Try not to cry

My friend Tonya keeps sending me such lovely stories ....

Will post again soon
xx
Marwa
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She jumped up as soon as she saw the surgeon come out of the operating room. She said: "is my little boy ? Is he going to be all right ? When can I see him ?"
The surgeon said, "I'm sorry. We did all we could, but your boy didn't make it."

Sally said, "Why do little children get cancer ? Doesn't God care any more ? Where were you, God, when my son needed you ?"

The surgeon asked, "Would you like some time alone with your son ? One of the nurses will be out in a few minutes, before he's transported to the university."

Sally asked the nurse to stay with her while she said good bye to son. She ran her fingers lovingly through his thick red curly hair. "Would you like a lock of his hair ?" the nurse asked.

Sally nodded yes. The nurse cut a lock of the boy's hair, put it in a plastic bag and handed it to Sally.

The mother said, "It was Jimmy's idea to donate his body to the University for Study. He said it might help somebody else. "I said no at first, but Jimmy said, 'Mom, I won't be using it after I die. Maybe it will help some other little boy spend one more day with his Mom." She went on, "My Jimmy had a heart of gold. Always thinking of someone else. Always wanting to help others if he could."

Sally walked out of Children's Mercy Hospital for the last time, after spending most of the last six months there. She put the bag with Jimmy's belongings on the seat beside her in the car.

The drive home was difficult. It was even harder to enter the empty house. She carried Jimmy's belongings, and the plastic bag with the lock of his hair to her son's room.

She started placing the model cars and other personal things back in his room exactly where he had always kept them. She laid down across his bed and, hugging his pillow, cried herself to sleep.

It was around midnight when Sally awoke. Laying beside her on the bed was a folded letter. The letter said:

"Dear Mom, I know you're going to miss me; but don't think that I will ever forget you, or stop loving you, just 'cause I'm not around to say "I Love You". I will always love you, Mom, even more with each day. Someday we will see each other again. Until then, if you want to adopt a little boy so you won't be so lonely, that's okay with me. He can have my room and old stuff to play with. But, if you decide to get a girl instead, she probably wouldn't like the same things us boys do. You'll have to buy her dolls and stuff girls like, you know.

Don't be sad thinking about me. This really is a neat place. Grandma and Grandpa met me as soon as I got here and showed me around some, but it will take a long time to see everything. The angels are so cool. I love to watch them fly. A

nd, you know what? Jesus doesn't look like any of his p ictures. Yet, when I saw Him, I knew it was Him. Jesus himself took me to see GOD ! And guess what, Mom ? I got to sit on God's knee and talk to Him, like I was somebody important. That's when I told Him that I wanted to write you a letter, to tell you good bye and everything. But I already knew that wasn't allowed. Well, you know what Mom ? God handed me some paper and His own personal pen to write you this letter.

I think Gabriel is the name of the angel who is going to drop this letter off to you. God said for me to give you the answer to one of the questions you asked Him 'Where was He when I needed him ?' "God said He was in the same place with me, as when His son Jesus was on the cross. He was right there, as He always is with all His children.

Oh, by the way, Mom, no one else can see what I've written except you. To everyone else this is just a blank piece of paper. Isn't that cool ? I have to give God His pen back now. He needs it to write some more names in the Book of Life. Tonight I get to sit at the table with Jesus for supper. I'm sure the food will be great.

Oh, I almost forgot to tell you. I don't hurt anymore. The cancer is all gone. I'm glad because I couldn't stand that pain anymore and God couldn't stand to see me hurt so much, either. That's when He sent The Angel of Mercy to come get me. The Angel said I was a Special Delivery ! How about that ?

Signed with Love from God, Jesus & Me.


"When you're down to nothing, God is up to something."

A ride with the angel of death!

Once upon a night - a late night - a taxi was roaming the streets of Agouza when an old bearded man in a white galabeya stopped him and politely asked for a ride to Mostafa Mahmoud Mosque becuase he could not walk any further. The taxi driver eyed the tired worn out old man carefully and asked him to get in the vehicle.

