Attitude is Altitude

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Sunday Funday

Sunday, the day of the Lord, a day we dedicate to Jesus.

 Lovely, isn’t it? 

Now, I’ll be completely honest….i think my Catholic friends have it a hell of a lot easier than us Copts. No…let me rephrase that, I KNOW my Catholic friends have it a lot easier than us Copts. And how do I know that? I mean, we could base it off the shear fact that by the time my Catholic friends have gone to church, gone to brunch (because white people LOVE things like brunch – and I think it’s partially because it sounds expensive and seems classy), gone to the mall, gone to Petco to buy their $700 investment they call a dog some new doggie toy, and then gone home to prepare for the second half of their day (which will probably be somewhere out on some boat, while they hope that all their morning prayers are answered and they actually get a tan and not a mean second degree burn)..while they’ve accomplished all that, I’m still in liturgy, praying to the Jumbo Jesus behind the altar, that the deacons sing that hymn a little faster and I’m crossing my fingers that when we get to the gospel (which basically feels like it’s coming 5 minutes past never) that it’s actually short today.

My Catholic friends have such an easy breezy beautiful cover girl view of Sunday. While most of the time, Sunday just stresses me the hell out.

Let’s face it, Catholic Sunday doesn’t at all have to be about being Catholic. Shoot, my white friends don’t even need to get up on Sunday if they don’t want to, but if they do, and they end up going to church, that’s like a small miracle within itself! Church is basically an accessory that you deal with if you feel like your weekend outfit isn’t accessorized enough. That’s the way I see it. But let’s say this particular 20 somethin year old Catholic friend wakes up on Sunday, and wants to go to church….good little Catholic!

So good little Catholic friend wakes up on her bright sunny Sunday morning, and probably stares at the little plump bluebird singing outside her window sill. I always imagine white people have nice birds outside their windows just chirping away every Sunday...

She probably admires said bluebird for a second, and then gets up to stretch. White people love to stretch. Better yet, make it Pilates. White people LOVE pilates. You could never argue that point with me. I barely know how to spell pilates, meanwhile all my white friends have a closet full of spandex pilates pants and skimpy pilates tops, and all secretly have degrees in pilates world domination. I, on the other hand, would never be caught dead in all spandex. But that’s totally beside the point. So good little Catholic friend wakes up, does her pilates like the yoga queen she was trained to be, and then probably skips her happy little self downstairs. 

And I’m sure when she arrives downstairs, her kitchen probably looks like a Pillsbury sponsored segment on the Food Network. Pillsbury everything! Pillsbury biscuits, and rolls, and cinnamon thingies, and probably some Bisquick pancakes too. And good little Catholic friend’s mom probably even bought that syrup stuff that comes in that plastic jar that looks like a lady. Yea, because white people LOVE that syrup in that lady looking jar! And, because all my white friends are picky, I bet you good little Catholic friend is picky too, and probably skips past all the Pillsbury goodness and goes straight for some Fruit Loops.

 Plain as the color white on a wall. 

Fruit Loops.

 Or what’s that snap, crackle, pop crap that all the white kids like? I dunno, but it’s either Fruit Loops or snap, crackle, pop. I’m telling you! And the best part of good little Catholic friend’s happy Sunday morning is that she probably doesn’t even care about  the Pillsbury feast in front of her face, meanwhile, my mom would rather be caught dead before she endorses anything Pillsbury related. What crescent roll? Why have nice fluffy buttery crescent roll when I could have pita bread from the freezer instead? Ugh!

So good little Catholic friend has now officially finished her Fruit Loops and heads back upstairs to find a church appropriate outfit, aka just picks anything from her closet. Sleeves, no sleeves, shorts, skirts, jeans, whatever. She picks something, probably that Polo Ralph Lauren t-shirt dress that her and every other white girl on the planet has in every color it could have ever been manufactured in, and heads to the bathroom to shower. And this isn’t gonna be just any shower, because white people LOVE bath products. And since they have the world’s most perfect hair anyways (next to the Asians of course!), their bath products are fun. They get all the fun mess, that smells pretty and looks pretty and probably explodes with glitter and sunshine once you add water to it. Good little Catholic friend probably even has a big pink loofa. White people LOVE loofas. I think they just like the word loofa. Who knows really...

