Today I listened to a bald, fat man on TV tell me that in order to get healthy, shiny hair I need to eat healthy.

I laughed at the irony, and then checked for split ends, and then made a mental note to check my diet for today.

 

When I was young, my brother had this friend. Her name was Yvette, and I used to think she looked like a man. She was loud, and uncouth, and told lots of crude jokes. I didn't understand them (I was 6), but I knew they were bad. Yvette used to play lots of jokes on me. Before I go on, I first need to clarify that Yvette was at least fifteen years older than me - that may help put into perspective how mean her jokes were.

 

One day, Yvette asked me if I could keep a secret. Everyone knows that six year olds can't keep secrets, so it was probably a rhetorical question. But I didn't know what rhetorical meant when I was six, and I wanted to be included in the secret. I wasn't planning to tell anyone, so I said yes, and promised that I wouldn't tell anyone. I crossed my heart and hoped to die and would stick a needle in my eye if I told her secret.

Then, Yvette said to me "sometimes, when I'm in the bathroom, and I'm hungry, I eat toilet paper. It tastes like spaghetti." And then she asked me if I like spaghetti and we went on from there.

I probably would have told someone about the secret Yvette told me, except that she kept talking about how nice it tasted and I wanted to try it. Very soon after (at least, in my memory) I went into the bathroom, locked the door, and ripped a tiny piece of toilet paper. Clean toilet paper, which pictures of clouds on it, but toilet paper none the less. It didn't taste like anything (as you can probably imagine), least of all spaghetti. So I tried another tiny piece, which also didn't taste like spaghetti. And then another tiny piece, but again... no spaghetti.

Of course, I never told anyone Yvette's secret - (until now) - she was clever enough to make sure her "secret" became my secret. And I am very lucky that she didn't specify that it was not clean toilet paper she used, otherwise I may have followed her dirty mean lead and not my own safe assumption.

I just spent a weekend in the Hunter Valley with some great girl friends. Hunter Valley is great for wine, and because I'm not really into wine I was able to enjoy the fun times.

The road trip was the highlight of the weekend, with a forty minute search for a McDonalds (breakfast - we were hungry), Japanese anime songs (kind of like Hampsterdance, but in Japanese), and belting out good old love songs.

It's quite sad, but I didn't realise how many Shania Twain, Mariah Carey, and Trish Yearwood songs I know the words too. Really, really sad.

The end.

You know how when you're sick, your parents do weird things like prevent you from consuming dairy and make you eat Vegemite? (No? That's just my parents?)

Well yesterday evening I was feeling sick. I vomited three times in about two hours, and I'd only had one meal all day. It made me sad, and I wanted sympathy and attention, but Dad was too distracted. And my sisters kindly mentioned that I was not the first person in the world to, nor was it the first time in my life that I vomited so much in one day.

And then, before I went to sleep, I opened the fridge to have a glass of milk before I went to sleep. I found Chocolate milk, and we very rarely have that in the fridge. I was excited, so I had a glass. And then, at about four this morning, I woke up and vomited milk.

I think I'm dying.

Last year, the Federal Government (well, people working for the FG) sent my Dad a letter. Because he is over the age of 65, he was eligible for a free hearing test, and (heavily) subsidised hearing aides if required.

Dad didn't want to go, but we booked him in for an appointment as there was a Hearing Test officey thing just down at our local shopping centre. The test results showed that Dad did have poor hearing (we have known that he has tinitus for many years), and would need a hearing aide. Of course, being my Dad, he insisted that they didn't know what they were talking about, that they were just trying to make a profit, and that we were all sissies for thinking he needed real/medical support.

 

When we came back from Egypt, Julia bought Dad a pretty watch. It is super duper, but Dad doesn't know how to use it (it's digital) and I'm horrible at working things like that out. The biggest problem Dad has with the watch is that it is set one hour forward. We were going to try to work out how to change it, but daylight savings ends soon, so it's not really worth the trouble of trying to work it out. The biggest problem I have with the watch is that it beeps at 12, every day. It beeps loudly enough for me to hear it over the TV/while studying/while cooking in another room of the house. Dad however, doesn't notice it, and because he doesn't like me "touching" him, won't let me press the buttons on his pretty watch to stop it.