A few meters later, a young man stopped the taxi and told the driver that he wanted to go to Game3at el Dowal street. The taxi driver told him that he had to drop the old man first at the mosque. The young man looked at the driver with huge perplexed eyes and told him that there was no one in the car.

The driver insisted that there was an old man in the seat next to him and the young man who refused to get in the car insisted that the driver was stoned. Freaked out of his wits, the taxi driver asked the old passenger about what was going on. The old man calmly replied that he was the angel of death and that he came for him, but he was willing to wait until he prayed "Al Fagr" in the mosque then take his soul.

The taxi driver drove to the mosque in tears, got out of the car, and went to pray. He finished, came back, and discovered that the taxi was gone!!

###

A true story that a friend told me yesterday!!

To pay or not to pay?

Were I the marketing manager of Damac, I would not pay for this ad!!!

OK! I will refrain from leading you on like that and I will give you the chance to come up with your own conclusion.

This is a page of yesterday's Al Ahram Newspaper - 22 November, 2007 - and I neither have a problem with Damac nor a problem with the investigative report.

Speaking of the report, let me translate the headline for you: The law does not protect their victims - The whales of real estate fraud!

The journalist did a great job investigating real estate fraud and how a lot of real estate investment companies do not fulfill their delivery date, finishing terms, or overall service promises to the gullible trusting buyer, or they elope with the money, or even worse, they place more financial demands on the buyers and the victims have to pay or they lose everything - usually everything indicates lifetime savings and life binding loans!

Was it a coincidence that Damac's ad - more or less LE 40,000 - was placed on the same page of that investigation?

Now Damac's ad is an employment ad where the key message positions Damac as a socially responsible company that is embracing Egyptian graduates and offering them dream jobs.

The irony is that Damac positions itself as "the largest private master developer in the Middle East". The report did not mention new regional investment companies but he who is not burnt by the fire is bound to choke on the ashes!

The disgusting thing between my legs!

What a long day! I thought as I felt the warm semi boiling water pour from what I hoped was the sky onto my head. The healing drops ran through my hair onto my face and down my body as I closed my eyes and breathed the floral essence of my shower gel. I washed away the burdens of a day that did not want to end and smiled in silence to the blissful night.

I lost sense of place, space, and time; I was no longer the tired frail figure standing under the shower in the bathtub, I am a divine creature standing under the waterfalls of Eden in a white peasant dress with little lilies scattered on my shoulders and butterflies kissing my neck.

I smiled to myself and opened my eyes ... and there he was ... right between my legs staring at me ... challenging my dreams and peace of mind ... freaking the hell out of me with its disgusting brown figure, moustache, and sixty legs!

I froze as the image of Eden faded away into terror. I was too scared to move .. what if he moved too? I wanted to get out of the shower ... what if he followed me? How long has he been there? Did he touch me? Did he fly in or did he walk in? Was he on the wall or was he on the floor all along?

I froze with the shower head in my hand, and the running water now was pouring onto his head. I froze and could think of nothing. I froze and I drowned him underneath the hot water spray. He was not moving ... neither was I!

The Antidote

I was having one of those self-esteem issues when I drowned my smile in a hollow well of insecurity and self-doubt. I somehow reverted into that freaky teenage girl at school and lost sight of the diva that I have worked so hard to establish and maintain.

Thanks to my great friend and number one ego booster KN who wrote the perfect prescription and gave me the ideal antidote for my untimely relapse.

I decided to be unselfish and to share with you the magical words that brought me back to life and expelled the fumes of despair out of my system.

Here is to anyone who needs to remember who they are, where they come from, and where they want to go ....

• If your job is what you told me it was, then you are damn successful.


• If this is your actual blog and those are your original blog words, then you are damn eloquent.


• If you hold these degrees and you really teach at AUC, then you are educated and intellectual.


• If these are your pictures and this is still your figure, then you are damn good looking and sexy.


• If your mood and attitude is as you describe on your highs then you are one wild girl who has no fuck'n reason to be down.

Relationship Warning: Do not get involved with Egyptian Men!

