My Idea of Mr. Eureka

Someone commented on a recent post that they were happy my work stories were back, but where were the so-called "love life" updates? You haven't heard about any of that in a while! Well, that my devoted (probably now reduced to) 4 and a half readers is because my so-called "love life" has been non-existent as of late (apart from the regular sketchy boys who seem to sniff out my disdain for them and consider it invitation to hound me but that's a whole other post). There are no interesting men out there at the moment.

Boys, please take note my use of the word men. Strategic use.

This afternoon Cheb Khaled and I were discussing the fact that my difficult and ice queen personality would mean I require a saint of a man to put up with me. According to Cheb Khaled, I need someone who will know how to push the right buttons to make me cute and cuddly. I did not realize cute and cuddly could be part of my being. Apparently, the right person can bring this incredibly well-hidden aspect out of me. He would also need to be a gazzillliioonnn years older than me to make me seem immature in comparison, because I am too logical (in the male sense) to get riled up the way men seem to like. I am, in conclusion, boring because my thought process is too masculine. Who'da thunk it?

Cheb Khaled should start a blog just to write a post about this topic. He has interesting insights into the male-female relationship/dynamic.

However, in my defense, my friendship with Cheb Khaled brings out a more laid back Eureka because we think the same so there is little room for arguments. Granted, I enjoy yelling at him when he does something stupid, but that's what friends are for, right?

I don't think what I ask for in men is unreasonable. I'm not asking for a Johnny Depp for my Ginnifer Goodwin. I'm not deluded. I ask for an equal. I respect myself enough to know who and what I am. Therefore, I deserve someone I feel measures up to me in my eyes. What I look for is simple and to continue with my recent list trend, here are some of the things I'm asking for:

1. Intelligence
2. Ambition
3. Maturity
4. Shared religious beliefs (i.e.: Christian but not a fanatic)
5. A lust for learning
6. A sense of humour compatible with my sarcasm
7. Understanding (because I am too quirky for the Egyptian population)
8. Patience (because I am am too quirky for the Egyptian population)
9. And this one may be a cliche, but he should ideally love me a little more than I love him because otherwise, he won't put up with me and my English-speaking, newfangled women's equality believing, I am not your servant acting ways.

Ideally, he should be good looking but that isn't necessarily high on my list. I think this list is shared by women universally. We aren't saying all men must be cut from the same cloth. We are not saying you all need to be Prince Charming or a Sir Lancelot or some other Disney hero. We just don't want to come home to an unkempt, unmotivated dimbulb who expects us to serve his every whim. That isn't what a relationship should be based on.

Unfortunately, this last bit is the problem (in my circles in Cairo, at least). All a guy believes he needs to be is rich and semi-good looking; nothing else seems to factor in. So as a result, most boys I know are now extremely metrosexual, obsessed with material possessions, are "working" for Daddy and have zero functioning brain cells. Cheb Khaled is now the exception rather than the rule. This is a sad state for my generation to be in, and it is just as bad - if not worse - in Bloft's age-group.

Maybe we just haven't met the right social circle, but in a society as small as ours in Cairo, it's hard to miss people.

So boys, man up. You'll be surprised at how many women would agree with the general gist of this post.

Mercurial Life

I am known as the go-to person when you want a presentation whipped up at the office. People I've never met - people ranking high up in the company's hierarchy - request the most random things from me knowing that I will deliver efficiently.

One such person came to me yesterday asking to recycle some slides I'd created for another presentation, which I gladly sent over. He's a young, energetic, intelligent man and is an easy person to work with because, unlike many people at my company, he knows what he wants, knows how he wants it, and has no problem articulating his needs. I like working with him. He needed another slide to be created and said he's come see me this morning to discuss.

This morning I walk into the office expecting to see him. Ten minutes later I find out he'd died in a car accident on his way home late last night.

We hear these stories often. Stories of people in the prime of life suddenly evaporating. Like they never even existed. We hear the stories of car accidents, murders, bumps on the head and disease. We gently pat people on the back when they lament the fact that they did not do more, did not get to say goodbye, did not do anything to prevent the loss.

