab a drink at the Common Room, which happens to be an ideal place because a) it's chilled and relaxing and cool, b) it's near my abode so I won't get lost, and c) it's somewhere you definitely won't have been so I'll feel all cool and Londony showing you something new!

I think that covers my housekeeping for the time being. Hopefully I'll manage another post (a proper one) before I skedaddle off across the European continent. If I don't, fret not. I love you anyway.

On A Related Note

I almost forgot to mention this:

Yesterday, I left the office 10 minutes early for 2 reasons.

1) I was silently protesting the fact that Mr. Boss Man only every remembered to call me with work a second before I walked out of the office;
2) I was totally avoiding being in the office to receive said daily call because I needed to go home;
3) I hadn't been home at a decent hour in forever and missed seeing my room in the daylight;
4) I still resented the fact that I had to work all weekend. Yes, I hold a grudge when I can't even claim overtime.

Fine, that was 2 squared. Same difference. I never said I could count. I have Excel and calculators for that.

As accurate as a fine-tuned Patek, he called my mobile phone at 4:56, meaning he'd called my desk and not found me.

Now, check me out in all my suck it glory. I ignored his call.

Wait, wait. It gets better! I never called back! I know! I'm such a rebel!

Eureka wags her tail in giddy self-congratulations.

This morning, I called when I arrived at 10:08. He wasn't in yet so I had time to drink my home brewed coffee. Some of which had already scalded my left butt cheek. The very cheek I mentioned in the previous post because I happen to favour it. The universe is a twisted place, I know. In my morning grumpy stupor, I forgot to snap the travel mug closed, so when I lay it on the seat next to me, it leaked.

Thank my lucky stars my skirt was black today. Because walking around with a brown stain on my bottom all day would definitely lead to too many questions and a pay cut. If they were feeling generous.

So, yeah. He calls me back a little while later. After business was taken care of he asked why I'd disappeared the other afternoon.

I am such a badass. I lied my way out of it by saying there was an emergency at home and in my hurry I left my phone on my desk. Half convincing, too!

I should be a professional excuse maker-upper. I'd so make a killing.

Earning My Keep

You'll find that I haven't written as much as I usually do this month. You'll find that my links to the Internet's more humorous miscellanea have dwindled as well. Contrary to what David Hayes' otherwise spot on description of the death of a blog says, this is not Eurekaisms' final moments. Far from it, Eurekaisms has become as vital to me as my left butt cheek. Yes, the one I use to keep my pot-belly balanced. The reason I am less available this month is simple, beautiful people. Drumroll, please.

[dudududududududududududuududududududrrrrrrrrrummmmmm]

I quit my job and am now a proud new high-end escort. For inquiries, references, cost sheets, and bookings, kindly leave your number in the comments section and my agency will contact you shortly.

I love my new job. I arrive at the agency around 10am, where I organize my agenda to avoid double-bookings (bad for business; men don't like to think they're not your only one), I do extensive research on the latest tricks of the trade and generally keep myself updated on all things escort related, shop for designer gowns, shoes, and accessories, and compare notes with the other gorgeous girls in the business.

Then, every day at precisely 4:55, after already having exhausted myself primping and preparing, the agency's head calls me into his office and hands me my assignments. Sometimes, these meetings involve the head honchoes, which means it's a long and important meeting involving finances. Others, it involves conference calls with clients, meaning it'll be a long day.

Like today, for instance. Mr. Boss Man called at 4:55, and said "Eureka, come up for a conference call. It starts in five minutes."

Eureka thinks what conference call? Why am I always the last person told about everything?

I rush upstairs and spend the next 2 hours and 10 minutes listening to a client bullshit his way out of answering questions vital to closing the deal, all while my boss's boss becomes increasingly aggitated and gives up at 6:15 and leaves. I had no real purpose at that call. I wasn't even introduced to the people on the other side. But seeing as I've been working on this deal all month, I guess they felt I had to be there. Just in case the divine rays decide to shine down on my feeble mind and present the bosses with the fruits of such inspiration.