Because of the nature of my work in the tourism sector, I am used to hearing that this or that country has issued a travel warning to its citizens who plan on traveling to Egypt, especially in the aftermath of an attack. Naturally, most warnings address safety and security issues, and some warnings dedicate a section or two to hygiene and harassment. Lately, and because of the increasing number of divorces, custody issues, and domestic violence cases, some countries warn their women from Egyptian men. Yes, they tell them clearly not to get emotionally involved or legally committed to an Egyptian man!

I did not just make that up. I got it first hand from a European woman who is living in Egypt, was married to an Egyptian man, has a son, and is currently divorced. “He swept me off my feet with his sweet words, compliments, attentive gestures, romance, and warmth; he was a god compared to European men, who are often distant, reserved, and not very emotional. I fell in love with him like never before. Bit by bit, I began opening up too and, against my better judgment, I gave up all my defenses. In three months, he asked me to marry him, and in my culture this is a very serious step. I translated his proposal as the epitome of love and I gladly accepted.”

I listened to Sandy and I knew exactly how she felt when she first met “her hero”. I know how it feels to jump in a jar of honey thinking of how sweet it would taste and how rich and overwhelming it would feel, only to get your hair tangled in its stickiness and eventually you drown in its suffocating viscosity. I asked Sandy to continue narrating her experience and she told me that his family was against the marriage; “they told him that I was loose and that he should get married to a virgin. They warned him that I would corrupt his children and reminded him that I was from a different religion. His mother hated how I dressed no matter how modest. All my attempts at communication failed but I was heads over heels in love with him to read the warning signs. He assured me that he loved me and that he was not willing to give up his soul mate.”

Her eyes welled as she told me her story. I tried to be as empathetic as possible but I was growing angrier by the minute. I naturally assumed that her guy was a lowlife Egyptian male parasite who wanted a way out of the country or easy sex. Because un-Egyptian women are not as class conscious, they miss out on all the “low-class” signals that his body language, address, grooming, verbiage, phonetics, and interests give away. I was wrong! “He is an AUC graduate and the descendant of one of the biggest families in Egypt. He had the looks, the manners, the class, the charm, and the money. He was so open-minded and understanding – I have never met anyone who was as perfect.” Sandy corrected me.

I was more than curious to know what could go wrong with such a compatible intercultural union. “We got married amongst his friends. His family did not attend but this was natural in my country; we were two responsible adults and we were in charge of our life-altering decisions. After marriage, he began changing; suddenly he had hurtful comments about my wardrobe, more hurtful comments about my public demeanor, and … he hit me! He told me that he loved me but suddenly his love began suffocating me. I realized that I got married to a very jealous possessive insecure spoilt violent person!”
Again I identified with every word she said. I KNOW our men! I asked Sandy about the frequency and the intensity of the jealousy fits and the violence attacks and she told me that it became on daily basis; “the tender loving caring man that I fell in love with disappeared. I was stuck with a person who mastered ignoring me, and when he looked at me, he told me that I was ugly and needed plastic surgery.” With her long golden locks tied back in a ponytail, Sandy was looking at me with deep blue eyes that rested on pink cheeks. She was flawless pretty! But I am fully aware of the self-esteem blows that our men know how to perfectly aim.

After a year of suffering and utter misery, Sandy got a divorce … and a son! A single foreign mother in Egypt could be quiet traumatizing. I asked her why she did not go back to her country; she told me that her Egyptian god threatened to take away her son. To add a more dramatic denouement to this repetitive farce, Sandy told me that after their divorce, he got married to a veiled Egyptian girl and that he stopped sending her alimony. This was when she went to the embassy and that was when they told her “we told you so!”

Just writing about this topic clogs my arteries; seriously, I cannot breathe! Sandy and her story is the trigger behind this article but I have witnessed many other stories that started with “he was so sweet” and ended in “he hit me” or “he walked out on me” or “I hate Egyptian men”. Even the girls who were spared the marriage disaster still enjoyed a rough ride on the dating arena. Sandy told me that her countrymen could still bully their women and that they were far from perfect, but at least they were honest, straightforward, and took marriage seriously. Like many Egyptian girls, she felt that he cheated his way into her heart and that he tricked her into loving him. It was ironic though, how Sandy thought that Egyptian women were best equipped to deal with their men.