I could have stayed a little late and worked on the presentation with him. I could have altered his path in some way. I'm not feeling responsible in any way, don't misunderstand me. I'm just wondering why this man in his early thirties, a man with a wife and two young children, was on that road at that precise moment. Why was it his car that spun, crashed and burned. Is it destiny? Is it the chaos of nature? Is it written by a higher power? All these age-old questions float up when death hits close to home. The what if's, why's and how come's. The need to understand and rationalize death, especially when the victim is young.

The very way we discuss death makes it difficult to digest. It is a crime. The person who died is labelled a victim. Death is internalized as an unnatural force rather than a natural progression. It is only when the deceased has lived a full life and died of natural causes at a decidedly acceptable old age that we do not question. What is the difference if one dies at 30 or 90? Why do we not accept it as part of life and move on? Why is humanity programmed to feel grief, to question events we do not agree with but are out of our control, to decide when and how people should die?

Life is celebrated when it is snatched away unexpectedly. This is the positive thought that came to me when I heard he'd died. When speaking to him yesterday, I spoke to him believing I'd see him the next morning. I looked at my laptop screen to pull out presentations instead of looking at him. I did not offer him 100% of my attention and effort because I did not feel like I would never have the chance to again. I had all of the next morning to create a great slide for him. He'd appreciate it then. But when today came and I could not fulfill my promise, I felt the urge to never again treat anyone the way I treated him yesterday afternoon. I did not treat him badly. I just didn't treat him the way I would have had I known that was goodbye.

Treat everyone with the respect, warmth and attention you'd want to receive. You never know when it'll be the last time you can. This is the celebration of life in its truest form. Respect the life still in front of you. If anything should be taken from this story, it is the importance of the little moments. They are the moments that prove your mettle.

If It's Worth Having It's Worth Fighting For

With my major girl-crush on all things related to Girls Aloud, please indulge my posting of Cheryl Cole's first solo effort. In her defence, she was never the group's strongest singer, and the song is pretty infectious after a couple of listens. Plus, she's looking mighty fashionable in the fat man pants and MJ-tribute shoulder pads. Rock on, Cheryl!

Now in relation to my previous post and my need to self-analyze my every half-baked attempt at emotion, should I follow her advice? He's definitely worth having, but is he worth fighting for?

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?

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. 

Mourning What I Never Really Had

I miss having something to write about. 

I miss thinking that I could write. 

I miss that feeling of a deep and ardent need to get what was floating around in my head out on paper or screen as quickly and eloquently as possible. 

I miss feeling that if I didn't get that thought out I'd go mad because the thought would keep permeating every nerve cell in my brain until my mind either exploded or my whole body just ceased to function entirely. 

All that remains is a nagging disappointment at my inability to formulate a decent semi-interesting idea to share with my notebook, my laptop, Blogger, or you. 

All that remains is frustration and self-disgust. What kind of person who reads and is continually enamored by varied and celebrated literature, who loves the act of writing for its own worth as an art-form, who can argue the merits of a semicolon and who is genuinely heartbroken when a book is mistreated or *gasp* unread cannot find something - anything - to think or say or write? Why can I only complain about my inability to write? 

I don't even read as often as I'd like to anymore. I don't even make the effort to. I don't make the effort to do anything at all anymore. It isn't even the problem of being stuck in a routine. I don't even feel like making an effort to make a change to the routine. I'm 22 years old and I have subconsciously given up on life. What is wrong with this picture? What is wrong with me?

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. 

The Obligatory Resolutions-to-be-Broken Post

So I've been pretty sucky lately regarding all this blogging business. I have nothing to say, I have no fun stories to tell, I have no boring stories to tell, and I basically have no thoughts worth mentioning; they are neither silly, nor random, nor insightful in any way. They no longer come neatly packaged in cloud-shaped thought bubbles, are unaccompanied by bright yellow light bulbs, and are never followed by a laugh track, a giggle, or even a snort. 

