Eureka the Smart

I know, I know. How dare I tease you with regular posting only to snatch it away so soon. Busy fortnight at work resulting in an exhausted Eureka, which has therefore created the current sniveling, heavy-headed, sinus clogged, Thursday night at home with a fever creature that claims to be Eureka. Yes, I caught a cold. Boo hoo. Lucky for you faithful (or insane) 6-and-a-half readers, that means I'm home long enough to post an update here.

So, work has been pretty hectic because we've been working towards today's H1 2009 earnings announcement. That basically means Eureka has been pouring over meaningless numbers for the last two weeks trying to figure out how much work the Dragon's Balls has scheduled over the last quarter, how much old work remains, which entity contributed what, how much chemical poo who sold, at what price, to whom, through whom, etc... An endless flow of Excel sheets, links, updates, amendments, adjustments, reallocations, and most importantly, MISTAKES. I cannot begin to list the number of stupid mistakes I've made over the last two weeks. I can't even seem to copy a phone number correctly. I am either stupid, careless, dyslexic, or a combination of all three.

I think it is a combination of lack of motivation and an inherent inability to digest numbers that's making me this prone to error. I mean, when I was at university and writing 30-page papers, I would rarely make more than possibly one slight typographical error. My fact-checking and evidence was always foolproof. My citations were exemplary. My work was top-notch ALL THE TIME. But here? I make stupid mistakes all the goddamn time. AVOIDABLE mistakes. Mistakes anyone with half a brain shouldn't be making. I have never felt stupider or smaller than this week. Mile-A-Minute must think I have the cognitive capacity of a flea. Even a flea is smarter because a flea knows to jump high and feed. I can't even do that properly.

I'll be sitting down focusing on getting all the right items in the right places and Mile-A-Minute starts bombarding me with inane questions because he's too lazy to open up a spreadsheet to check for himself. This distracts me and leads to a mistake, upon which a couple of others are built. He then asks me to do X or Y useless, unimportant and unnecessary task right away, which distracts me once more and leads to mistakes 5 and 6. He later forwards an email he believes he is too important to reply to, distracting me once again, leading to mistakes 10 through 12. And so on. Once I am done, he takes a look at the document and finds several of these silly little mistakes, meaning the document must fly back and forth thirty seven times to amend. And yet, none of these mistakes should have been made, because they're things I:

a) know,

b) should have noticed myself if I'd paid attention to what I was doing, and

c) can easily avoid in the first place BECAUSE I SHOULD NOT BE THIS CARELESS.

I have wanted to take my desk chair and ram my head with it no less than 76,654 times over the last few days. It is a huge blow to my self-esteem. But will I learn anything from this experience? No. I know what I'm like. I will continue to be careless because I know Mile-A-Minute will check up after me. It is a subconscious desire to make him work more than 30 minutes a day - if that. But at the end of the day, I'm still the one doing all the dirty work, and I'm the one who looks like an idiot. Lose-lose situation folks.

But hey, at least I make bank every month :)

Dream Pets are Weird

Grapers recommends that I try to write every day in order to keep my flow going, regardless of quality. So, apologies for the sheer stupidity of the following post, but here goes:

A few nights (or was it early mornings?) ago I had a disturbingly surreal and vivid dream. In this dream starred six-year-old Eureka who was searching for her pet bunny. Note that real-life six-year-old Eureka never had any pets, let alone a bunny. Dream pet bunny was a regular brown bunny. However, regular brown bunny was not regular at all as he was a talking bunny. Apparently, six-year-old Eureka is aware of her pet's sex. Don't ask. The strange part is still to come.

Eureka, frowning her signature frown of concentration, finally finds bunny chilling under her bed. I must note that Eureka's room was very sunny and light. I quite enjoyed the dream room. Six-year-old Eureka drags brown male talking bunny out from under the bed and scolds him for hiding. Six-year-old Eureka then introduces male brown talking bunny to his new roommate, male fat cat. Note again that Eureka dislikes cats. Don't ask. The strange part is still to come.

