Monkey Business

This week was one of the few I've had in a while where work was not astoundingly busy and I wasn't chained to my laptop for the entire duration of the work day. I was able to spend some quality time with my office buddies; one old, one new: Minnie and Parallel Universe, both of whom are legal people and are about 4 years older than me.

Minnie joined the company on the same day I did. We bonded over boyfriend stories and gossip as she knows every human being to walk the face of our blue planet. It's incredible. You name him/her and she will already know the hot three-second-old story you're about to tell. Naturally, being the former Gucci Girl and gossip whore that I am, I revel in our morning debriefings.

Parallel Universe joined a few months ago and is a fellow Capricorn who had a very Westernized childhood. She's basically me: wry and random sense of humour, love for childhood cartoon quotes, typical Capricorn traits, prefers to speak in English and a know-it-all. We spent 15 minutes debating whether the Antarctic was considered a desert and ended up using Wikipedia articles as proof of both the veracity and falsity of that statement. We both are still convinced of our rightness. Can you see why I call her Parallel Universe?

Over the course of this week our little trio has discussed the financial merits of selling one's virginity to the highest bidder versus the moral/emotional harm it may cause. Conclusion: based on the $1.3 million or so received by that girl who sold her virginity online in the US, if we stuck that amount in an Egyptian bank and received 5% annual interest, we'd be able to live comfortably on about EGP 30,000 a month for the rest of our lives. Minnie thought it wasn't worth the disgrace but is happy to pimp me out for a cut. Parallel Universe thinks I'm a lunatic for even joking about it. So no cut for her.

We've discussed grandparents who hate us, magic mushroom experiences, my many illnesses and have set up a BBM group dedicated to sharing dirty jokes and making fun of a crazy colleague. Not bad for a week's worth of work, huh?

Now I doubt any of us would have ever thought to be friends had it not been for a shared workplace. I'm too young to run into either of them in any shared social circles (not that I'm out that often anymore anyway) and I think they're too different to strike up an external friendship without any common ground. But I like the fact that we've been brought together and get along so well. Both girls are intelligent, hilarious, quick-witted and genuinely friendly people. They understand, share and sympathize with the frustration that comes with working in our company, which is a lifesaver when it comes to venting. They prove that even in an increasingly superficial world, like-minded folks still exist.

Where Have All the Good Friends Gone?

Last night marked the reinstitution of my annual (albeit somewhat belated) Christmas dinner, which was established in 2003 and was skipped in 2008 due to scheduling conflicts (i.e.: I was too lazy to formulate a guest list. Trust me, it's much tougher than it seems).

As usual, my mother outdid herself. Yes, mother because I will never move a muscle if I can get away with it. Great setting, delicious food and zero effort from me. Who could ask for more?

What struck me most last night was the fact that it now requires an entire pre-planned dinner to gather my friends together. Not only are they all from different groups with divergent interests and dissimilar routines (I have a thing for alliteration), but since graduation, we have no common forum to find each other at on a regular basis.

Take Mrs. Fallon, for example. Since spending a week in London with her last November, I haven't seen her once. It took a dinner invitation to get together. It isn't like we live on different sides of the city, or we don't speak on a regular basis. We just haven't had the time or reason aside from a normal social call to hang out. Sad but true.

It's the same with Roonies and Bambi. From the summer of 2005 to the spring of 2007 we were inseparable. Then we graduated. Then Bambi went off to Geneva for a semester. Then work took over our lives. Today, we're lucky if we see each other once a month, even though Bambi and I work in the same building. Today, I only see Cheb Khaled on a regular basis, and that is likely to change sooner rather than later.

Flipping through Facebook, I cannot believe how many people I've lost touch with. So many people I counted as very close friends. People I've grown up with, had countless adventures with, helped through deaths, break-ups, exams and other difficult moments. People I at one point could not imagine my life without.

I've come to realize that I can be cruelly indifferent towards people, regardless of the intensity past or current relationships. Does that make me heartless? Does that put my compassion or humanity into question? Why can I go for such long stretches without feeling the need to be a social creature? I am just as happy lounging around my house watching shows or reading or just chilling with the family as I am out with my friends. I don't know if this is healthy because there are so few out there who would admit to feeling this way at my age.

Last year, my first resolution for 2009 was "I will rekindle my friendships and reestablish my social circles by going out more often". Although that was fulfilled to some degree, I still need work because I refuse to allow my hermit tendencies to resurface.

So, for 2010, let's keep the friendships rolling and who knows? Maybe even add a few more.

Fundon!

Finally managed to get tomorrow off so I'm off to London for the long weekend with Mrs. Fallon and company. Of course, this is the time my body decides to succumb to my first attack in a year (one of the perks of blogging about my stupid immune system is that I can now track the severity and frequency of my attacks). Sigh. Going to be a lovely flight and a lovelier attack once the London cold hits me. To top it all off I caught a bad cold this week.

But have no fear my friends, I will go, I will enjoy myself and if all else fails, I'll make sure Mrs. Fallon knows where my health insurance card is.

Answers to Last Week's Thoughts

My friend and loyal reader, El Gapitane, is a fellow trivia lover. He and I share a love for technology, dirty jokes, DIY and huge external hard drives to store our digital libraries on. He knows me well enough to know that I HAVE to have the answers for everything, which is why he so kindly initiated the following conversation with me today:

El Gapitane: I'm about to enlighten you about the whole screen looking issue

Eureka: Please do

El Gapitane: Most of the screens you look at all day are liquid crustal displays. Technology has come a long way to make those screens. They emit something like 3% of what TV screens used to emit in the early 90s. When you look at a an LCD all day is like looking at the open sea in bright sunlight actually its safer since the actual sunrays are strongest of all

Eureka: That's fantastic

El Gapitane: Your eyes adjust to that lifestyle but the worst part is that natural sunlight become very harsh to you...making it worse for you in the outdoors

El Gapitane: It’s sort of an equation you just need to balance

Eureka: So you ideally should spend some time in the sun every day for your eyes to remain adjusted to it

El Gapitane: Yup

YES! My shows aren't damaging my eyes! Christmas is early!