It has become so bad that I now don't even daydream significantly. That used to be my claim to fame! Sit me anywhere and I could switch off and wander through the many lands and scenarios of my mind watermelons (because mine are significantly bigger than grapes). 

What happened? I honestly don't know. I'm not depressed. I'm not sick. I'm not morose in any way. I think I'm just demotivated by life in general. Nothing new is happening. I don't have a specific group of people I can call mine. I'm just bouncing around aimlessly, going from work to home, work laptop to home laptop, and the occasional night out with a different set of people every time. I have no steady distraction from the mundane. That kind of allows your mind to switch off, never to be restarted again. The amount of time I waste online doesn't help matters either. 

I seem to be complaining about this often, but never do anything about it. Which conveniently leads me to the point of this post. I resolve to climb out of my persistent funk in the following ways:

1. I will rekindle my friendships and reestablish my social circles by going out more often;
   
2. I will take up yoga. This is because I figured it was the only way I could tone up the flab a bit without exerting too much effort. I still refuse to actually (shudder) exercise;
   
3. I will lose 5 kilograms by eating better along with the yoga;
   
4. I will make work more stimulating by branching out more from number crunching;
   
5. I will travel more often, and not just to shop.
   

Those are the changed I would like to go through with in 2009. Whether or not I ever will is up for debate. I'm thinking I'll achieve 1 or 2 at best out of 5. But hey, that would be a start, wouldn't it? 

Fingers crossed!

Happy New Year everyone!

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! 

White Flag

I am tired.

Tired of life, tired of routine, tired of monotony, tired of me. I am tired of waking up each morning wondering what happened to the day before. Wondering which day of the week it was, and praying for the speedy arrival of Thursday, 5 p.m., where I will finally do good on the promise I made myself a lifetime ago to do something interesting, something different, something exciting, something rewarding. I am tired of doing the same thing every work day, of reading the same websites in the same order, looking at the same figures, same multiples, same companies, same chemicals and projects. An endless stream of numbers, names, and symbols that mean nothing to me, and will never make enough sense to become more than a worker bee in a highly competitive hive. Tired of coming home to yet another unbending routine of chores, of tv shows, and sleep. Only to wake up and do it all again. Is this how my youth will pass me by? Is this what I will look back on when I am past the so-called age of folly? I disappoint myself before even reaching an age of remorse and reminiscence.

I am tired of my own monotony. I am tired of not having the motivation or drive or genuine desire to make the effort to change. I am tired of making promises of exercise, of intellectual stimulation, of social reintegration - all of which I know I will break even as I make them. I am tired of being disappointed in myself. If I so flippantly and regularly let myself down, how can I expect others to not do the same?

I am tired of waiting for the phone to ring. I am tired of believing you will call. I'm tired of you letting me down without even realizing it, because you're too self-absorbed and important to notice. I am tired of wishing you weren't so perfect and knowing I couldn't find better. I am tired of knowing you will be the one that got away. And I am tired of knowing there is nothing I can do about it without obliterating the last tiny shred of dignity I have left. I am tired of wondering what I did wrong; why you never even gave it a shot. I am tired of feeling unwanted, unattractive, unloved.

I am tired of the lingering perpetual depression permeating my family. I am tired of watching us battle for every breath, claw for every smile, struggle for every moment's peace of mind.

I am tired of having no real talent, no niche, no dream, no aspiration, no future in mind. I am tired of kidding myself, making a fool of myself every day when I pretend to be an intelligent, educated individual with something to offer. I have nothing to offer but a vacuous, unthinking, porous lump of calcified matter in my head. I have nothing to say, nothing to add, nothing to create.

I am tired of mourning for a country which does not want to help itself. I am tired of looking out the window to see a woman living in a small garbage dump on the roof of a semi-erect structure with her poultry, her sheep, and her laundry hanging on a line only to be dirtied by the pollution in our smoggy, car exhaust-ridden excuse for air. I am tired of knowing that the establishment does not want to improve her standard of living because it would mean risking a revolution. I am tired of knowing that the revolution these people so desperately need would inevitably mean my own displacement, impoverishment, or death. I am tired of being the rope being tugged between two opposing teams because at the end of the day, I will be the only loser.