Once good little Catholic completes her bathing ritual, it’s time to throw on that t-shirt dress, do her hair for like two seconds, because I mean really. What is there to do? It’s white people hair. But anyways, she does her hair, and heads out the door.

Now let’s get real. Catholic mass takes about as long as filling up your gas and getting a car wash, and maybe adding a stop to McDonalds in there too. By the time you walk in Catholic mass it’s time to leave! Half an hour, 45 minutes max, and the Catholics have said hello goodbye to Jesus and are bum rushing the door, flingin holy water all over the place in their rush to get to their cars. It’s like you blinked and church was over, and now Sunday can really begin.

Must be nice.

I’m not bitter…at all.

Let me explain to you what that same Sunday would probably be like for me.

 I wake up to the voice of my dad screaming at me, “WAKE UP YA CHRISTINE!!!! WE HAVE TO GO TO ZA CHURCH! WE HAVE TO GO EARLY! WAKE UPPPPPPPPP!” Lovely, he’s already begun to yell, at it’s 45 minutes before my alarm is supposed to go off. That’s gotta be some kind of personal best for him. Great. Just great. It’s gonna be an amazing Sunday.

After ignoring my dad and shoving one of my pillows over my head and holding it in place hoping that I fall back asleep, I hear my dad thumping up the stairs. Thump Thump Thump Thump, and I just know he’s making his way to my room, and any second now he will fling open my door and loudly proclaim that Jesus is waiting and I need to get up. And just like clockwork, daddy flings open my door, lets it slam against the wall, and screams, “GET UP! UP! WE HAVE TO GO TO CHURCH! IT’S GETTING LATE!” Seriously, you would think the world was ending by the way my dad screams at me to get up.

“DAD!,” I scream, “GET OUT OF MY ROOM I STILL HAVE LIKE 40 MINUTES, I’M NOT GETTING UP NOW!!!” To which he doesn’t hear the end of that statement, because he’s already left to the study to fish out whatever he was looking for. “UGHHHHHH DAD! SHUT THE DOOR UGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGH!” He doesn’t shut the door because he’s no longer even by my door, and he knows how much I hate having the door open when I sleep. He did it on purpose, just to be annoying, I know it! So I quickly jump out of bed, slam the door, jump back in bed, and shut my eyes hoping against all hope that I hurry up and fall back asleep. 

After shutting my eyes really tight for about 2 minutes, I can’t take it, I have to know what time it is. So I open one eye, and one eye only, “Ugh” I think to myself, “I hate my life!” It’s 7:35 in the morning. And is my dad nuts? What the hell? What does he want us to do??? Get to church and sit on the curb waiting for abouna to arrive? Absolutely not, I am going to sleep!

 Literally two minutes after that I hear my daddy come stomping back down the hallway...”Please don’t open my door, please don’t open my door, please do-…” my thoughts are cut off, my bedroom door goes flying open, and once again slams into the wall (and did I mention I HATE it when that happens?!), and I hear my daddy scream into my room, “CHRISTINE GET…UP…NOW…WE…HAVE…TO…GO…TO…”. 

“God I wish I was white, why couldn’t I just be white, white people don’t go through this at all…” I frantically think to myself, “FINE FINE JUST GET OUT MY ROOM I AM GETTING UP, OK? HAPPY?! WE ARE ALL GOING TO CHURCH BEFORE JESUS HIMSELF DON’T WORRY!”

I mumble some words of aggravation under my breath as I throw my legs over the side of my bed and groan as I attempt to get up. “Good…very good, Daddy loves his Tina!” my dad happily chirps as he blows me a kiss and makes his way to the stairs. Yea, so easy for him, mission accomplished, I am awake and miserable.

As I miserably stumble past my window, I realize that it’s dark and gross outside, and it’s raining, and it’s been raining, and it’s still raining, and I am so over it. I don’t have imaginary conversations with the non-existant bluebirds out my window, I certainly don’t do pilates, yoga, or even stretch. I barely even know how to stretch without falling over. And I definitely don’t go skipping downstairs to see what I’m gonna eat, due to the fact that we don’t eat until after we take communion. Did I mention no drinking either? Doesn’t matter if I wake up feeling like I’ve just wandered the deserts of Egypt for the past decade, no water for me. And it’s serious. No food. No drink. No sustenance. 