El Gapitane: And your friend was right about the drainage thing. He just forgot to mention that in the closed system when you pee in the toilet the nitrates from your pee is actually extracted and used in agriculture in my many developing nations such as Egypt. So at the end of the day you’re saving a lot of plants when you pee in the toilet. And the shower and toilet usually have 2 different drainage systems in the modern world.

And that, ladies and gents, is why we pee where we pee.

Today's Thoughts

An old schoolmate bbm's me every once in a while to chit-chat about life and how things are turning out for us. I've known him since we were 4 but we were never the closest of friends. However, he's been a part of life right from the beginning and, because of his metaphysical distance, is able to see things in a fresh light. Apparently, Musketeer likes to hear random thoughts from me when he's not in the brightest of places. Comic relief? I don't know but hey, I'll never say no to helping someone out.

Today's thoughts were twofold:

1. This is a thought I've had on more than one occasion (usually when Bloft flushes the toilet when she knows I want to use the bathroom as well). I thought I had it pretty much figured out until he provided me with his two cents:

Eureka: Do you know how much water people could save each day if they peed in the shower?

Musketeer: Let me think. Same if they peed in the toilet assuming the drainage systems are the same

Eureka: No you're saving the litres you'd have used if you flushed. When you pee in the shower you're using no more water than if you were showering without peeing. But when you pee in the toilet you flush it down, using what I'd estimate to be 3 litres of water. Now if everyone peed in the shower once a day you're saving millions of litres of water each day

So far so good, right? Then came the kicker:

Musketeer: But how are you saving if the water itself in drainage is not lost, simply re-treated and circulated within the system

Of course, I had to scrounge up a quick response or else face having my solution to the world's water problems shot down:

Eureka: You lose water in the drainage and treatment process. And in many systems the water is lost to drainage out to open ocean. Saving resources in general is the point of this exercise.

Liar, liar pants on fire, Eureka. You just can't bare not being completely right. But anyway, moral of the story is: when I'm empress everyone will pee in the shower.

The conversation soon moved on to the second thought of the day:

Eureka: I think we spend too much time looking at screens. This was today's thought in the car. I wake up to emails on my phone, which I read while making/eating breakfast.

I then read the news on my phone on my way to work = 40 mins of more screen time.

I spend 8+ hours working on a laptop at the office and read more news/bbm on my way home.

Then watch shows on my laptop for a couple of hours at home

That's just about all my waking hours looking at a screen

How bad is that for one's eyes?

Musketeer: What do you want to look at?

Eureka: Cost on eyesight

Musketeer: Good business idea

What do you all think? Are we all destined to be the first generation to be prematurely blind?

Wedding Tick-Tocking

This weekend one of my cousins (a zillion times removed but a cousin nonetheless) got married. It was the whole 9 yards and then some: huge rambunctious wedding, beautiful bride (naturally seeing as we share genes), ecstatic couple, relieved and proud family, drunk and dancing friends, etc...

Attendees clocked in around the 1,500 mark (which by Egyptian standards is large but not out of the ordinary). More importantly, many of the invitees were Christian seeing as it was a Christian wedding. This gathering of possible eligible bachelors does not happen very often, so of course every other person I know and their great-aunt made sure to tell me to be extra hot, keep my eyes peeled for crucifix-bearing young men and accidently bump into the one that caught my fancy.

Usually, I would do my best to ignore the aforementioned and would just have a good time celebrating my friend and distant relative's blissful union. But recently (as you've been noticing in my increasingly depressing and monotone posts) I've begun to feel the pressure, so I dutifully cleaned up in my evening best, kept my eyes peeled for bachelors that fit the bill, and did more than my fair share of roaming around the room to make sure I hadn't missed anyone worth checking out. In a ballroom full of family friends, there were many spies making sure I did my bit. Hell, some were even pointing people out to me.

That night two very important things were made clear to me:

1. Even in a room full of Christians, there are no eligible bachelors remaining. They are either taken, or are ugly / fat / short / smelly / missing a liver or six / with an IQ of -3.2 / unable to keep their eyes off Dixie & Daisy (WHO WERE NOT EVEN IN FULL ATTENDANCE I MIGHT ADD) / or any combination of the above. I had always suspected this and it was finally confirmed: There are no men in Egypt. And the taken ones lead me to revelation number 2:
2. A year later, all I wanted to do was find and "accidentally" bump into last year's runaway guy. This is particularly disturbing since I haven't seen or spoken to him in 5 months and haven't exchanged more than a hello, how are you, lovely weather we're having since October 2008. I can't even claim a broken heart because I hadn't even fallen for him. All I can lay claim to is a mind-full of what ifs and whys. And that isn't reason enough to result in such one-track-mindedness.

Today's lesson is that eventually, everyone will have to face rejection. You need to know how to deal with it and move on. I just never thought I'd take it so poorly.