Brown talking male bunny proceeds to freak out and dashes behind hitherto non-existant couch in six-year-old Eureka's room (who knew a six-year-old needed such a large and well-furnished room?). Fat male cat magically appears behind couch and proceeds to lazily anally rape male bunny, who apparently saw this coming. Previous experience? Cruel and unsual punishment? Would a six-year-old even understand rape? Don't ask. The strange part is still to come.

Male brown bunny repeatedly screams, "BOY CAT! BOY CAT! BOY CAT!" and grown up Eureka wakes up, not knowing what happened to her dream pets.

Seriously don't know what I ate/drank/smoked before going to bed that night.

The Proper Way to Eat Rice

First, let us set the scene:

Picture a bright, creme coloured dining room with about 8 large round dining tables, seating about 10 each. Picture a semi-filled table seating me, Mile-A-Minute, and 5 strangers, about to tuck into our lunch. 

Now picture me removing a piece of chicken from a skewer with my knife. Note that there is a large spoonful of rice two centimetres away from said knife action. 

As you can probably foresee, I now ask you to picture said knife slipping off the chicken and slamming into the helping of rice, sending most of the rice flying off my plate and scattering it all over the table. 

Now picture three waiters tutting over a plainly embarrassed Eureka and hurriedly cleaning the table up. All I could do was sheepishly keep eating. The rest of the people on the table pretended not to notice anything at all, which obviously made it all the more cringe-worthy. 

Props to the waiters, though. They cleaned my mess up in 4 nanoseconds flat. 

Remind me never to eat at any work-related function ever again. My bruised ego couldn't handle another dining etiquette castrophe. 

Hello, Ma’am, My Name is Frank McMillen

You know what I

Hate most about my job?

It's not the doors

Slamming

In my face,

Or the blisters on the soles

Of my feet.

I don't

Hate the hours

I spend

Demonstrating,

Pointlessly,

To women

Mooching off

My vacuuming;

I expect it.

Rejection

That is. 

I just hate it when

Her husband

Comes home

Early

The one time

I get some. 

Selective Intelligence

Sometimes I wonder why I suffer from a profound lack of interesting thoughts. It seems to me that just about everyone (by everyone I mean every blog I've read and every friend I've made) will sit and have deep and profound brain things inside their heads when sitting alone. They ponder interesting topics, or sort through emotionally deep issues, or come up with highly creative ideas, or tackle intellectually difficult concepts. Their brains function analytically. Their brains function in general. 

I, on the other hand, will daydream. I will travel to some far off place in my head and pretend to get shot saving another person; I will have an indignantly self-righteous argument with someone annoying me or a loved one; I will be a princess in my castle; I will be Empress Eureka of the World. I won't think of Heidegger or Derrida. I won't think of political strategies or policies. I won't read the GMAT books lying forlornly on my desk. When reading I will routinely select fiction over non-fiction. I will begin a groundbreaking analysis of American political thought, then about 3 chapters in, abandon it for Woolf, even though I find the other book genuinely interesting and the writing style flowing and logical. 

And even when I do manage to read a work of non-fiction through, I will take it at face value. Rarely will I disagree or ask questions. Even though I know that had I been discussing this with Roonies or in class, I'd probably have something to say, or would argue against it. But only initially. I'd probably fall silent when pressed and acquiesce to the point Roonies or the classmate was making because my brain just won't go further than what it is presented with. 

It drives me crazy, because I know I'm not stupid. I just do not know how to think. 

However, talk to me about One Tree Hill or Gossip Girl or any novel or work of fiction, and I can go on for hours, nitpicking over the minutest of details. Why is this the case? Why can I only live in La La Land? 

And yet I managed to coast through my Political Science major, and my Public International Law specialization, and graduated magna cum laude. And no, I didn't pick the easy professors, as easy as that would have been at AUC. I took 5 classes with the Diva and managed 5 A's, for the love of God. The Diva does not hand that letter out. 

Where is the A achieving brain now? Why could it achieve an A in a Diva class dissecting the US Constitution, but couldn't with a Mike (who wasn't any easier) Political Theory class discussing Locke and Hobbes? 