On the one hand, I love the fact that my boss is beginning to involve me with more projects and give me more opportunity to bring something to the table. It means I'm seen as more than just the kid they hired because they felt like rejecting my resume would be a waste of potential. It means I've proved them right, and that my potential is being to actualize, regardless of how slow or undertrained this actualization may be.

But does the work always have to start at 5pm, just as I'm getting ready to leave? Do I really have to give up my soul to the corporate dragon in order to keep my head above water? I'd like to have enough energy to have a quarter of a life after work. I hate relegating myself to the weekends. It means I'm actually earning my pitiful salary.

Ugh. Who'd have thought I'd manage to succeed at chemical poo?

Chipping at the Concrete Wall

So everyday, I click on the "create post" link in order to write some witty little reflection in this blog. Something sharp, funny, and hopefully insightful to you, my six and a quarter readers. But everyday, I stare at the blank space awaiting the fruits of my mind's cog-turns for about a minute, and very anti-climatically and unceremoniously balk. Just as I clicked it open, I quickly click on the big red X on the top right hand corner, and go back to staring aimlessly at a random chemical poo company's capacity additions or cash flow statement.

It is not a lack of stories to tell. I have enough upskirt moments a day due to my wind funnel of an office building entrance to easily fill up several posts a day. It isn't a lack of desire to talk to you; I love your comments, I love your readership, and I love reading your blogs.

I get this way sometimes. It's not a simple case of writer's block. It's a deep rooted rejection of sharing the real me with the outside world. I don't exactly know why this is the case. I haven't been emotionally scarred by a person I love. I haven't been betrayed. I've never been able to let anyone in enough to give them the chance to hurt me to begin with. Even this silly little admition is more than I've ever said about myself before. I've always been happier listening to others and helping them through their issues. No, happier isn't the right word. I've always been more comfortable in that position. Becuase it meant that the focus wasn't on me, I didn't have to expose my heart or my thoughts and fears.

I've always bottled everything inside. This is one of the reasons why I decided to start a blog. I figured, if I couldn't communicate what's going on inside to people I would probably never meet and therefore would never have to face, then how could I ever hope to survive let alone flourish in this world? And yet, after 7 months of blogging, what have I really said on here aside from superficial stories, general winging, and random links? How much of me have I revealed? I could just about anyone writing and no one would tell the difference. I've made no progress. In 7 months, this just may be the first time I've revealed anything about myself. How disappointing is that?

Yes, great. I succeeded in maintaining this for longer than a week. Whoop dee doo. Yes, I've posted a couple of genuinely funny snippets. Who couldn't in 112 posts? Have I made a proper connection? No. Have I learnt to be even the least bit more emotionally communicative? No. I still can't talk to the people close to me about me. I can't even write about it on a blog almost no one reads. Even after this post, I won't improve. I know myself well enough to know that this is a one off. That's if I even bother to post it.

I'll concede this post as a tiny step forward. I'll grow a pair and actually post it. Let's see if I can keep this sort of honesty going.

Who knows, I might even be able to be funny next time.

Ken Leeeeeee!

This had me in stitches all morning. Totally made up for the fact that I had to work all day.



Thanks T-$!

Inner-Child on the Outside

I may be 21 but I am definitely still a child. The littlest, silliest things make me happy. That isn’t why I believe I’m the living female version of Peter Pan. I think I’m Miss Pan because of how I react to the little things that make me so happy. I clap my hands like a 5-year-old who just destroyed his Lego fort. I giggle hysterically like a toddler laughing at the person who just banged their head on the kitchen table. I wag my proverbial tail like a puppy on a sugar rush. I grin like I’m about to barf rainbows and leprechauns and my eyes crinkle and shine with laser powered sun beams shooting out from every direction.