And I pause to think about my good little Catholic friends, probably stuffing their face with their Fruit Loops and snap, crackle, pop, while their cookie cutter moms probably urge them to eat more Pillsbury. That’s IF they are even awake at this god forsaken hour.  I think about them and in that moment I am soooo jealous. But I can’t think for too long, because here comes dad again yelling about he doesn’t hear the water running yet. I don’t even respond. I am 24. I don’t need to respond....This is clearly a lie i continue to tell myself, because we all know when you are Egyptian, it doesn't matter how old you are, you always have to respond to your parents. Or God help you.

I turn back to my closet, and attempt to pick out a church outfit. Gotta cover my shoulders, gotta cover my knees, definitely can’t wear jeans, or shorts, or capri’s….great, I just grab something and head to the bathroom, all the while thinking, how could my life suck so bad.

Once I’m in the shower I realize that I need to buy more of that one type of shampoo and conditioner that works on my hair. Where did I buy it at again? Ugh.. I don’t have a lot left this morning, and I am not in the mood to fight with my hair, so I am praying that it just cooperates. No really, I am not in the mood, and I am praying for my sanity. Unlike my white counterparts, my hair happens to have a mind and an attitude of it’s own. And most of the time, I’d like to say my hair has quite the attitude problem. 

After all the shampoo, conditioner, mousse, and hair spray, I am afraid to move my head for fear that it will mess up my hair. But I can’t just stand in the mirror all day, because that’s not possible, and besides that, we all have to get to church before Jesus, remember? I decide to sweet talk my hair, and hope that it doesn’t hear the panicked undertone in my voice, as I haul it out of the bathroom, throw on my heels, grab my purse, all just in the knick of time to hear my mother yelling about how she’s gonna start leaving us and going to church first. Same ole same ole…at least we finally made it all into one vehicle. I’m tired, I’m thirsty, I’m annoyed, but at least we are on our way.

We finally get to church, and we rush in to our usual spots. And my mom hands me my head scarf thingy, and I put it on my head, and hope that A) it doesn’t continually fall off today and B) it doesn’t mess up my hair. And I stand for a second and come to the realization that I will be standing in this same spot for the next 3 hours. Oh why did I decide to wear such high heels?

Why am I so stressed out? Is it even possible to be this stressed out this early on a Sunday morning? And then I look around, at least it’s not just me. One of the older deacons is shooting death stares at a group of the younger deacons. And I start to wonder if he knows the more he stares the more they laugh. They think the whole thing is funny. Yet he stares and stares and stares, and I really want to send him a note that says,

Dear Uncle,

You can’t really shoot lasers out of your eyeballs, so stop straining them before you go blind or something.

Love,

Shalaby

And just at that very moment, some older tunt in our church comes to the pew in front of us, and proceeds to say hello to us and then ask my mom when exactly I’m getting married. I really don’t think liturgy is an appropriate place to discuss the exact details of my marriage plans especially considering the fact that I have NO marriage plans! What the heck? The tunt pats me on my hand and tells me not to worry, God will send me a husband soon. I just smile and say thank you, and resolve to keep count of how many times someone Egyptian asks me when I’m getting married.

I avert my eyes and see that Abouna is now going around the church with the incense, and there’s so much incense in the air, I begin to wonder about whether or not it could actually kill someone with breathing problems. Because I promise you, that very incense has almost killed a few members of the church. Asthma or not, us Copts will show up to church and stand in the front row whether or not the incense will kill us. 

And then I start to wonder if abouna is hot under that outfit he has to wear, with all that hot smoke blowing in his face. Yea, he’s gotta be hot. I’d be hot. Maybe that’s why the church air conditioner is blowing so cold to the point that I feel like a brown fudge popsicle! It’s 90 degrees outside and I’m wearing a jacket…in church…with the smoke all around me, and the stupid head scarf keeps falling off my head, and I’m still thirsty. And now I have to use the bathroom, but the same Teta has been in there for like half an hour. 30 minutes of bathroom. That’s how long she’s been in there, for real.

 Just…when are we reading the gospel? At least we’d be half way done liturgy by then. I mean shoot!

I look down at my phone to see what time it is, and realize that one of my friends texted me.

Friend: What are you doing? Let’s go have brunch

Me: Church…u know that

Friend: So just leave?