Apparently, Eureka's brain is a highly selective thinker. Eureka doesn't like this one bit. 

On a side note, The Year of Magical Thinking (by Joan Didion) is a great read. Finished it last night. Go read it. 

Three Is NOT The Most Charming Number

I have come to wholeheartedly believe that luck - be it good or bad - comes in threes. Yesterday was the day of proof. 

We woke up in the morning expecting a relaxing Saturday. We were going to cut our hair, run some errands, then see one of my most favouritist of my mother's friends in the evening. My mother decided we should leave the house around noon to avoid the early afternoon traffic, both at the hairdresser's and on the road. Meanwhile, my genius friend by the name of Roonies decides to give me a call. 

"Eureka, you're going to grad school with me. I'm going to start studying for my GMAT's right after Ramadan, and I ordered these great books online. The grand total is US$315. Order them and we can study together."

"Ok Roonies, your wish is my command. You are the all-knowing and all-acing one. I can only study for my GMAT's if it is with you. I cannot do this alone. You will make me work hard."

In all fairness, Roonies wasn't so forceful in her delivery. I choose to make her sound so bossy because I'm the idiot for following her blindly. But the woman is a goddamn certified genius. I'd be stupid NOT to follow her blindly. Then again, I am not a genius. I am neither intelligent enough to make a rational decision for my wellbeing that isn't imposed upon me, nor am I intelligent enough to manage the GMAT's at all, let alone on my own with no teacher or guidance from Roonies. I can't sit still to study for ten minutes without needing to take a lap around the room. And the kitchen. Give me a novel, on the other hand, and I won't budge off my fat buttocks all day. How can I be expected to study for a test that is mostly maths/mathemetically-inclined logic and is aptitude-corrected? OR whatever that the computer decides how smart/dumb the questions should be based on your answers system is called. 

So, dutiful mimicker that I am, I get online and order the books. In the meantime, my mother is hollering at me because it is noon and I am still in my pyjamas. I make a mad dash for the bathroom, get dressed, and am ready in about ten seconds, although I look like something the Sarah Palin (i.e. the pitbull - I figured that one needed explaining) dragged in. 

That is the first dose of misfortune of the day. US$ 315 that could have been spent on books I actually wanted. Or jeans. Or a bag. Or both if they're on sale. This is the true level of my intellect. You all know it because my true colours shine through on this blog. I don't know how I got away with pretending to be brilliant and intellectual all these years. 

The second unfortunate event is the disaster the hairdresser calls a haircut on my head. It is a dead sheepdog puppy disguised as a wig in the shape of a muffin top on my head. With a much too short fringe, which is really the poor puppy's tail flicking across my face. Poor dog must be almost as uncomfortable as I am. Sad because this guy gave me a great haircut last time. Is there no consistency left in this world? 

Third is the splitting headache I was suffering from all evening. Yes, headaches are generally unfortunate occurrences, but this is an especially unfortunate event because I was looking forward to spending time with my mother's friend, who is one of my three non-biological mothers and a woman I rarely get to see. She's a university professor lecturing on Arab History and is phenomenal. And the sweetest woman in the world. One day I hope to be half the person she is. 

Sucks to be me yesterday. But aside from those three downers, I had a decent day. My hair will grow out and the Swede will probably buy the books off me. I still had a decent evening with my mum(s) and laughed enough to last a week. So all's well that ends well. 

That was my uneventful weekend. How was yours?

Holy Snap, Crackle and Pop, Batman!

This is just unbelievable! Remember my building's security guard who's a crook? Well, turns out he's an honest-to-goodness PIMP, too!

Yes, way!

Turns out he's been using an unused room in the garage and an unoccupied apartment on the ground floor of our (WHAT I THOUGHT WAS A PERFECTLY RESPECTFUL) building to rent out some women he's been sneaking in while we go about our daily business with our heads up our asses. Seriously, how oblivious am I to not notice that the security guard is running a side business right under my nose?

And what about the customers? Do they all have invisibility cloaks? That would explain all those times I thought I bumped into someone when no one was there... Eww.

Dude was on top of his game, I'll give him that.