Common Indecency

The other night I had a midnight pancakes dinner with Cheb Khaled and a friend of his. Now, Cheb Khaled is generally a very polite - if somewhat paranoid - person. He opens doors, walks on the side facing oncoming traffic when we're crossing the street and always tries to stop me from paying my share of the tab. In today's society of pansy boys spending daddy's cash, he is a New York cop amongst Riviera sun worshippers. But whenever he speaks to a waiter or anyone serving him, he reminds me of a huge problem I have with Egyptian society as a whole.

Egyptians cannot be polite to anyone working in the service industry.

Now I don't know if this is a shared superiority complex, collective snobbism or just plain common indecency, but it is a rampant trend in our society and it needs to stop. The fact that someone is serving you in some way does not give you the right to snap your fingers, order them around, be dismissive, not look at them while speaking to them, be slouched in your chair as you speak to them, wave them away or treat them in any way that is demeaning or you yourself would find offensive.

If anything, treat them with respect because they are providing you with the comfort of being served rather than doing things for yourself. Say please and thank you, be polite when pointing something wrong out (i.e. don't curse the person out when they bring the wrong dressing with your salad) and always leave a decent tip; you may not remember who served you, but they'll always remember - and reward - a good tipper.

All of this is pretty basic but the memo seems to have skipped Egyptians. My first instinct would be to chalk it up to poor parenting. Mrs. Fallon is a great example of the benefits of good parenting. She is infinitely courteous and considerate to everyone who serves her, even if they totally mess her order up. But I know that Cheb Khaled comes from a good home as well. So why isn't he more like Mrs. Fallon? What do you think is the root of Egypt's inability to show some common decency?

This whole thing reminds me of the way Tom Hanks was treated in Philadelphia. He was treated with respect and even reverence so long as he was considered an equal at his law firm. The moment he was perceived as 'below' the partners, he was shot down, insulted and ignored. Good movie if you haven't seen it. Bruce Springsteen wrote a great song for the movie, as seen below.

Streets of Philadelphia - Bruce Springsteen:

Regression

This is one of those nights where a lot is attempting to sort itself out in my head. I don't enjoy thinking about all the things that bother me. I've regressed to the point where I don't even want to admit my own thoughts, fears and feelings to myself. It tires me out. One long, repetitive stream of should haves, what ifs, whys and it isn't fairs.

I went out for sohour (late meal to prepare oneself for the following day's fast during Ramadan) with some friends tonight. I carpool with a good friend, whom we shall call Cheb Khaled (he has a thing for Raï). He's been struggling with several girl and job related issues and we tend to use our alone time in the car to talk things out. So far, it's always been about him talking and me reprimanding (and sometimes advising). We've been pretty consistent about this for about 4 months now. In 4 months, I have yet to open up about anything bothering me outside of the superficial work isn't fulfilling enough sort of thing. Cheb Khaled has poured his heart and soul out to me time and again. He's opened up about a difficult break-up, about his ex-girlfriend's immediate rebound, about being held at arm's length by a new girl and how frustrated he feels. He's talked to me about his responsibility towards his father's business versus making it on his own. He's admitted his faults, his fears and his aspirations. I have not.

I haven't told him about how I'm still nursing the year-old wounds of being rebuffed after being pursued by someone who felt like Mr. Right. I'm struggling with my career options and my future. All I know is that I'm underused and unappreciated where I am now. I'm fighting a losing battle in my relationship with my father. We are too alike in so many negative ways that it is nearly impossible to be as close as we should be. I can't stand the way my brother is turning out to be. I can't stand the way I treat him because of my own prejudices. I can't stand the way my mother refuses to try to knock some sense into him. I worry about my mother. I worry that she is fast approaching her wit's end. I cannot deal with her breaking down. We won't survive it as a family because she is the only glue holding us together. I won't be able to deal with a house, unruly teenagers, a sullen and detached father, a 19-month-old and work all at the same time. This house is too cramped for so many people. I need more space and more time for myself.

I need to stop assuming this family will not function without me trying to shoulder some of my mother's burdens. I cannot hold so many grudges against my father, my grandparents and my uncle. All this ill will is only poisoning me further. But after so many years of harboring all this anger and frustration, how can I disperse it? I need to stop assuming Mr. Right will gallop into my living room. But how will I find him if I already know he's gone? I need to stop worrying about what I'm going to do with my life. It will sort itself out. But when?

Born Again Beach Bum

The last time I spent part of my summer on a beach was back in 2006. My family has always been big on sun worshipping, spending most of our non-Europe/USA vacation time in Agami, a small beach-city near Alexandria with a dedicated fan base. We very much loved our summers in Agami, but as soon as I hit 14 and our interests began to lean towards clubbing and being out until 4am, my mother put a stop to our beach bumming days and distracted us by extending our time outside Egypt. No complaints there!

As most Cairenes know, there is an age-old schism between those who are known as Agamists - the Agami devotees - and those who spend their summers on the North Coast, a.k.a Sahel. The North Coast comprises of several large resort/compounds scattered across a stretch of beautiful beaches and bays between Al Alamein (WWII battleground) and Marsa Matrouh (a good example of the beauty of the Mediterranean). Most Sahelites love the hustle and bustle of these large compounds, which are more like cities than beach resorts. Agamists love their little stretch of sewage-smelling dusty roads for the authentic beach bum feel and the change of pace from the big mean city.

This year, we betrayed our Agami roots and spent a week in Sahel. I joined the troops on Thursday morning to spend the weekend attempting to tan. The last time I tried to tan on the beach, I ended up looking like this:

When I start blogging about Melanoma, you'll know what caused it.