I am tired of feeling lonely. I am tired of feeling like a failure. I am tired of all my what if's, why's, and how come's.

I am very tired.

Questioning Human Emotion in the Car

This is the train of thought I dabbled in (because we all know I am not conditioned to really think, just pretend to think - half-think if you will) on the way home from work today:

Today I was trying to figure out what feelings were. Why do we find it so important to feel, to have "real" emotions; why do these feelings make us human? Why do we place so much importance on how they make us different to other animals?

Not that I got any answers.

But to explain myself, consider this. If you went through life without much emotion - just the monotonous no feeling mode – wouldn’t you go crazy? Or at least think something was wrong with you in comparison to all the ‘normal’ people? We place a lot of our sense of normalcy on the ability to feel, the chemical changes in our brain. When those go wrong, we're labelled sociopaths, or psychologically unstable. An inability to empathise or experience emotion is deemed undesirable by society, by psychology.

But why? Why is "feeling" so important?

Each question leads to another.

Emotions are a focal point to every person. They almost dictate you to a certain extent. Why are feelings such an essential part to our being and humanity?

See what I mean?

Then I got Doolittle involved in my thoughts. She said that “Emotions may be an inconvenience, but no one can go through life without them. They are what we know, write about, read about, and feel on a daily basis. We have no choice. Someone who feels nothing is just an impossible idea.”

So I said: “people who are considered psychologically unwell are like that. People like psychopaths, serial killers, etc… they don't even need to be dangerous, they just don't feel the way we do.”

Doolittle: what do you mean? Of course they FEEL. I’d say they feel more than average amount of feeling. They do feel... It might not be the same, but the root of what they do comes down to simple feelings which are universal. Serial killers, people who are deemed psychologically unwell... I think they feel as much if not more than we do. They might do things which we would never be capable of, but the cause/reason for it is all about feelings/emotions. There is no way we can separate what we feel and what we do and how we are.

Then there are people who try to separate the two as much as possible. It’s like a scale. You and I belong on a kind of "emotionally restrained and protective" part of the spectrum. Then other people who can easily act on what they feel, people who you can see as being a certain way because of how they feel about things... they belong to another part of the spectrum.

Eureka: And at the end of the day, we are all dictated to varying extents by our emotions. Again, why is that the way we're wired? For example, why do we need to phrase our sentences with respect to the feelings of those we are speaking to? Isn’t that a form of limitation on expression?

Doolittle: It is. We are trained not to hurt people.

Eureka: Doesn't that pose as a form of violation of that fundamental right? 

Doolittle: In a way… There are just unspoken, unseen lines in the sand sort of thing. Limitations which we can’t change.

Eureka: So, once again, we are limiting ourselves because of emotion. We are dictated by it. Why do we need emotion?

Doolittle: We don’t need it. It’s a part of us/part of everything. It’s a thing we have zero control over. 

Eureka: Our hands are a part of us. Our noses  are a part of us. Blinking is a part of us. We do not obsess over there. They do not have a significant say in our lives. So why do we place feelings  on such a pedestal? When I have dry eyes, for example, or a broken finger, I do not lock myself in a roomand mourn my very existence. But when my feelings are hurt I’d rather lock myself up than face the world. They have a stronger influence than the rest of me. The human is conditioned to place their emotions on a higher level than their physical selves. And their perception of their physical self is  influenced by their emotions. 

Then we got sidetracked by the entry on Wikipedia for "Emotion," and how we liked to look everything up in reference books because we needed to know everything. Which lead to the importance of bibliographies, how tired we'd become of the same old Cairo night scene, Nabakov, and the first sex scenes we'd seen on television as children. 

Yes, we have a very eclectic shared stream of thought. Makes for more interesting conversations. 

But back to my original half-baked thought. What do you think about feelings? Are they as important as we make them seem to be?

Thems is Good People

Tonight I went to Mrs. Fallon's birthday sohour. Mrs. Fallon and I met during our first semester at AUC and immediately bonded over our highly uncommon shared love of Saturday Night Live. At the time, Chris Kattan and Jimmy Fallon were regulars; hence, I became Mrs. Kattan in reference to my love for Mango, and she became Mrs. Fallon because she just loved Jimmy to bits. 