I’m a little kid. I even have the face of a kid. I don’t look anywhere near 21. I have big wide mahogany alien eyes that could only be feasibly acceptable on a Care Bear or Snow White. I have round rosy cheeks from Toyland or Santa Claus’s niece or something. According to Duckie, who has adopted me as her kid sister, mischief just jumps out of my eyes. That I understand because I always go push her swivel chair around and generally annoy the hell out of her when I’m bored. Then she throws me a lollipop or a little ball or something which I duly bound after and retrieve in my petite pink mouth.

This is why I’m amazed at how in the 6 years I’ve been hitting Cairo’s tiny (albeit improving) club scene, I’d never been I.D.ed. Not once. But now, having finally achieved the comfortable status of 21 and a half, I’ve been I.D.ed. Not once, but TWICE. Twice in as many weeks. Am I physically growing younger as I age? Do I really not look like an adult? I know it isn’t tighter security or anything because the clubs are still packed with my 16-year-old sister’s friends. Who, by the way, have yet to be I.D.ed. When I walk in with Bloft, she isn’t I.D.ed. I am. Resulting in even more ammunition in her already overflowing artillery of things to make fun of Eureka about.

Don’t these boobs prove I’m an adult? I mean look at them, they’re the perfect specimen of what God said an adult woman should possess. Glorious boobs. Divinely blessed boobs. Boobs that should not be I.D.ed. It is a crime against God and humanity to I.D. these boobs. And it isn’t like I hide them or anything. They get a pretty decent airing when I’m out. So seriously, bouncers, you have no reason to I.D. me.

I.D. me indeed. Think I can sue?

In Honour of the Egyptian Parliament

They finally passed legislation banning FGM. Certainly took them long enough. Coincidentally, this month's flash fiction piece in Campus Magazine is about FGM. Aren't I psychic?

It's Called "Nesma".

Mama and Baba are fighting again today. They are fighting about me, like yesterday and the day before. Something about a lady and a word I don’t know. Hon-or? I should ask Naeem what that means. Naeem is in fifth grade, he’ll know. He’s the smartest boy in his class. Baba says he’ll be an engine. Mama says he’ll be a doctor. I don’t want Naeem to turn into an engine. They’re hot and dirty. I want Naeem to be a plane driver so he can take me up high in his big plane. Naeem says he would if he could. I start first grade next week. I don’t want to but Naeem says I will like it. He says all we do is colour and nap. I still don’t want to.

Mama says it won’t hurt. She calls me into her room and talks about being a woman with res-pect. I don’t know what that means either, but I won’t ask. Baba is angry. He tries not to show me and smiles in a thin line. Like he does when Teta comes to visit. He is hiding behind his newspaper and it is shaking. How can he read something that’s moving so much?

A big fat lady with three yellow teeth and black dots on her chin came to see me. She smells funny. Like the incense Mama burns on Fridays but also like sweat and meat. She has lots of thick gold bracelets on her arms. They cover her almost to her elbows. She’s like the cows at Giddo Hamza’s. You can hear them a million kilometres away because of their bells. Giddo says that’s how they find cows in Swizzerlan. He says there are many cows there because it is all grass. And chocolate. I want Naeem to take me when he gets his plane. That’ll be our first stop because we both love chocolate. And Giddo can come to buy a new cow.

I don’t like the big fat lady. She smiles too hard. Baba doesn’t say hello to her like he usually does when people visit. Usually he even says hello to Teta and he doesn’t like her. If I tried not to say hello Mama would spank me hard. That isn’t fair. Baba just left and slammed the door. I wonder if Mama will spank him when he gets home.

Mama just made me lie down on the table. She says the lady is going to make me pretty. I tell her Baba says I’m already the most beautiful girl in the world. She tells me to do as I’m told and looks at me scary. I lie down and stare at the crack shaped like a bunny in the ceiling. I call it Rosto and make it my pet. I will make everyone say hi to Rosto and will feed it when we have lunch.