Now, I have always argued with Tinkerbell about the merits of Sahel v. Agami. I staunchly opposed the very idea of Sahel and its commercial, hard partying, days into nights lifestyle. Agami was all about the generations of laid back summer loving families enjoying the beach during the day and having a good time together at night. Why would I want anything more to relax? Sure, the sea wasn't as great as Sahel's - it was treacherous and unclean, but it was perfectly swimmable if you were careful:

However, it is nothing compared to this:

[Hat tip: Tinkerbell]

This is the reason the French came up with the word azure. This is the inspiration for every swimming pool created. Even with my irrational and intense fear of everything existing in the sea, I swam in. I swam all the way to the floating lounge-area things about 300 metres into the water (not pictured). Of course, I almost had a stroke with every stroke, but the water was too wonderful to resist. I can't say I overcame a fear by swimming so far in because the very idea of the things that could be in the water still makes me want to piss my pants like a 10-month-old, but hey, you can't win them all.

After my weekend in Sahel, I have made a momentous decision. Agami is great because it holds my memories, my family's memories, and it works because my friends all go there. But if you choose the right place to go to in Sahel, a resort like Ghazala Bay which is as simple and laid back as Agami, you will be in heaven. Avoid the craziness of places like the Marina compounds, and the hectic nightlife beckoning from Hacienda and Marassi, and you will never need to ask for more than someone to hand you a beer.

July Roundup

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Racism, Identities and Diamond Studded Bikinis

Back in the summer of 2005, I went to Tochni, Cyprus as part of a UW, AUB and AUC group course on American and Arab Identities in Tension. The premise was to group 30 or so young adults in one tiny village for two weeks to discuss how much Americans and Arabs hate each other. Sort of like I'm A Celebrity without the Z-list fame and fortune status and no cameras documenting our every ass scratch. 

According to our professors, we were by far the most tension-filled, kamikaze samurai fighter, bitchslap till kingdom come group ever to go to Tochni. The natives still run and hide under rocks whenever they hear our names. Or so it is rumoured. I've seen my fair share of Gucci corner drama, but this course was ridiculous. Imagine Lindsey Lohan and Sam Ronson in a death match and throw in some Chuck Norris roundhousing on crack. Then add some major rich Arab attitude and country/mother-dissing. That doesn't even cover the good mornings. What should have been a learning experience about the 'Other' turned into two weeks of the Americans hating on the Egyptians for being rich and the Egyptians (15 poli sci students) really laying it hard on the Americans for Bush's shitty foreign policy. I wrote a 12-page paper on the drama and barely covered it.

Snippets of spiteful negativity include:

 

-       An American boy to me: "are those real diamonds on your bikini?" 
Me: "no, why would you think that?
Boy: "I figured since you’re wearing a Rolex and everything’s designer, your bikini would have real diamonds on it as well"

-      Another American: "I don't hate you because you're you, I hate you because you're Egyptian"

-      American-Mexican girl: "I work two jobs and pay taxes for my country to send you Aid. That's why you have the Gucci bags and I don't”

-       The Egyptians weren’t much nicer. We called them everything from world terrorists to trailer trash. We took to flaunting our wealth because it bothered them. We spoke Arabic and laughed loudly because they thought we were making fun of them. We interrupted them, used our mobile phones and did everything we could to make them rue the day they crossed our paths.

Basically, rather than use our two weeks to learn about the ‘Other’ and maintain a constructive and wound-healing discourse, we fucked with each other’s heads. And that finally brings me to the point of this story. The other day I received a message from one of the quieter and more misunderstood American boys in our course asking me some questions about racism and what I got out of our two weeks in Tochni. Apparently, the way things played out still bothered him. One of the questions he asked was “Do you feel like you BETTER understood the problems between the American identity and the Arab identity because of our seminar? If so, how?”

I responded with what I think is at the root of so many problems in our global society: because of our preconceived notions or expectations of the ‘Other’, we did not create the space to understand the truths behind our and the ‘Other’’s identities. Essentially, our ingrained racism – be it conscious or otherwise – barred us from even trying to dialogue.

I felt that because of the personal conflicts that arose in our course, we had little time to discuss the conflicts stemming from our country-based collective identities. The majority of our time was spent bickering over personal differences, which shed a negative light on both the American and the Arab identities. I believe this is rooted in the conflicting course descriptions provided by the respective professors. The Egyptians and Lebanese came as they were told this was a political course, as was also reflected in the assigned readings. The Americans were told this was a sociological course, and so were not emotionally, mentally or academically prepared for in-depth political discourse. Because each side came expecting different things, the communication that needed to occur broke down because it could really begin.

 

This premature breakdown in communication is a problem not just for the Tochini course participants, but in how every forum for debate is set up. Expectations or preconceived notions or any sort of racist perception of the ‘Other’ stop us from listening. They stop us from accepting. They stop us from really trying.

 

I’m not saying that it is humanly possible for one to clear one’s mind from all preconceived ideas of the ‘Other’. But it is important for us to be aware of these thoughts and to try to work past them. I know I learnt that the hard way. Even though we all ended up having a blast on that trip, we didn’t achieve as much as we could have if we’d just kept a more open mind. Maybe my talking it out with the quiet American might help make amends for our indiscretions in 2005. 

Remembering I'm 22

I have a tendency to think that I am above asking for help. When I am sick, I'd rather tough it out than wake someone up to bring me medicine. When I am struggling to do something, I'd rather research, work at it and figure it out on my own than ask someone to show me the easy way out. When I'm really sad or frustrated I will rarely speak up; I'd rather get over it on my own and in my own time. 

I think I prefer to do things on my own because of the learning experience that comes with working things out for myself. I make mistakes, I struggle and I eventually (most of the time, at least) succeed on my own terms and in my own time. The added sense of accomplishment that comes with that fight makes it worthwhile. 