Mrs. Fallon and I sadly drifted apart during our third year when, for some unexplained reason, there was a sort of shut-down in our circle where everyone went their own way. They all regrouped, I shuffled off to explore the then uncharted waters known as MUN, seldom to be heard from again. In hindsight, although I had no shortage of friends and continued to be popular at AUC, I wish I'd made more of an effort to rekindle my friendship with some of those girls sooner. Mrs. Fallon was and continues to be the one I wish I'd remained closer with the most. 

Mrs. Fallon is what you'd call a hybrid of an old soul and Peter Pan. She harbours an eternal bright youthfulness complemented by maturity and wisdom beyond her years. She is the kindest they come. She is a genuinely beautiful person both inside and out. 

Regardless of my transgressions (or just lack of maintenance skills) she continues to remember me, and regularly invites me to events she hosts, asks about me, and even reads these little mind excrements. Even though I'm sure they can't be as entertaining as she claims they are. She doesn't need to be as nice to me as she is, yet because she's so lovely, she never fails to be the best person one can even aspire to become. Her continued friendship is a humbling privilege. 

It is people like Mrs. Fallon, like O, Nes, Roonies, Doolittle, Folly, Effo and several others I've been blessed with that prove the existence of hope for this world. We may live in an increasingly ruthless and vapid society, but the Good still exist. Those who still have morals, have faith in humanity, and believe in doing unto others as they would have others do unto them have not dissipated. They live their lives battling negativity and hatred on a daily basis, and yet they have never faltered. 

I've said and written this before; I stand tall not because I am sure, nor because my future course is lit before me, but because I know that with each step that wavers in my struggle, I will be caught and supported by God's select few - those He wholeheartedly enjoyed creating. It is my hope that one day, I can attempt to return the infinite favours they've all so graciously given me. 

I came from the shadows. But the shadows were not cast by the darkness of the caves I dwelt in, but by the light each of these wonderful people exuded; beacons guiding me to the people I can safely, confidently call home.  

Disgruntlement With the Self

But still, I never learn. Experiences seem to flit over me, hitting me on the head much like a stone skipping over a placid body of water, making momentary ripples that promise permanence yet are forgotten before the ever-widening rings come to pass. The larger issue seems to be my complete awareness of the repetitive nature of my mistakes. I know exactly how the event will play out. I should, I’ve lived it time and again. I know that I am merely setting myself and others up for disappointment, that I will kick myself for going through with it later, that dealing with the subsequent fall-out or debris is sure to be a hassle. But still, I never learn.

Once again, I agreed to a blind date. Once again, I knew full well that it wouldn’t be successful beforehand. Did I weasel out and save both parties the trouble? No. I chose to take the easy route and be accommodating to the whims and hopes of others. Same stupid submission; different day.

Maybe on some level in my subconscious, I think that this “yes, ma’am” attitude is a form of self-sacrifice for a greater good – a positive gesture to the happiness of others. But really, it isn’t. What have I achieved? I’ve appeased the person pushing for the date, but only to provide false hope to both the pusher and the poor man being thrust in an uncomfortable position. I have basically led him on before even introducing myself. I’m a perpetual tease.

And what boggles my mind further is the fact that he ticks all the right boxes. So I should have no excuse not to like him. He is gorgeous (think a semi-buff Gerard Butler), he is smart, he is ambitious, he’s the perfect age, he’ll make a great family man, and he’s a gentleman. AND he fits my mother’s “Good Christian Boy” requirement. That’s every box on my list ticked.

He complimented me just often enough to be flattering yet sincere. He was eloquent. He was interesting. He was funny and charming and genuine. It wasn't a game or a dance to be played out with certain step-requirements. It was an honest and open introduction of two individuals shoved in each other's direction.