Move in or Move on

Sitting on a stone couch on the terrace of my soon-to-be home, I grew wings and soared high in the horizon. I enjoyed the sunset as the scent of orange blossoms filled my heart with joy and birds sang their prayers to a new dusk. A sense of achievement flowed through my veins and a happy tear twinkled in my eyes as I embraced my future. My mobile rang. She was a friend. I answered. After a stream of courteous greetings, my friend asked about my whereabouts, and I informed her that I was checking the paint colors at my new apartment. I embarked on an infinite rant about the beauty of everything I laid my eyes on until she caught me off guard with a question: Will your boyfriend move in with you? I met her question with silence followed by a need to go do a thing!

I was not offended by her question; I was just baffled – needless to say clueless. First, I was not sure which boyfriend she was referring to. Who has she seen me with? Who have I told her about? Who has been in my life long enough to be a boyfriend? Who does she think I love enough to share a home with? I honestly could not pin a face to her question. The second and main source of my confusion is the fact that I have never given that particular issue any thought. It is true that I have been living alone for the past five years but I have never considered it “home”. It was as though I borrowed someone’s car; I have to keep it clean, keep it safe, treat it with respect, and return it on time in perfect shape.

Now I own a home and one day I will have a boyfriend who will make it past the first month. What if he makes it past the first six months? It is one thing to come and visit and it is a totally different thing to move in with me. Bearing in mind that I am a very territorial person – territorial enough to pee allover my desk so no one would dare sit on it – and bearing in mind that I value space and privacy beyond any man I have ever known. Will I be willing to share? Will I welcome his clothes in my wardrobe? Will I be able to see his toothbrush next to mine in the bathroom? Will he have a key? Will he really move in with me?

Other than my space issues, there is a lot of social baggage that comes with such a situation. Like virginity, abortion, homosexuality, extramarital affairs, cohabitation is another taboo in our society; for a couple to live together they have to be married. They get to really know and understand one another after they are legally bound to one another - another instance of burying our heads in the sand and sweeping our dust under the carpet. I believe that this is a major factor that is ruining all my marriage and commitment attempts. Between cultural variations, personal differences, and individual perks, I find the idea of cohabitation rather appealing and logical.

When two people come together, they are not just who they are today; they represent their respective homes, schools, friends, peers, and groups with their attitudes, habits, beliefs, and needs. This is a lot of ironing to do in a relationship. How a person eats, talks, or walks is just the tip of the iceberg. The way one communicates with, reacts to, and feels about things and people is a wide enough gap to bridge. Hence, many love stories crash after marriage because he was not who she thought he was or because she was not the girl she said she was.

The idea of sharing is in itself frightening; who is to do what? Assigning roles and responsibilities and trying to fulfill them over a long period of time is like the prologue to a marriage. Is he responsible? Is she reliable? Is he stingy? Is she a control freak? Is he too organized? Is she beyond sloppy? There is no other way to find out. Living with someone is not just about the sexual part of the relationship; it brings out the mental and emotional dimensions to the foreground and the day to day dealings are the real test of the success or the failure of the relationship.

Moving in together does not mean that one partner is hosting the other at his home – responsibility free. I am walking the whole nine yards here; electricity, water, gas, maintenance, food, and the rest of the bills. I am speaking about chores, tasks, duties, compromises, and adapting. How hard would it be for a man to move into my house and be reminded every second that this is “my house” and he is not entitled to anything? How hard would be for a woman – who is not me – to live with a man who treats her as a guest? How hard will it be to discuss the money issues and the other “embarrassing” issues? – I assure you it is much harder to talk about those things for the first time after the deal is sealed and signed.