But I know what you're thinking. That's all great, but there is of course a downside to not asking for help when I need it. What if I can't help myself? What if I'm in over my head? What if reaching out to someone is a necessity rather than an option? What will I do then? I asked myself that question today and I don't know the answer, to be honest. 

Roonies and Bambi are apparently concerned by my lack of enthusiasm for my social life. They think - and I agree - that I'm much too young to renounce all social interaction for the sake or because of routine. You and I know that I've been feeling that way for a while. But I never asked for help to get out of my rut. It never crossed my mind to call Bambi and say, "hey, I need help getting my lazy butt out of the house, would you please help motivate me?" I just figured it would happen when it happened. 

And the result? It did happen, but it could have happened so much sooner had I just let my stubborn little ego-guard take the night off and reached out to my friends. I had a genuinely good time in forever this weekend. The mile-wide ton of flesh following me around jiggled to the beat, my rusty social skills were put to good use and I even went for a 4 am post-clubbing McDonalds run; I never say no to free food. I felt good loosening up with real people instead of the lovely folks on TV. I felt my age again. Even if I did wake up after only 5 hours of sleep with the beginnings of a hangover. Don't worry, caught it with a big ol' breakfast. Nothing works better than an egg yolk to stop a hangover in its tracks. 

Moral of the story: let your guard take the night off every once in a while and ask for help, even if you think you can handle things on your own. Sometimes, the helping hand will treat you to a steady flow of Moet and vodka-cranberry. 

Enter the Freakshow

Ladies and Gentleman (yes, I am aware that there is only one of you),

Allow me to introduce the latest, greatest and most entertaining new escape from normalcy in our land of the interwebs.

This death-defying feat of laughter, of skill and of high-flying acrobatics will astound and amaze you, or your money back.

Come on, come all to OUR FREAKSHOW, an exciting new blog about the BB Messenger shenanigans of Eureka and Rocksteady (aka Mrs. Fallon to the six and a half eaders here).

Kindly visit www.ourfreakshow.blogspot.com to change your reading habits as you know them.

Ahead of the Pack

About two and a half years ago, Tinkerbell and I were shopping in London one muggy July afternoon. We shared the same July experience every summer since 2002, the first summer my family switched from New York City to London. Although us kids had blue passports (Bloft and Space Cadet are Canadians by birth), my parents remained cursed with the olive green refrigerator-shaped catastrophe they were forced to call their Egyptian passports.

As you can plainly see, the word "Arab" would definitely and embarrassingly trump "Egypt" at JFK's post-9/11 paranoid passport control. My parents were not having it.

Our last NYC visit was the summer of 2001. It was the year I was (in my opinion mis-) diagnosed with Juvenile Rheumatoid Arthritis, which explained the sudden and recurring swelling of my left knee throughout 2000-2001. Swelling is an understatement. It was the size of a volleyball on some days. My left shoulder also suffered extreme stiffness and discomfort. I remember it being extremely difficult to wipe. I say misdiagnosed because - knowing what I now know about Familial Mediterranean Fever - I'm pretty sure this was the beginnings of AA Amyloidosis, triggered by my having never taken any preventative Colchicine.

I may be getting too House, M.D. on you here. Basically, we always knew I had FMF. We just never had documented evidence in the form of a genetic test because it hadn't existed. They discovered the gene in 1997 and soon after developed the genetic test for it. In 2001, we only knew of two hospitals which had the technology available: Children's Hospital of New York - Presbyterian and the Royal Free and University College Medical School in London. Since we spent most of our summer in the United States (up until that point at least) anyway, and since most of said time was spent in New York City, it was natural for us to set up appointments with the pediatric rheumatology specialist there (for reference's sake, my doctor at the time was called Lisa Imundo. I don't know if she's still there, but she was awesome).

We were only going to confirm the obvious, and to make sure that the swelling knee and shoulder phenomena were all part of FMF. Two days before the flight, my knee flared up again pretty badly. Bet you can imagine my parents' sheer joy - they had a cripple to contend with all the way to NYC.

Now, everyone with some FMF background knows that the only preventative medication is Colchicine, which is a common drug used to treat gout. We always thought that it was purely a preventative treatment to help stop attacks from getting too bad. Our family mentality is one of toughing it out. Why take medicine your whole life if you can handle a rough couple of days every few months? So I never took it.

It turns out that Colchicine does more than prevent attacks. It prevents the onset of AA Amyloidosis, which causes the abnormal build-up of amyloid proteins in the vital organs, leading to renal failure. As I hadn't taken any Colchicine in all my 14 and a half years, it was high time that some of that crazy behind-the-scenes stuff begin to peek from behind the curtains. Enter swelling knees and shoulders, stage left.

Pretty uncannily, my symptoms were a dead ringer for Juvenile Rheumatoid Arthritis, too. So really, we'll never know what the hell was going on with my joints. All I know is that since I started taking Colchicine on August 16th, 2001, I've never had a problem with my knee or shoulder. Which is why I think I was just starting to show signs of Amyloidosis, not JRA. Then again, I also spent the better part of three years on a daily mega-dose of penicillin to treat the JRA... Damn it, guess I'll never figure this one out. I remember having to take 11 pills every evening for what felt like forever. Ah, the good old days!

We never did get the actual test done in NYC because of some technical glitch. That did not stop them from literally drawing 12 vials of blood for a medley of other things with random letters and numbers attached. I felt like a goddamn cherub fountain in a French palacial garden.

I ended up getting the test done that winter in London after all, at the Royal Free, with one of the foremost FMF experts, Professor Philip Hawkins. The man is an absolute genius, but was insanely rusty when trying to draw my blood.