The fat lady takes a shiny blade out of her sleeve, like the ones Baba uses to shave. Is she going to shave my face? I lift my head to see but Mama pushes it down and holds my hand. She smiles but doesn’t really. I’m scared now and the big fat lady takes off my panties. Mama always says I shouldn’t let anyone do that but she’s letting the fat lady do it to me now.

She puts something cold down there and then the whole room spins and goes very very white and I see a big bumblebee buzzing and buzzing and buzzing around my head in front of my nose and I want to scream and shoo it before it stings my nose but I can’t move and I can’t breathe and I can’t feel anything and it lands on my nose near my eyes and stings me and my nose becomes a big balloon that pops and falls off in the big fat lady’s rough red hands.

Mama cleans me up and put me to bed. I fall asleep. When I wake up Baba is sitting next to me holding my hand. I put my hand to my nose to check if it grew back. It did. I lie back, whew. I tell Baba about the bumblebee and my nose growing back. He smiles and says he has a present for me. I take it and open it and it is a pretty new pink and yellow dress. I give him a kiss and tell him not to leave me because I don't want to close my eyes in case the bumblebee comes back. He says he will make sure it doesn't come back. Baba will protect me and I sigh and fall asleep.

Cynically SATC

Let me begin by saying I realise that I had no reason to find the boss' paying for dinner unacceptable. It is merely Eureka finding more and more reasons not to date the date. Eureka has decided not to date the charming, cute, smitten date for the following reasons:

1. He is 31. Usually, I prefer a large age difference. In this case, it serves as nothing more than a thick red line emphasising his immaturity. He may be 31, but he thinks, speaks, texts, and flirts like he's a 7-year-old boy trying to convince his mummy to buy him the latest action figure - the action figure in this case being making me his future wife.

2. That's another problem. We only met ten days ago, but he's already imagining our names monogrammed on our towels. That began even before the first date. After the date he was naming our children and choosing the breed of dog we'd have. He is saying this to a girl who is the personification of commitment-phobia. Role reversal, anyone?

3. Zero ambition. I need my men to want to make something of themselves. It's hot. At 31 he has no set career path, and has been bouncing around from job to job for the last 8 years. He started in advertising, and worked for a few months at a time at three or four different companies. The decided that the advertising industry in Egypt didn't suit him because he wasn't immediately doing what he wanted to do. Um, rising up the ladder might have helped you do that, date, don't you think? Then he worked in hotels and development for a bit. Didn't like his boss. Fair enough. Now he runs the golf operations at some gated community. He says he plans on switching to another gated community and might stick to it for a while since the job is laid back and demands little effort. So you're a lazy schmuck. So not attractive.

I will say, however, that he is a lovely boy. But that the problem. I shouldn't be calling him a boy at 31. I'm the problem, really. I have high expectations. I need to be impressed.

Granted, I'm insanely difficult to please. But I'm 21. I shouldn't need to consider settling yet. I have the right to still believe my Mr. Perfect is out there.

And if worst comes to worst, I doubt I'll have a problem wooing the date back in a few years.

A First

I think I may be the only person (at least that I know of) whose date's boss secretly pays for dinner as we eat.

We walk into the restaurant and he finds his boss sitting at the first table we see, so he says hello and I politely smile and nod in the man's direction. No, he did not introduce me. Strike two of the night, so far*.

I must admit the evening was otherwise pleasant. Cannot fault him on cuteness, charm, or conversation. We shall go into all the reasons I don't think this will go anywhere another time, I promise (I know that's what you all want to read, anyway).

Anyway, where was I? He asks for the cheque at the end of dinner only to be informed that his boss had taken care of everything. Really. Who does that? It was very nice of the man, but seriously? Does the date look like he's 5? Or does he make peanuts for a living? Don't really know what to make of the situation.

But hey, at least it's a new one!

*The first strike was making me walk to his car when he overshot my house, thereby allowing 6 ridiculously crass boys in the street cat call and follow me in my tight, hot dress. That was scary and embarrassing. AND he didn't bother opening doors for me. Terrible terrible manners. Tsk.