He put up with an hour's driving in some sketchy Cairo neighbourhoods at one a.m. because I am road illiterate and too stubbornly proud to admit it. He put up with a crowded evening of strangers and 4,000 renditions of my broken foot story to as many new faces. He even held the car door open without being instructed to. The last of London's chivalrous men.

And yet I nit-pick. My reason this time? I don’t see the families getting along.

That just makes me a complete bitch.

And I know I'll only see him again while he's still in Cairo out of guilt and remorse.

Why am I still waiting for the fairytale and fireworks when it is obvious that those only exist in the magical realms of the imagination? He borders on perfect. Hell, he’s every woman’s Mr. Right.

Why can’t I accept him as mine?

Because I’m an idiot who is actively pushing herself into a life of solitary confinement in my own deluded psyche, that’s why.

Run folks, otherwise you’re destined to read about years of therapy and cynicism.

Chipping at the Concrete Wall

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cynically SATC

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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?

Ad Infinitum

*Warning* This will be an ongoing project where I will list my blessings as I remember them. Forgive me for boring you, but if you read this, then you're bored anyway.

1. I have loving, nurturing parents and the best siblings in the world.
2. I have an aunt who personifies strength and courage in the face of adversity. The world is lucky to have such a role model. They should make a movie about her. And have Angelina Jolie star. Scratch that, she's not as hot as my aunt.
2(b) They should make a movie about my mother, too. Because she's just as awesome.
3. I have strong women to look up. On the flipside, that means I have huge stiletto's to fill.
4. I have the best friends in the world. Whole package: smart, gorgeous, funny, supportive men and women. The Abercrombie & Fitch of the friends world. Except mine are all dressed in Prada and Zegna.
5. I make good money in a cushy job where I can spend all day reading, flirting and gossiping. All I have to do is make sure when I do get an assignment, I do it well.
6. Seeing as I'm a perfectionist, 5 goes without saying anyway.
7. I have AMAZING boobs.
8. Even though my hair is thinning, it's still great quality and I can generally hide the thinning part with a good haircut.
9. I have the luxury of living in a country where hired help is the norm, so I never need to do my own chores. (Score!)
10. No matter how bad things get, I'll never be alone and abandoned because I have a great support system. Thank you everyone.

To be continued.

Letter to the Friend Who Could Have Been

I may not have seen you- really seen you and not the social facade - in years, but I know this will not go unappreciated. I know that even if you don't necessarily want to see or hear anything at this moment, on some level your consciousness craves every remaining gesture of love and human kindness left on this earth. God is not kind or loving today. I cannot know how difficult this must be, but I know that it cannot be anything less than the most difficult moment of your existence.

I pray you will find some comfort in these words, as simple and common as they may be. May you always remember the happy moments, not wallow in the what ifs that will surely haunt you. May you celebrate his life, the life you shared and cherish, not mourn his death. As terrible and untimely as it is. May you stand together in familial solidarity, not dissipate in blame and grief.

I wish you strength, though I do not doubt your courage. I wish you patience, though I do not doubt your steadfast will. I wish you closure, though I know this may not be in your immediate future. But I know your core and I know you will overcome this. I do not know you today, but I know your foundations. I know what made you. I know You.

I believe in who you must have become to be the beacon of strength I watched today. I do not pretend to still be a friend. I know a shared past does not guarantee a shared present or future. Today we are merely acquaintances. But we shared a childhood. We share memories of Nutella sandwiches. We share memories of Sister Act and dancing to Michael Jackson's "Black and White". It was my first time listening to him. I remember how grown up you seemed as you sang deftly along and sashayed to his infectious beat. So adult with your entire day older than my own seven years. They say a day older in age is a year older in maturity. Well, you certainly seemed seventeen, not seven, then. I saw it then.

I saw who you would become. I saw wisdom and intelligence beyond your years. I saw wit and speed I could only dream of possessing. I saw the grace and determination you continue to plow through the world with. I saw the tools you need to survive this. You have the tools to survive this. You will. Never doubt your ability to persevere, to heal, to prosper.

And know that even though time and distance have come between us and robbed us of the friendship that may have been, we share that childhood. I will always be your friend. And I will always be here if you need me.