 

It recently occurred to me that I haven't "blogged" in ages. I know it's been hard for you, I apologise.

When my brain clears, I'll be back to it. You'll cry, you'll be so happy. You may even stop cutting yourself like the emo you are, because the pain you feel in my absence will disolve once you hear from me again.

Today, the phone was ringing. I was in the family room, and so went to the kitchen to answer it - but the kitchen phone (cordless) was not in the kitchen. Then I ran into the lounge room, but the lounge room phone (also cordless) was not in the lounge room. By this stage, seven or eight rings had passed and I was contemplating just giving up, because who rings for more than seven or eight rings? But the phone kept ringing, so as I ran to the landline, and just before I reached it collided with a wall. That wall has been there for forever. I've been in this house all of my life. But I still yelled in surprise when I ran right through the wall.

I think my toe is broken.

Yesterday, I met a lady who has been cake decorating for 23 years.

She did not seem very impressed when I said "wow! You've been decorating as long as I've been alive!"

So, in Egypt, whenever a person would make a joke that was particularly funny, they would stick out their hand and the person nearest them would high five them.

It was quite lame, and my sister and I made fun of it all the time: "Hey! Hey! High five me! I just told a joke".

And then, in the last week, we were mucking around, and realised that we had high fived each other for our funny jokes. And we kept doing it, against our better judgement.

I've been back for almost a month now, and every now and then, when I make a joke, I have to pull my hand back from the nearest person's face, because it is (I am?) so lame.

So, there's this boy. He's pretty cool. He's funny, and he's smart, and he's plays the guitar...
He also doesn't celebrate Valentine's Day. Then and there, I knew I had my hands on something pretty good.

He met my family a couple of weeks ago. We were loud and noisy and crazy. He isn't, but he got on pretty well with them. He also helped me clean the dishes after dinner.

Dad likes him lots, and has been dropping hints about a wedding in September. That's this September, but I think he's jumped the gun a bit.

 

Anyway, this is the closest I will get to gushing. Expect a return to the normal blogging pattern...starting soon.

Today, when Kevin Rudd said "sorry", I felt proud of my country.

When Dr Nelson responded, I felt proud of my vote.

Yesterday afternoon, I came home to find our mailbox full of catalogues. I ran into my room, opened them up, and poured my eyes over every single page. Then, again today, when I came back from Church, there were more catalogues...but they were different this time. Again, I took them into my bedroom after church, and feasted my eyes as I flipped thorugh every single page.
Oh, Western World, in your depravity, consumerism, self destructive commercialism... I've missed you!

I was at a wedding on Saturday. Not mine, much to my Father's lament, but I think I enjoyed it better that way.

It was a long service - longer than it should have been. There were three and a half sermons (the half sermon was a recap of the past three sermons before blessing the couple. Really, completely unnecessary), and I think they were three too many. They used all sorts of verses on love that were taken out of context: loving our brothers, the love of God, loving God... it was exhausting.

The bride wore a beautiful dress, and of course she looked beautiful (I've never seen an ugly bride), and the groom had a nice pressed suit, and the bridesmaids and groomsmen were also immaculately presented. There were about five camera people wondering through the service, and then the reception hall - bright lights for bright smiles and soft lights for romantic lighting.

 

As I sat in the reception hall and looked around, it occurred to me that the money spent on the wedding - the formal attire, the hair and makeup of not only the bridal party, but all those in the room who bought outfits specific for the event, or had their hair done at the hairdresser (myself included); the presents lining the table for gifts, the immaculate and well presented food - all this money could have been spent feeding those starving in a third world country.

I know the couple went over the top not only so they could enjoy, and make their day special; but they also wanted to honour their family and friends with a worthy acknowledgement of thanks for the love and supporth they have received.