I'm starting to worry about myself. Does this mean I'm ditzy enough not to notice if I'm on drugs? Someone's got to be slipping something in the water.

Oh, he was fired. Just in case you're wondering.

Ode to Crackhead in Highlighter Yellow

I finally got my foot checked out yesterday to appease my father's growing concern.

When I told the doctor the story of how I banged it chasing after a bus, he waved his hand as said the foot is covered in tough veins and should be ok. Then he found out that this happened 25 days ago and that it is still uncomfortable and weak. His face did a little flip. He took one poke at my foot and said "You're not going to like me," then took an x-ray.

"You're really not going to like me now," he sighed. "See this line across here separating this piece from the rest of your foot?"

"Yes," I say, crossing my fingers. Please say that this isn't a break, please, please.

"This is where you broke it three weeks ago." Oh, snap. I was afraid of that. "And see these flecks of white around it? That's where your poor foot was trying to heal itself, but you snapped it off again yesterday. Good thing too, or else it would have healed incorrectly causing a lifetime of discomfort and complications."

He then went into the differences between old casts and new casts and basically insisted on a new-style cast in highlighter yellow.

So now I'm lugging a good 3 kilos of fluorescent resin shaped like a peep-toe boot engulfing my foot and leg up to my knee. In August (so much for the chance of a tan this year then). For an unspecified period because he said he couldn't tell me how long this would take to heal. All for a tiny little break I never noticed to begin with because I'd never broken anything before. Then again, you'd think it would hurt if you broke your foot, right? I was convinced this couldn't be more than a little sprain.

Who'da thunk it?

P.S. Bloft is loving this. She had her arm in a cast in June last year when she broke her wrist. Since August is even more of a bitch, she can't wait to watch me suffer as I try to itch inside with various tools. In her defence, she is being nice enough to give me tips. She recommended plastic over metal rulers to avoid infections and to fold sheets of A4 paper into ruler-shaped strips if necessary. Sunshine, who has ample experience with broken legs - having broken both - recommends knitting needles, if used with caution.

So my 6 and a half readers, all and any tips on dealing with this thing are very much appreciated :)

Ouch

So I really hope bad luck only comes in threes because I don't know if I'm up to dealing with any more of it.

Yesterday morning: zipper snaps in half as I put on a skirt. I quite liked that skirt. Cost me an arm and three toes, too.

Last night: drop my iPod. It refuses to function past a whirring and clicking sound of the harddrive skipping and won't even restore factory settings. I know because I was up until 2 am hitting the reset button and begging iTunes to fix my baby. This obviously means I've lost EVERYTHING on it since I now need to take it to the distributor to have them fix it.

Today: Snap my foot/ankle again about 15 minutes ago. In pain, unable to walk, and dreading the next 3 hours of traffic and several flights of steps I'll have to endure to get my iPod and skirt fixed.

Not at all amused.

If You Can't Say Something Nice...

Don't say nothing at all. Thumper was spot on.

Shame so many Egyptians haven't learnt that lesson, because this is just an embarrassment to us all. Reinforces every misconception about us that exists, and then some.

For the link to the original video, click here.

Summertime Snooze

Once again, apologies for the lack of attention.

On second thought, no. No apologies. It is the summer. Everything slows down during the summer. And in Cairo's eyeball melting heat, I should be given blogger immunity. I can't be expected to have the energy to come up with fabulously exciting stories for you while cooling my forehead with a semi-cold Coke can that's dripping all over my already hot, sweaty and wet face, causing rivulets to tickle my itchy neck and soak my t-shirt.

It's August. In Egypt. Therefore, the above description is an understatement, to say the least.

Plus, I'm lazy. This leads to a complete lack of creativity juice in these tired brain veins.

I was complaining to Doolittle earlier today that although I do have ideas for proper pieces to write, I have zero discipline and focus to get me to sit down and physically bang them out. I've been rewriting the same lousy paragraph for two months now. Probably longer. And it isn't even particularly good, let along worthy of such attention. Now that I think about it, it even feels like a half-assed We Were the Mulvaneys knock-off.

