Woody, Michael, and The War

Did I say in my update, below, that I was going to get my haircut and go to the gym? I think what I meant was: get a chocolate chip muffin from Chocofolie (my FAVOURITE chocolaterie...actually the only one I know...conveniently located down the street from my house, but hidden away so almost no one else knows about it), and then spend 30minutes in traffic on my way to the haircutter's, only to freak out and leave.

To further describe my freaking out -->

When I arrived at the hairdresser's, there was a man getting his haircut who sort of epitomizes middle-aged disgusting male slime* (cf: my former step-father): self-contented chubby, resentful yet pompous, somewhere between greasy used car salesman and businessman, and, in this case, chainsmoking IN the barber's chair, tipping his ashes on the ground, and talking on his cell phone (to his credit, he was not shouting, which is normally standard operating procedure for these guys). I found him so physically revolting that when my hairdresser asked me if I wanted to sit down in the chair next to him and begin, I told him I'd prefer to wait until the other hairdresser was finished with Mr. Slime. After 20 minutes of Mr. Slime's increasingly revolting demeanor, and the hair dresser rightfully trying to convince him that having his hair naturally fall straight back looks better than a rigid side part, I went outside, told my hairdresser that I was in a bad mood, unhappy there, and didn't want to stay, and got him to agree to come to my house to cut my hair in the morning at 11AM. Guess my Moroccan Garden of Eden (post-Fall) roof patio will finally get put to use!

My concern is that (albeit after a very taxing day), I am just SO intolerant and SO indulgent of my own annoyance triggers, I might one day be some kind of Woody Allen neurotic, or worse, a Michael Jackson recluse -- has Cairo's insistent chaos forced me to be more rigid in my calls for perfection? [must think about that one more -- seriously]

I came home around 10:30PM to find construction rattling my walls, interrogated the people in the computer business (of dubious legitimacy) on the floor beneath me, who swore that they were not doing any construction, and finally, after telling myself to ignore it and then failing to obey my own orders, went to the bowaab and had the following conversation in Arabic and body language:

VC: Is there construction in the building?

B: Is there {arabic word that sounds like my pronunciation of "construction" with a Middle Eastern accent hoping that it is a cognate, but isn't} where?

VC: *banging on the wall in the driveway* Is there THIS in the house?

B: In your house there is that?

VC: No. Not in MY house.

B: Then where?

VC: I don't know!

B: What do you want?

VC: In THE house, not my house, but THE house there is this *continuing to bang on wall*.

B: Above or below?

VC: Below. Please come with me...but I know that you can't hear it [the bowaab is almost deaf...he is about 97, and is, I'm certain, dying of emphysema, but that's a different blog].

B: No! I am able!

{in elevator, where bowaab attempts to unlock already-unlocked elevator, as he cannot see the keyhole, because the poor man is actually deaf AND blind}

B: It's in your house?

VC: No. Not MY house. Not the 4th floor, either. I talked to them [literally in my broken Arabic: "I speak them"]

{enter house -- bowaab and I stand in silence while he looks at me like I'm insane or about 60 seconds...no noise...I am not going to let this go}

VC: Please, sit.

B: [in a jolly mood since I first accosted him, despite our run-in last night where I had my laundry man tell him that I don't want him asking me for money everyday because I know when the rent is due, and I'm always on time, and don't want daily reminders] Yes. I will sit here and wait and listen until we hear it. Where is it?

VC: *knocking on wall* It's here.

B: THERE?

VC: Not there exactly. I don't know where. It's everywhere.

B: Huh? ("Eh?")

VC: I don't know where, but you know, in a house, maybe *banging on wall gesture* over there, but *pointing to ears* here, or there, everywhere.

{wait for almost 3 minutes while I explain in VERY broken Arabic my theory that it actually IS the people on the 4th floor, but they stopped when they heard me go downstairs, literally: "They know I in elevator and they done. They know and they done." When FINALLY there are two loud and startling thuds, just when the bowaab was getting up to leave, contented, apparently, by my explanation that I'd intimidated my neighbours into silence}

B: I will go and check on every floor and find the noise.

WHICH HE DID! The people on the 2nd floor were drilling their walls...at this point after 11PM. He made them stop, and agreed with me when I chastized them in broken Arabic: "Why? Why now? Now it's 11! In the morning, ok. Now, problem." This is the first time in 10 months that my bowaab has been swift and effective (VERY ODD).

Let the day of problems continue: my pizza, as I'm freaking out to Desi online (who I JUST found out actually reads this blog), arrives with light sauce AND light cheese (which, when it's a plain thin crust pizza means: a crispy large cracker). I order AT LEAST 4 times a week (usually 5 or more) from Pizza Hut, and they KNOW me, but for some reason, after more than a year of great service, I've had three pizzas this week where they oddly think (perhaps emulating NYC Pizza Hut?) that "light sauce" means: "keep the sauce: cheese ratio the same, so light sauce AND light cheese, because I want to eat a plain dough cracker." I have tried to correct for this by persistently complaining, receiving complimentary pizzas (which I gave to the doormen/guys living in the lot next door, and who I caught, spying on them from above, refusing to eat the unknown pizza -- regarding the box with the suspicion normally reserved for Brazilians riding the London tube), and receiving personal phone calls from the call center and branch managers. I also TELL them: "light sauce, but regular cheese," which is often interpreted to mean: "light sauce and PLAIN cheese," rather than "cheese that is standard in quantity." Anyway, I had to send it back, explain the problem to the delivery guy, call the call center, talk to two operators and the manager, wait for the manager to call, call the call center again...it was a mess...but in the end I had a good pizza.

So, yeah. Today pretty much sucked. It's 4AM and I'm working on a proposal for a meeting in 11 hours to implement a system for awarding honors to graduates in our program.

All I wanted to say about the war is that it terrifies me to think what kind of a system I am part of that I am protected from ever being in war more or less thanks to my educational/social place, but there are 18yos (EIGHTEEN! That was me FIVE years ago) dodging bullets in Iraq, because they think they can't pay for college, and because they think they are protecting American democracy (they should be shooting the majority court in Bush v. Gore, if that's what they want to protect...but don't quote me!).

*sigh*

I miss my Mooom.

To end with something funny: check out this photo of Russian tennis player (who I really like) Nadia Petrova, lifting the trophy from the recently-concluded tournament in Linz, Austria. She defeated Swiss #1 Patty Schneyder, who I like even more -- another Swiss tennis genius...that country is a factory of tennis players with unmatched variety, finesse, and on-court wit -- and with whom she is fiercely battling for one of the last spots in the season-ending championships...the top 8 women compete for like a billion dollars and a Brazilian wax...or something like that. The trophy really cracks me up, though. What the heck is it? It's like a 4-foot glass prism! So weird. I should try to find a photo of the really cool golden hawk/pigeon/bird-thingy they give the winner as a trophy in Doha (or is it Dubai?). Keep in mind, when considering the humongosity of this chunk of glass, that this is NOT a small girl -- it's a HUGE trophy, lol. Oh yeah, it's also her FIRST ever win on tour...you have to feel bad for the girl that her first trophy looks more like the glass door to a trophy case than is does like a real trophy.

VC

*The reader, of course, knows VC's unabashed affinity for middle-aged men, so the emphasis, here, is on "slimey."