 

I can self-assuredly say that my own wedding day is a fair way away, but I don't think my family and friends will mind if I tone it down a little, with a beautiful dress (and bride, 'cause that's how I roll) but a much less spectacular event with bright smiles because despite the not so good food and lack of candles, we'll all be having a good time.

And, of course, only one sermon which will be cut down to half the intended length, on an out of context passage... I'm thinking Ecclesiastes 9:9? "Enjoy life with your wife, whom you love, all the days of this meaningless life that God has given you under the sun— all your meaningless days. For this is your lot in life and in your toilsome labor under the sun."

I've been home for a week now. It's not that I'm sad to be back- it is so good to see my friends and family and drink milk and eat cheese and go for walks at night... But I miss Egypt. I miss the smell of the musty air, I miss seeing the pollution haze on the skyline, I miss hearing the sellers walking through the streets in the morning, I miss hearing the 7am donkey trip in the pot hole, I even miss the mosque waking me up at 5.30.

On Saturday night when I was refilling petrol, I got a whiff of deisel and thought "mm, I smell Egypt".

In Egypt, my sleep was severely disrupted. I woke up every morning at 5.30 at the call to prayer from the local mosque, and struggled to sleep after that.
On the plane trip home, even though they upgraded us to Business Class (my sister and I must have applied enough mascarra to the eyelashes we fluttered), and my seat was relatively comfortable and I had enough leg room, I couldn't sleep. I had two hours sleep in the entire 24 hours of travelling: one between Cairo and Abu Dhabi, and another between Abu Dhabi and Sydney.

On Monday, my first afternoon home, I didn't sleep until close to 10pm. I slept right through (almost, anyway) the night until I woke up at 4.30 because, being Monday, it was bin collection night. I drifted in and out of sleep until 5.30 when I officially "woke up".

Tuesday, my second night home, I went to bed at 11.30, and again slept right through until 5.30, when I woke up because I could hear my Dad and sisters all having breakfast together (at 5.30!!). I tried to catch a nap at 11am today - hoping to sleep until 12.30, but was kept awake because my next door neighbour decide to start on renovations.

What's a girl to do to get any sleep?

The first thing I did when I came home was have a warm shower. The shower at my Uncle's place was difficult to work out - but eventually I realised it's because you can't have the hot and cold water running at the same time - you either have a scalding hot shower, or an ice cold shower. Most of the time I bathed out of a bucket, except for the times I braved the scalding heat to wash my hair (and burn my scalp). My shower on arrival went for for thirty minutes - I figured that despite the drought, I would use up my quota of water that had been left sitting in the Damn for thirty days.

The second thing I did when I came home was have two long glasses of Dairy Farmer's Milk. Good stuff, even when it's Full Cream. I haven't drunk milk since my first week in Egypt.

The third thing I did was look up the Neighbours and Home and Away websites to confirm that I hadn't missed too much of the new year happenings. Thank God I didn't.

 

Jesus, I love this country.

 

 

Yesterday, we went to the pyramids. It was my fourth time there, but everytime I go I am overwhelmed by the awesomeness of the pyramids, and just how magnificent they are. My ancestors were pretty top kids.

We also went to a Studio yesterday. Because personal cameras are a rare commodity here, most people go to a studio when they want to get their photos done. My sister and I got some awesome portraits - awesome in that they were so, so Egyptian (and kitsch), with lame and awkward poses. It was heaps fun. We wanted some super duper backgrounds on them (when he got married, my Uncle had the opera house super-imposed into the background of his wedding portraits), and I particularly wanted this ugly green wallpaper one I see lots, but we ended up with a plain blue one, an (ugly) garden one (my favourite!), and one of Mt Sinai and the clouds around it.

Pretty awesome stuff. Now I'm going to buy a scanner so you can all see how freaking awesome they are.

Before I came here, I was dreading the four weeks I'd spend here. Mainly because I knew it'd be four weeks of limited fashion, bad hair, and a select variety of shoes.