Granted, my veins are not the most cooperative type, but I've had my blood drawn often enough to know that they aren't impossible to find. Dr. Hawkins spent the better part of 10 minutes trying to find any vein to draw blood from. He finally just stuck the needle in and wiggled it around until it hit something. Wasn't the most comfortable situation. Even he was in pain. After 5 months of international doctor visitations and almost 15 years of suffering, I finally had my FMF documentation when that needle finally pierced by elusive vein.

Having digressed into my FMF discovery history, I will finally return to my original story.

Now, Tinkerbell has a certain knack for sniffing out trends about a season and a half in advance. That afternoon, as we aimlessly roamed around Selfridges, she decided that she absolutely had to have a pair of Rayban Wayfarers or else she'd just die.

Of course, being the boring classical junkie that I am, I thought she was a total idiot for wanting those. I told he she looked like Om Kalthoum, who was one of Egypt's old-school singing icons. However, Tinkerbell hasn't had a miss since we were kids, and she always tries to get me to join her on her fashion trends experiments. Nevertheless, I insist on debating with her, on saying no, and on grudgedly following in her footsteps much much later after having made a complete fool/hypocrite of myself.

As I am not one to break tradition, this is what I bought myself as a treat the other evening, because they looked wicked:

In future, I will shut the fuck up and do whatever Tinkerbell says, because it is a lot easier than sheepishly showing her my purchases two years too late.

Cue Melodramatic Sigh

Ladies and Gents, 'tis the end of an era. Life (read: work) as I know it has changed forever. My twins have departed, embarking on a wild new adventure called running Mammy's company back in Milano. 

They came, they charmed, they conquered. They are sorely missed during lunch, during tedious meetings, and when I need someone to roll my eyes at for whatever reason. 

I haven't said much about the twins on here, although Twin 1, who we will henceforth refer to as Kalashnikov, demanded a "blog" about himself several times. This is why I never wrote about them in any meaningful capacity. I am not told what to do, Mr. So-Called Gentleman! 

As much as I'd like to avoid the inevitable, I do have to say that they were the highlight of every day. We became friends over the little things. A shared love of all things Ralph Lauren. Familial obsessions with golf, including virtual mini-golf competitions on slow days at work. And who could forget office-wide garbage bin basketball competitions? 

They added a much needed spice to the monotone of our days trapped in corporate gloom.

As brothers, they are inseparable. When I first met them I found it endearing that they couldn't pick their lunches off a menu without conferring. 

"Baloo (Twin 2), pesto pasta?"

"Si"

Sometimes that was substituted with a club or turkey or salmon sandwich. What mattered was that the other brother approved. 

As individuals, they couldn't be further apart. Kalashnikov is fiery, passionate, proud, arrogant, quick-witted, soft-hearted, kind, and a self-proclaimed "gentleman by nature". 

"I have three women in my life; my grandmother, who taught me to be a gentleman. My mother, who taught me to be a man, and my girlfriend, who will never take precedence over the first two."

I would say that I was closer to Kalashnikov, purely because we bonded over a shared exasperation with his (now) ex-girlfriend. I was his occasional confidante, which I admittedly enjoyed because it meant this otherwise private person trusted me. I may not have agreed with the way in which he allowed himself to be manipulated in this relationship, but I understood why and how he could not see it as such. It saddens me that he was hurt, but I am glad he became the wiser for it. 

Baloo is by far the more laid back of the two. He is funny, sweet, genuine, a huggable teddy bear, and a joy. He is just as kind-hearted as his brother, but does not allow his kind-heartedness to be used against him. In that sense he is more worldly than Kalashnikov, who is more worldly in his sociability and demeanor. 

Baloo is the simpler of the two, content with his girlfriend, his football, his palate, and his playstation. He is the family man. Kalashnikov is more restless; he has more to prove to the world. Baloo plays it as it lays. Kalashnikov needs to brush the grass around it meticulously, walk around the perimeter, and possibly contest the lie before playing on. 

Baloo is the Yin to Kalashnikov's Yang. They are complementary opposites producing a great, unique whole. I am privileged to call them friends, and sincerely hope our friendship does not fade with distance. I have great expectations of them, and I know they will not disappoint. 

Santa, Baby!

Merry Christmas my funny little monkeys! To those of you celebrating, have a great food and family filled day. To those of you who aren't, go enjoy the leftovers at a friend's house without having to sit through the harrowing 8 hours of "quality family time".

You know what that means. 

Ghost of Christmas Past

The day finally called for a sweater. I don't know if this has always been the case and I just tend to forget, or if winter is truly late this year, but it feels like it should have been sweater weather about a month ago. 

Seeing as I come from a family of procrastinators, it should come as no surprise to you that we are behind schedule regarding Christmas decorations, shopping, etc... Today we got around to decorating our Christmas tree. We are quite proud of our tree, which we consider to be one of the prettiest in Cairo every year. Of course, the six and a half of you who've been to my house concur. You have no choice since I've spent the greater part of my life bribing you all with the wonders of my mother's kitchen. 

We hope to get the rest of the house done up before December 25th. The likelihood of that happening wholly depends on - well, on whether we ever bother to get off our bottoms, really. Even my mother, who is the personification of family traditions and Christmas spirit, isn't too into it this year. I think we're all getting too old, too complacent and too fat to climb up all five rungs of the ladder to place the mistletoe above the door. Oh well, it's not like there's anyone to put it up for anyway. 