I am also not claiming that jumping that hurdle is a guarantee that the relationship will last forever. People change and people grow in different directions; a couple could live together happily and get married, then after a year or two they could grow apart. Keeping a marriage intact is another story and it takes a lot of work on a different level; fighting redundancy and boredom that creep into the marriage requires two people who want to stay married and are willing to work to reap what they once sowed. In a way, it is much easier to reach the highest top than to stay on top.

I am not advocating brothels and turning one’s home into a full board motel; I am talking about a relationship that has grown and has developed into something solid and is worth investing in. At the same time, I am not promoting the notion of test driving the man; I am pushing the idea of test driving the marriage concept to that man. Having thought about it now, the “living together” phase is all good; if it works, then you will have a solid marriage with no nasty surprises because of how she looks when she wakes up or how he sounds when he goes to sleep. If it does not work, then you have saved yourself a rough marriage or an inevitable divorce.

Detoxing

* I have reached a point where I got so familiar with the colors of sadness and madness; they come wrapped in a big brownish ball - the color of human waste.

* I am sick of the color, the smell, the taste, and the feeling of deep shit!

* My heart is sinking, my soul is sulking, and a vicious crab is playing xo on my guts with its cutting edges.

* I turned from the inspiration to the burden; from the muse to the block; from the comfort to the pressure; from the real thing to the distraction; from the relationship to the rebound.

* There is a huge void in the center of my body; I have no passion, no thoughts, no drive, and no life. I am a drained air-vacuumed sac of human bones!

* I knew this feeling; the feeling deep down that the person at the other end is slipping away. I knew it is over and I knew that the more I held on, the more I would get hurt!

* Getting over someone is hard; ending a relationship is hard; overcoming a crush is hard; letting go is hard; I wished it would just hurt a bit then go away.

* I am now vomiting the toxic residues of a relationship that went sour; the leftovers of a person who poisoned my life!

* I've been hit by a bus; I do not want to get out of bed. I am sitting there hurting from inside. I am unable to reach into myself - where it hurts - to try to make it better .

* There are tears to go with the pain. Sometimes I just go numb then I am struck by a sudden pang of pain. I feel overwhelmed by anger at life.

* I tried resisting but the more I resisted the more difficult it got. It was like pushing a rewind button that would start the cycle all over again.

* Memories hurt. Unfulfilled wishes and dreams hurt. Anger hurt. The wounded ego of a person should have been worshipped hurt.

* The hole is getting deeper. The wound feels as if it would never heal. It is a vicious cycle that is just draining me.

* The peak periods are driving to, or back from, work, upon waking up, before going to bed, during meals, watching a movie, before a date, on a date, after a date, with family, with old friends, with new friends, at work ... I do not recall the rest of the times when I want to shoot myself!

* I never knew that misery can be seen, felt, touched, smelt, heard, and tasted.

* I know the drill by heart; sinking, sulking, aching, hitting rock bottom, then bottling it up, pushing it down, locking it in my black box with my other black memories, and then climbing my way up the tunnel.

Thoughts on: Change & New Beginnings

* New beginnings are always loaded with many contradictory feelings; hope, fear, optimism, doubt, resolution, skepticism, comfort, hesitation, and determination.

* The skeletons in the closet and collective experiences are a threat to new beginnings.

* We remember when we were last burnt or when we were last hurt, and we subconsciously look at our scars and resist the change.

* Memories of how deep and how painful the scars were rush back to our heads and, with an involuntary movement, we clench our fists as though we are holding on to the past - Something inside of us refuses to let go.

* At home we were directed to focus on our downsides, at school we had to improve our bad grades, and in the workplace we are asked to “develop” our weaknesses. Those who moved on did the exact opposite.

* It is amazing how much power we have yet we are so oblivious to its existence. Invest in what makes you feel strong instead of wasting time on things that only make you feel weak and bad about yourself.

* We do not believe in flying; we feel more secure with our feet on the ground, even if it is just quicksand.

* Fear always intercepts our attempts to change; fear of the devil we don’t know; fear of the other side of the fence; fear of the maze.

* We hold on to stability, to our comfort zone, like a mother to her child on a collapsing bridge, and we avoid venturing outside for fear of getting hurt or getting lost.