I'm feeling extra demotivated with regard to writing because of the book I'm currently reading. The level of creativity some people enjoy is just mind-boggling. How do people come up with this stuff? My only contribution to fiction has been endless recycling of the same plot points, tone, style and characters in slightly different situations and sexes. Same depressive shit, different fillers. Even I'm bored of my penchant for morbidity.

I know I promised fun London stories, but I'm going to have to renege. I basically shopped, ate glorious junk and hung out with my family the entire time. The one time I bothered to try and see a friend was a disaster.

Babar was in London for the weekend the second week of my trip. We agreed to meet the Saturday morning for a meal. No problems there, right?

Wrong. Little did I know that this would be the ruin of the remainder of my trip.

Ask why. Go on.

Because the Eureka gods decided to leave their Cairo perches and pay me a visit in London that morning. Of course, this inevitably equates catastrophe.

As I ran to catch the bus, I slammed my right foot on the pavement. By some miracle, the gods decided to go easy on me by avoiding the final indignity of a sprawled lips-to-ground landing. Instead, I remained on my feet but hopping around - a scene straight out of Looney Tunes. The old lady I almost knocked over in the process did not find this amusing.

Never did end up seeing Babar due to the immediate and significant swelling of my foot. Still a little swollen and sore at the moment but I'm walking now.

Can't say the same about the last two weeks. but hey, at least I caught up on Eastenders.

Only Eureka, right?

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.

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?

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.

Note to Self: Eureka is an Abrutis de Premier Ordre

I do not know what exactly was going through my insanely thick skull this morning. I must have still been in the 4th realm of pink suede elephants and rainbow shitting ponies because I cannot believe I could be this stupid.

The maid usually gets in around the time I'm ready to leave for work, so I just wait till she arrives to let her in instead of the doorbell waking my mother up.

This morning, the maid was pretty late, so for one insanely stupid second, I made an even more idiotic decision in my disease of Lapsed Judgmentia and left the front door slightly ajar so that she could come in.

The bigger issue was the fact that I informed the security guard downstairs so that he'd keep an eye out. According to the screaming voice emanating from my phone a couple of minutes ago that sounded a lot like my mother, the guy's an even bigger crook than those guys who ripped off the four Monet's from that Swiss museum a few months back.

I am so stupid, even Miss West Carolina is smarter than me. And she definitely isn't smarter than a 5th grader.

Peeving

I'm a difficult person. It is the Capricorn in me. I'm very set in my ways, and so the only way something is done correctly is if it is done my way. I am the all-knowing and the all-doing-correctlying. So when things aren't going my way, I get pretty annoyed. Today's examples:

1. You know what really turns a girl off? Corny flirting. I love a good flirtation session. Really, I do. And I love prolonged flirtation sessions, like when they last a couple of days via a medley of texting, phonecalls, and face-to-face interaction. But it totally ruins it when a guy is corny. Like when he says, "I'm definitely going to have a good day because you exist in my life now" (and that is disregarding the aggravating grammatical and spelling mistakes. You all need to visit a remedial English class or six). Or when he exaggerates past the point of believability. I know that flirting involves a little fibbing or exaggeration. We girls do it all the time to pump up your fragile male egos. However, a girl can only pretend to believe so much before it just becomes a blatant lie. Like when you say, "You totally changed my life" the very night we met. Boy, we just had a cup of coffee with mutual friends, and we barely even spoke! I didn't give you an earth-shattering scream-inducing heavens-parting blow job. I didn't strip and pole-dance like I was Sally Yoshino. So don't lie to me like I'm a gullible Barbie with oatmeal for brains. Tell me you liked what you saw, that's great. Tell me you had a great time, that's good, too. Don't insult my intelligence. That isn't going to get you any closer to my pants.