I've always had a bit of a problem with this time of year, because I tend to be a muddled jumble of conflicting thoughts and (whisper it) emotions. Mid-December ruffles my inner-feathers. It serves as an annual reminder of my greatest teenage regret. It just reminds me of how self-centred, jealous, and self-deprecating I was at 14. It reminds me of how superficial we all were. How little we knew and yet how much we thought we did. 

Whenever the winds blows in with the first nips of stinging nettle air, whenever the Christmas lights go up at home, whenever the fleece socks are pulled over my numb toes, I think of someone I hurt all those years ago. Someone I greatly admired, greatly envied, and did a great injustice to. 

I knew her for as long as I could remember. She was in the Yellow class of my year, I was in Red. We grew up semi-friends, connected by our shared birthday; she was a year older and thereby the wiser one. The one I always looked up to, the one who was always so much more grown up than I could ever be. 

She was always a free spirit. So much more free than we all were; at least that's how she seemed to me. She must have had her own share of insecurities and angst, but I never saw it. All I saw was a wild head of curly brown hair crowning a popular, friendly and achingly cool head. She was friends with everyone, she dated the cutest boys in our year. And yet she was always the mysterious one. The one who you always wanted to find out more about, even when you were her close friend. 

We shared a birthday. That made me somewhat cool by association. Looking back, I realize I was well-liked by everyone at school. The bigger kids knew me, the little kids weren't afraid of me. I was even popular, in the way a Betty Cooper type can be. But I never saw any of that. I saw my unibrow. I saw my flat chest. I saw the fact that I was the brainy one who liked to read but didn't have the coolest sneakers because I didn't realize those were the cool ones when I was in the store. I never picked up on the trends as a kid. I just wore what my mother bought me. All I was good at was other people's homework, other people's favours, and being the butt of other people's jokes. The boys never saw me. I was just another one of the guys. The girls never looked up to me. I was just in their group because I could write seven different book reviews without the teacher noticing they were all by the same person. 

I couldn't see the fact that people genuinely liked me. I still have some of that self-deprecation left over. But I'm a lot better about it now. I have Dixie and Daisy to thank for that. And my eyebrow lady. 

On my 14th and her 15th birthday, I got a call from a mutual friend inviting me to her surprise birthday party. I also got an earful of gossip about another friend who apparently wanted to pick a bone or two with the newly-15-year-old girl. Being 14 and especially naive, I got my hopes up. I thought the surprise was for me, too. They would never tell me that it was for me, too. That would just ruin the surprise. 

So I go. And I'm crushed when there is no singing of my name, too. When there is no second cake, and as usual, it's all about her. No one even wished me a happy birthday that day. No one remembered.

We share a ride home with her two best friends, who are also good friends of mine. I stirred up quite a bit of trouble and told them about what I'd been told on the phone earlier that day, about how she was going to get it good from the other girl. This caused a big argument with the other girl, of course. And I got the verbal whooping from her at school the next day. She was the school me3alima (head Mean Girl, for lack of a better word) and we shared the bus to school. I ratted out the other friend who'd told me. I was humiliated in front of the class. I deserved it. But I never forgave her for ratting me out to the Mean Girl. We had a strained relationship after that, the shared birthday girl and I. She never stopped being nice to me, but she never really spoke much to me either. 

11 months later, in mid-December during our Christmas break, she died. Her family's yacht went up in flames while they all slept. 

I never forgave myself for not letting things go. For never apologizing, and never patching things up. It may seem silly now, still feeling guilty over a childish spat. But I still feel like an ass, every year. I let her down. I let myself down. She remained the better person. I never knew the date of her death, nor did I go to the wake because I was in London that Christmas. 

Our birthday was always the first day back to school after Christmas break. I came back to a horrible birthday filled with special assemblies and memory books and tears. They didn't remember my birthday that year, either. They planted a tree in her honour instead. She was supposed to turn 16 that year. Sweet 16. So many milestones, so much life left to live. 

It's funny how I think about her now instead of on our birthday. I guess I still want to keep that as mine. Make up for the ones I lost to her. Still selfish, even with the guilt. 

I can think of others I've hurt much more than I hurt her. But she's the one who's struck me hardest because I can never take it back. I can't make amends. 

I try to think of her in a positive light. I try to think happy thoughts of her often. I want her to know that she will not be forgotten. She will forever be cool and zany Shamzy. 

I'm Lazy, I Know

But better late than never, right? 

Also, I figured I should give you all some time to submit questions, but apparently I have even FEWER readers than I thought! 

So, since they're only two questions, I'll be thorough for a decent post to make up for my absence. 

First up is the mighty Fesh's question:

"Can you elaborate more on the crying kid in the plane back to elCairo?"

Sigh, alright Fesh. Only because you asked so nicely. However, if I end up screaming in the middle of the night because of the nightmares you've brought back, I will seriously come up to elCold Country and hunt you down. I pack a mean left. Trust. 

First, we must visualize the seating arrangements. At the front of the economy cabin area, where the dingy baby bassinets are placed, sat a youngish couple with their maybe 4 or 5-year-old son, and a 6-ish month old baby. I could not tell if it was a boy or a girl. However, my gut says it was a boy. So let's humour it for efficiency's sake. 

Roonies was seated to their immediate right, one row back, separated by the aisle. I was seated about 4 rows behind her. Yes, we do not sit together on planes. That would be catastrophic. 

The elder child was very well behaved, colouring or watching Kung Fu Panda for the duration of the flight. That is the only point I will concede to the parents. 