I brought too many shoes with me: my brown boots (which I have worn almost every day), my black boots (which I wore four times), my white shoes (which I wore seven times), my red shoes (which I wore once) and my black shoes (which never made it out of the suitcase). I also brought my sneakers, which I only wore on the plane.

Not only did I bring excess shoes, I also brought excess jeans. I ended up bringing my dark blue flares, my light blue flares, my grey flares, my light blue bootcuts, my grey skinny legs, my black skinny legs, and my blue skinny legs. I wore all of them, which was good, but I am not going to take all of them home (I am only taking three), because I bought new jeans while I was here. Lucky for me, my cousin and I are the same size, so I get away with offloading excess weight before I travel, and look generous at the same time.

I brought with me thirty pairs of underwear. I have been here for thirty days. Have I used all of them? No. That's because stupid me didn't realise there'd be a washing machine here (I mean, I didn't bring thirty tops), and have only had to rotate through about twelve.

How awkward would it be if I left my underwear for my cousin, too?

 

 

In other news, walking through the streets of Cairo have been quite a challenge. I'm a girl, and my head's not covered, so in some places, things get tense.

Something that is really common here is the "mahaksa". Literally translated, it means "harrassment", but it is a bit more normal/socially accepted in Egypt than it is in my experience of the West.

Wherever we go, my sisters and I get comments - sleazy comments - by men. Sometimes, they come up close and try to touch you. Other times, they just stare, and turn around and follow you. We had a scary experience in our first week here, so since then I have been carrying Capsicum Spray with me. I haven't used it, but I've felt much more brave with it, and now if people (read: men) come into my personal space bubble, I yell and carry on. I kicked a guy yesterday, because while we were standing at the stall in the Markets, he came so close we were standing shoulder to shoulder. He was facing me, so if I moved, we'd be nose to nose. It was heaps fun kicking him though, I was scared I'd miss, but I didn't - got him right in the shin.

The hardest thing, though, is not laughing sometimes when they say things. Most of the things they say are really sleazy (and gross, if I manage to understand), but alot of the time it's funny because I translate everything they say into English. Egyptians love people with fair skin, particularly those who are a little fuller, and so everywhere we go, they call my sister "bata". Translated? That means duck. And because I am by their standards, tall and skinny, they call me a goose.

It's heaps funny, 'cause here, it's sexy and sleazy, but then I imagine the guy walking into a bar in Sydney and calling a girl a "goose", and wondering why his pick up line didn't work.

 

It rained here on Monday. It was pretty funny, because by Sydney standards, we'd say it "sprinkled". It was a day and a half of bits of sprinkling rain, and the whole city came to a stand still. I guess it makes sense, the roads aren't tar, they're dirt, so everything get's muddy and people don't want to get stuck in the mud. But on the news, when they were warning that the weather would drop down to 10C (gah! horror!), the newsreader was suggesting everyone wear their very warm clothes, take lots of Vitamin C and their Cold and Flu tablets. We were meant to spend Tuesday with our cousins, but they called us and cancelled because they couldn't go out in the rain. My Uncle didn't go to work, either, in fact most places of work were closed that day. My cousin explained that because it only rains here once or twice a year, people just stop everything they are doing, or have planned, to deal with this natural disaster.

Hany, the guy who owns (well, his father owns, but that's ok) the corner store in front of our house opened shop, but spent all day with a squidgy wiping the water away from the front of the store (it's not really a store, more just a hole in the wall, and he stands inside it and finds stuff for customers when they come), into the puddle in the middle of the road. Every time a car would come through and splash the water back to the front, he would get his squidgy out and push the water back.

All day, all our neighbours kept yelling out "Hany!" He'd walk through the puddles, stand in front of the building that called, and wait. The lady of the house would emerge from the balcony and tell him what household goods she needed,  and he'd go get it for her (from either his store or any other store, or he'd head over to the fruit and vegetable market). On his return, if she lived anything higher than the ground level (everyone here lives in flats), she'd send down a basket on a rope with the money inside, Hany would take out the money, replace it with the product, and transaction completed.