* Nothing justifies waking up in the morning hating what you wake up to, who you wake up with, or where you get up to go.

* Nothing explains leading an unfulfilled life with an unfulfilling job and an unfulfilling partner.

* We are meant to choose. We are created to investigate options and alternatives. We are not equipped to compromise for the long term.

* There are times when we consciously limit our options because we do not want to feel overwhelmed by the infinity of choices out there. It is difficult to choose; the bigger the selection, the more helpless we feel.

* How do we know we are making the right decision? How can we tell that we are not going to regret this? Other than using our limited common sense and intangible gut feeling, we will never know!

* Find micro-options and loopholes of choices in the tightest of situations and the trickiest of questions.

* Shift your motivation from the fear of loosing to the excitement about winning.

A Penny for your Thoughts!

Growing up I had ample respect for writers whether they wrote for the silver screen or on the pages of newspapers and magazines. My deepest and most pious thoughts were directed towards those whose books and novels hacked my mind. I have always envisioned male authors to be old wealthy intellectual creatures whose lives are filled with seminars, parties, lectures, and brilliant discussions. My teenage head believed that female writers had to wear glasses on a plump face; they had to be short and their hair had to be gray. It was natural to assume that recognition, wealth, and thoughts that were worth sharing came with age; hence, the notion of a young writer was not to be conceived.

Over the past 33 years I have absorbed the colors, scents, flavors, textures, and voices of everything I encountered. I have sponged on people I met vacuuming their feelings, experiences, beliefs, fears, dreams, and nightmares. I have turned into a walking magnetic crucible of humanity and there is much more to attract. When I turned 30 my collective potion of pain reached its boiling temperature and it began pouring in emails to my friends, on magazine pages, and along the tabs of my blogs. Writing liberated me and vented the heat off my overloaded psyche. I also discovered that great young writers exist and that female writers could be pretty and smart without one attribute overriding the other.

In my grown up head it was natural to assume that if a person had the talent and the imagination to string literary beads of thoughts into a sacred rosary, then that person could be a writer. Then I learned the power of connections and the allure of fame. I adamantly worked on both seizing every opportunity that beamed in my horizon. I thought that I was a few baby steps away from my dream – becoming a writer … a real writer … a published writer with books, essays, novels, and what-have-you. Again, I assumed that people who contribute to the legacy of an era should do nothing but write, and that if a person chose to become a writer then that person needed to earn a good living out of writing.

Between the ruthless clutches of publishers, producers, agents, copyrights, and other calculative mechanisms a writer’s priceless thoughts and words became worthless. The most creative writers I know are leading the lives of vagabonds. The freelancers, unless they are trapped into some corporate entity, they are semi starved. The scriptwriters – talented ones – are licking the dust. Novelists are sold cheap and columnists do it for fun. Editors in magazines enjoy zero stability and very little income compared to their counterparts in other industries.

The blogosphere has attracted a multitude of writers – published and unpublished – whose work reeks of talent. Whether it is in English or Arabic; be it poetry or prose – mystical is their gift. Being the naïve optimist that I am, I urged them to get published. The Miss Fix-It that I could be, embarked on creating a fool-proof marketing plan for their talent and gift in a world that pays more for a skilled – not talented – well-connected pen. The World Wide Web has given them a voice, a solid base of readers, a fan club, and interactive feedback. They have escaped from materialistic torture devices into cyberspace. They write because they just want to write – it is not a living and it certainly is not a life.

The image that I painted for writers in my teens is now shattered. The dream that I lived about becoming one of them is now uncertain. Touring the world with my books, touching hearts, provoking thoughts, and raising our dead society from its beauty sleep all seem vague. If I want to maintain the standard of living that I luckily enjoy now, writing will not suffice. I will always have to sell my body to some corporate entity to secure my basic physiological and safety needs. In front of me she sat, and with young inquisitive eyes the 21 year old journalist looked at me and asked: “Can I make a living out of being a writer?” I could have lied. I could have given her false hope. I looked into her soul and said: “No! It’s a penny for your thoughts!”