2. The Egyptian work day. The Egyptian work day is a phenomenon. It requires you to be at the office on time in the morning, or else you risk not being paid at all for the day, even if you show up a teensy bit late. The day then requires you to sit around all day doing absolutely nothing until 4:50p.m. when you receive a phone call informing you of an urgent task or 19 simultaneous urgent tasks that need to be finished tonight or else we'll all lose our heads. Because our boss is the Queen of Hearts, whose whims must be met with excellence and only what she wants to hear. My boss is a man but you catch my drift. You are thus required to stay in till the wee hours of the morning finishing everything, only to have to be back at the office a couple of hours later. I live 45 minutes away from where I work. So that means I have exactly half an hour at home before I have to return. Ain't the working life grand?

3. The Egyptian executive. This is obviously related to number 2, but dwells on a seperate factor. The Egyptian executive has no notion of human rights whatsoever. If he does, then his only aim in life is to ensure the eradication of all forms of fundamental human rights his underlings have a right to. To the Egyptian executive, these rights are privileges, to be dripped down every millennium as a reward for good slave behaviour and work ethic. The Egyptian executive loves to wait until 4:50p.m. to call his underlings up and assign the task he himself had received at 10a.m. This isn't because the Egyptian executive has no notion of time. On the contrary, he is like a Swiss watch. He calls at 4:50 to the second. Not a moment earlier. Otherwise, the underling wouldn't be packing their bag. It is just that much more fun hearing the underlings squirm as they kiss goodbye their dinner plans and their bubble bath. The Egyptian executive is also uncooperative. He does not provide the information you ask for. He does not fill in the figures you need. He leaves you to rot in your pitiful dungeon on some basement floor attempting to get that damn cash flow to balance, when you don't even have the correct cash figure in the first place. Then he wonders why you're at the office till 10p.m. feeling overworked, underpaid, and not-at-all appreciated. He blames the high turnover rate in the junior corporate team on fickle employees and young women's desire to get married and breed. He doesn't understand that when he says he'll send you the completed financials at 6p.m., you will not call and congratulate him on a job well done when you finally receive his half-assed effort at 8p.m. You will not scratch his left nut for him and kiss his pinky in thanks for employment and his guidance. But you'll still have to kiss his ass and do his every bidding because you are his bitch. This, ladies and gentlemen, is the Egyptian executive. A total doll, right?

These are just a few examples of what my day's been like. I like the concept of a Peeves post. I think I'll do it more often. Until next annoyance, folks!

Look Ma, I Evil-Eyed Myself!

As I took my meds on Sunday night, I thought to myself, "hmmm, it's been 6 months since my last attack, Wahaaaay!"

I got into bed, all tucked in nice and snug, read a little and proceeded to enter the land of abstract chance meetings with the most random people in the world, unusual teleportation-like powers, pink suede elephants drinking hot chocolate with yellow velvet monkeys, and impossible confrontations with those who have wronged and have been wronged.

Seeing as I am Eureka and I should really have a better sense of my own befuddled luck after 21 years of disappointments and upskirt moments because of it, I should have immediately texted my boss telling him not to expect me the next morning.

But no, for some reason my brain registered none of this.

And sure enough, I woke up at 4 a.m. with an attack. A proper doozy, too. Complete with high fever and shallow breathing and everything.

Sigh… Perfect timing, too. I actually had a lot of work to do that week. Then again, it is my Eureka luck, after all.

So when Tuesday rolls around I decide to go to work anyway, even though I'm still burning up and standing and a wonky angle.

That was the worst decision in the world. Our whole department moved floors on Monday (see what kind of luck I'm dealing with here?) and so I had to move two computers, piles of paper, and deal with a bunch of forms and reinstallation requests to a temporary floor until our permanent floor is completed in a couple of months. Am I alone in wondering why we couldn't just stay where we were and move just once? I know, thank you!

It took 3 hours to do something I could have done myself in 20 minutes had there not been 100 rules dictating who could carry what where using which service elevator. It took almost 2 hours to convince ANYONE to take the stuff down seeing as I wasn't allowed to use the service elevators and nothing could be moved using the normal elevators, and another half hour to convince IT to come and reinstall everything for me. I think I got into 39 arguments in those 3 hours. I'm not very popular at the office anymore.