Me: Not an option

Me: Never an option

Friend: Ok so when do you finish?

Me: Never

Friend: Never?

Me: Yes, never…no seriously I need to start paying attention my mom is looking at me dirty

Friend: Ohh ok…ok then maybe we can do lunch

Me: No

Friend: why?

Me: I’ll still be in church

Friend: still?

Me: Yea

Friend: Are you for real?

Me: As a heart attack

Friend: What about late lunch, at like 1

Me: No

Friend: WHY?

Friend: If you say church one more time I’m going to be really pissed off at you

Me: Sunday School

Friend: Oh you have got to be joking. Ok fine, I will just see you later

Me: sorry

Friend: What the hell are you doing in that church of yours anyways???

Me: [pausing to stare ahead of me and convince my mom that I’m really praying…at least the deacons are doing good]

Friend: Hellllooooo, what are y’all doing in there?!

Me: Praying, what do u think we r doing? Eating cupcakes and playing candyland???

Friend: Shut up, why does it take so long

Me: Listen…you are white. Y’alls church y’all don’t do nothing, we take time. That’s what happens. Get over it.

Friend: Maybe your people are going to heaven and the rest of us aren’t

Me: Yea maybe

Me: You should convert that way you can just come to church with me and not be pissed off when I can’t do “brunch”. You are so white by the way…”brunch”

Friend: Hell no…if I was like you that would mean no more Sunday Funday

And as I start to think about how much I hate it when my white friends use the phrase “Sunday Funday”, I feel one of the little church kids wipe something gooey on me. “Please don’t let it be what I think it is, please don’t let it be what I think it is” and oh but it is! A big fat juicy booger! I stare at the booger and stare at the kid….booger…kid…booger…kid….kid is now laughing. "Why child? Why?!" I want to barf. I look back at the kid and she is now digging for more gold...I don't even bother telling her to stop, I just turn her around, point her in the direction opposite of me, and give her a shove out the aisle. 

“Mom,” I whisper loudly, “Mommmmmmm, I need a freakin tissue, pint size diva over there just wiped booger all over my arm!” My mom hands me the tissue, stares at the booger, makes the nastiest face ever, and comments on how large the booger is. I tell her how annoying her and the kid are as I wipe the big booger off my arm, exhale a sigh of disgust, and stare at the Jumbo Jesus behind the altar. “Yeaaaa,” I think to myself, “I bet Jesus thinks this its real funny how miserable I am. With booger on my arm. In church. Dying from the cold. Really having to use the bathroom. Getting interrogated on when my wedding date is. Even though I’m single. Yea, real cute Jesus, real cute.”

2 hours into liturgy, and I still have another hour or so to go. Oh geez. And I still have to survive Sunday School. Oh geeeeez!

And I think about my white friends, on their way to brunch. Jerks.

But by the time the day ends, and I’m back at home, and the whole ordeal of getting to church and back in one piece is done. I always realize just how much I love my religion, my church, and all the people in it. As crazy as it can be, I love each and every person and thing about what makes me Egyptian, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. Besides…brunch isn’t all that great anyway.

But oh…I have to admit…I would love to have someone like this at our church…

Click Me!!!

Ode to the Walgreens Clientele

I love Walgreens. No really, I do. There’s no better retail chain out there, I don’t really care what you say. Frankly, your opinion doesn’t count. With the most up to date technology, the most user friendly interface (we can even text message you when your medication is ready for pick-up!), and with being the most innovative and progressive in terms of scope of practice for the working pharmacist, Walgreens is your one stop shop for pharmaceutical care.

Besides, have you ever walked around a Walgreens?! We sell everything in the world, literally. From milk, to lotion, to coffee, to as seen on tv products. I mean, where can you get your prescriptions, a tomato grower, a bra-strap fixer, the latest perfume, your kids favorite orange juice, toilet paper, and some Preparation H for those hemorrhoids you’ve seemed to develop all in ONE place?

And the best part about your local Walgreens (especially if you live in NoLa)? Me, of course!

Walgreens and I have a great history together, and this company was made for me. From cashier, to student, to intern, to graduate extern, and now onto pharmacist, this relationship isn’t breaking up any time soon (sorry Wal-Mart…if something happens you will be the first one to know!).