Those torturous, evil, malevolent parents. The poor baby was obviously uncomfortable flying. Who wouldn't be uneasy being in a strangely shaped tin filled with smelly, grumpy strangers? Worse still, who wouldn't despise being placed in a dirty, smelly, lumpy bassinet? I sure as hell would have thrown an identical - if not more vociferous - tantrum if I were placed in that thing. 

Basically, the baby would scream his poor little head off every time his parents would place it in that sorry excuse for a bassinet. The moment he is placed on one of their laps, he shuts up. He even smiled on occasion. But for some inexplicable reason (apart from it being an obvious and successful form of psychological terrorism), the parents found it imperative that this be the ideal time and place to teach their 6-month-old to sit/lie where he is placed. Because an unfamiliar tin filled with menacing strangers is exactly where an infant will willingly learn a new social skill. 

A 4-hour flight of persistent wailing and screaming proves that theory WRONG WRONG WRONG. 

***

Our second questioner is an individual simply known as Anonymous. Anonymous asked two perfectly good, if somewhat awkward (for me) questions. Seeing as I willingly brought this upon myself, I will be a good sport and answer honestly. 

a) "Why are you so afraid of commitment?" 

Very good question, Anonymous. One I have asked myself repeatedly during my relationship-lifespan. One that requires deep and profound heart things inside my chest to take place. Such things are difficult to envision, let alone achieve. 

But, for you, I will try. 

I think the reasons are three-fold. 

1. Having witnessed several difficult and unhappy (at best) marriages in my immediate family, I am adamantly opposed to putting myself in the same situation. However, rather than channel my experiences towards finding someone who would make me happy (which is the positive thing to do), I have instead built a psychological wall between myself and the very concept of intimacy. This is a defense mechanism to protect myself from an unhappy future. 

2. I have been raised to think very highly of myself. This is in some ways great, and in others a curse. The most obvious curse is that I don't think anyone is good enough for me. This leads to the third reason, 

3. My mother is also insanely difficult to please as she is the original believer of there being no one good enough for me. I am a textbook Mummy-devotee, one of those Freudian complexes I am somewhat aware of but tend to mislabel (kindly inform me of the name if you know it), so I am a blind follower of my mother's beliefs and advice. What she says, goes. Without thought. The few times I have gone against her in any decision have resulted in her being completely right, and I being either hurt or humiliated. So Mummy knows best. Always. 

Your second question was: b) "[Are you] satisfied with your job or not? We keep hearing about Mr. Boss Man but we never heard your verdict on the job you have."

Once again, a good question. In some respects I love my job. I love the people, the prestige factor (big shiny companies are good), and the boost in self-esteem I get from knowing that although I have absolutely no previous background in finance, I'm doing a very good job and have proven myself to be an asset. I also love to learn new things, and I couldn't have been given a bigger challenge in which to learn in. 

However, the number-crunching in and of itself tends to get boring. And the company's bureaucracy and general lack of appreciation of its employees is an annoyance, to say the least (BIG company is bad). But, after a recent conversation with one of the Big Bosses, this is likely to change. Once I know more, you'll be the first people to hear it! 

Anonymous, I hope these answers have been satisfactory. I haven't figured out if i know you or not. Don't worry, I won't chase up on your identity if you don't provide any clues :) 

Fesh, sorry for the late story. Hope I don't end up killing you! 

Happy Eid to those of you celebrating Eid El Adha. And thank you for the three-day break! 

Oscar Buzz

Baby Kangaroo just posted a fun little competition of sorts on his blog. He's suggesting that participants read up on the ongoing Oscar (Academy Awards if you prefer) buzz and post their own predictions. Winner is paid about $20 from each loser.

Not a bad pot (depending on the number of people who join in) for doing something you're bound to do in your own head anyway!

Back to the Old Grind

I know, I know, I'm late as usual. Been a mad week. I think Mr. Boss Man subconsciously wanted to punish me for the week in Paris, even though I made good by hunting HALF the city for his 14 month old nephew's asthma medicine. Because I'm good-hearted like that.

Right, so the week consisted of food, shopping, walking, shopping, food, and a tiny bit of sight-seeing, mainly to places I haven't managed to see before (grace a Tinkerbell being able to call Paris home). Highlight of the trip: Roonies being left to her own devices in a shop and managing the following sentence, "je ne com pom prom pas!" 

Personal highlight: Roonies being completely dependant on my French :P LOVE IT. Complete domination is the way I like to roll. 

Sadly, it flew by, meaning I was back at my hole in the wall with a laptop attached to my tireless fingers before I knew it. Damn you, Father Time. Couldn't you hit pause or something? 

On a side note, the flight back was the longest, noisiest, most irritating flight I have ever been cursed enough to endure. Take one screaming child, add 4 hours of being in a confined space with it and no chance to escape, and you'll catch my drift. I won't say more because I am trying to block that experience out of my memory forever.

Anyway, Mr. Boss Man had me working on a model all week. Only for JP Morgan to send us the same thing as I was wrapping mine up. This meant I had to totally rework mine in accordance to theirs. Double the work, same amount of time. Stupid assflickers. Of course at an investment bank, you have 5 people working on the model. Where I am, you have little old me, and an ancient internet connection with half the internet blocked by our tyrannical IT department. Exactly. No NY Magazine, no Dlisted, no Fbook. Nothing to help the research and number crunching flow. 

But enough of that. I'm sure Mr. Boss Man has turned into a boring and repetitive issue to you by now. Unfortunately, he is the person I see most often, which is why he features so prominently here. Sorry folks. 

Right. In order to combat my recurring bouts of writer's block, I will open the floor to questions from my adoring public. Ask me anything, so long as it isn't perverted, and I will be happy to post an entry answering your questions. 

Bracing myself!