Please note that after all that time trying to explain things like internal locks and bolts on the floor and stuff, IT still did not understand why I couldn't move the Bloomberg terminal. The thing is attached to the desk and needed a special combination or something to be removed. I just gave up at 2:30 and went home with a spiked fever and more pain.

I didn't come in the next day and did the week's worth of work in 3 hours on Thursday because I am the shit like that. Uh-huh.

RIP Miles Davis

Miles Davis is our intern. I've known him for about a year through mutual friends. Miles Davis has been christened so due to his love for jazz. No, he isn't 60. Yes, he does like jazz. Do not knock it till you've tried it. I've tried it, so I'm allowed to knock it as often as my evil heart desires.

Poor Miles Davis. He just told me the story of when he committed girl suicide. Miles Davis knows of this blog. Yet he still voluntarily told me the story. Ergo, Miles Davis voluntarily committed internet suicide. Eurekaisms is merely his suicide weapon of choice.

Miles Davis' story goes as follows. One night, he is in the company of a willing young woman. In such a situation, I believe most boys would shut up and take what they can get.

But no, not our Miles Davis. Our Miles Davis likes everything to be a certain way. Much like a 60 year old in fact. It must be all that jazz.

Our Miles Davis likes it when the girl he is about to enjoy is wearing matching undies. On the night in question, the girl was not wearing matching underwear. She was, however, willing.

Matching underwear v. Willing. Hmm, I wonder which should win out.

Miles Davis looks at her and comments – in his mind – oh so smoothly, "Why is it that girls find it so hard to match their underwear?"

Insert awkward silence with crickets chirping here.

She does not find this amusing. Miles Davis digs himself into an ever-deeper hole by wildly talking in his attempt to save the situation.

From this moment on, Miles Davis will now be known as Undertaker.

He dug and dug.

But he did not get any that night.

Let us have a moment of silence in honour of what could have been, and in Miles Davis' memory.

... Mmmffff, snort!

Sorry, I couldn't stay quiet that long.

The Indelible Disposition of Human Emotion

I am vulnerable. I am fragile. I am afraid. I am heartbroken at the prospect of solitude. I mask my emotions with an air of indifference. Of easygoing nonchalance. But it is a lie. I am lonely. I am. I want your arms to wrap around me in protection. I want to feel your heartbeat harmonize with mine. I want to enjoy the timbre of your voice as it jovially mocks my clumsiness. I want someone else's tomorrow. I want that tomorrow to be my own.

I do not as for or expect a fairytale. I do not require perfection. I require my own version of it. I require happiness. I require respect. I require conversation and intellect. I require a challenge. I require laughter. But above all, I require honest, reinforced, requited love and devotion.

I only ask for what anyone deserves. I do not ask for the extraordinary. That I can create within my ordinary. I want to know that this is not an impossibility. That it is not a dream. I want to know that this is going to happen. I want it to happen. I want it today. I want it to be my own and not my vicarious existence through a stranger or the imaginary. Because life is not meant to be lonely. Life is meant to be mine.

I do not need you to navigate through the waters. I do not need you to row my boat for me. I merely ask for your companionship and encouragement when the waters become choppy and the fog obstructs my vision.

You are not a necessity but a pleasure.

Where is this? Who is it? When will it finally reveal itself? When will my tomorrow come?

Sewage System for Tea

Yesterday, we went to my aunt's house for a Good Friday meal and tea. When tea time came around, I went to the kitchen to make myself a cup. Once the kettle came to a boil, I began to pour the water into the mug.

I noticed something black flow down with the water. Unfortunately, the teabag was already in the mug, so the liquid was too dark to see what was inside. So I hunted around with my teaspoon a little to make sure there was nothing there that wasn't supposed to be there.

Lo and behold, a little cockroach was in my tea.

Yes. A black icky cockroach, the size of my index finger's first section (from the tip to the first joint) had been in the kettle.

Apparently, my aunt had removed the little filter nozzle from the faucet and so as I filled the kettle, the cockroach came down into it from our lovely water system.

This is the cleanliness of the water in fair Egypt. Don't drink the water, folks.

Unless you want to collect cockroaches to fry. In that case, let the faucets flow!