Ahhh….my career is set, and work would be absolutely perfect…if it weren’t for you. Yes, you! Maybe it’s you reading this, maybe it’s that person sitting next to you, or maybe it’s your mamma, your daddy, your first cousin, your neighbor…maybe it’s your classmate, or your mail-man, or that teacher of yours. All y’all drive me and everyone else who works in the pharmacy INSANE!

Lucky for you, I am quite good when it comes to customer service, but I got news for ya. If you see me walk from that pharmacists station to the front counter, because you are arguing with one of my co-workers, god help you. Listen to me, I am your last resort. If you piss me off, I promise you, you will walk right out that store with your prescription in your little rude hand, because I am not dealing with you…but don’t worry, I will send you on your merry little way with a smile on my face. I’ll even be glad to direct you to the nearest pharmacy.

So for the general public, let me help you help your local pharmacist.

1. Your Doctor is Your Problem

It’s as simple as that. Your doctor wrote you the wrong medication on your prescription? Not my fault. Your doctor won’t answer your phone calls? Not my fault. Your doctor won’t deal with your insurance company so you can get that medicine you’re about to pee on yourself for? Not my fault. Your doctor doesn’t like you? Not my fault. Your doctor won’t respond to your 16^th request for that refill on your Prozac? Seriously…not…my…fault…!!!

Even though it’s not my fault or my problem, I am there to do what I can to help you. I will willingly try to contact your physician for you, so that all, can once again, be right in your messed up medicated world.

BUT

When you start fussin and cursin and hollerin at me? At my counter? In my store? Oh no baby, you gots to go. I’m gonna play dumb as a door knob, and you are about to go home mad as hell and without that Prozac.

So before you start cuttin up, just remember that I can be your biggest ally or your worst enemy. The choice is yours.

2. I’m Smarter Than You

So you think you’re smart? You think you got it all figured out? One way or another you got that prescription pad, and you are about to write out fake prescriptions for every controlled substance this side of the Mason Dixon line. You are so good that you know how to fake your physician’s signature, you know how to properly label a prescription, and you even know how to spell the drug name correctly…probably because you googled that mess before you wrote it out.

And once you’ve perfected that bogus script of yours, and probably dapped up all your crack-head friends who are waiting for you in the car, in the Walgreens parking lot, talking about, “Oh Oh we bout to have a real good time tonight – we bout to feel real good!” After all that, you come walking to my pharmacy counter, acting like your leg is about to fall off or something, with this pathetic look on your face, with that scruffy gross beard of yours, funky breath, thinking if you look nasty, I’ll feel sorry enough for you, and I’ll fill that prescription you just wrote up. And you aren’t smiling on the outside, but you are cheering for yourself on the inside, because you just know you got this, and it’s only a matter of time before you are in 7^th heaven alone with that Oxycodone you smashed up and are about to snort.

And who do you see at the counter? Oh look! It’s me. You see me…and what’s the first thing you do? You go straight to telling me how pretty I look. Ok…stop!

First of all, I could smell you before I could see you, so I already know something is up. Then you get to telling me how beautiful I am? Do you have eyes? Do you know I have no make-up on? And my hair is all back, and I am not in the mood? Let’s be real, I don’t look good right now, and you know it. All this and I didn’t even see your prescription yet, but I know it’s fake, because homie, you just gave yourself away.

But I’m gonna play along with you, because for all I know, you could have a gun. And if I just turn you away like that, and you blow my face off, what good is that to anybody? So I take that immaculate prescription off your hands, and I take one look at it, and tell you I’m going to the back to see if I have everything in stock. And I smile.

I get to the back counter and look at your masterpiece that you wrote up. And oh, are you for real?! 4 controlled substances????? 3 of them being class 2’s??? And oh, what’s this?! You musta started feelin yourself too much, because although the first one is written for a quantity of 30, the next one is written for 90, and the next for 130, and the final one for a quantity of 240?! You got real greedy real quick. You must be out your mind! I shake my head, show my technicians, and walk back to you at the front counter.

As I smile at you and tell you oh so politely that sorry sir, we don’t have such large quantities in stock, and that you’ll just have to try another pharmacy. You undoubtedly start to argue with me over the validity of not only your prescription, but your extremely high level of pain…and as I stare at you and completely tune you out, all I really wanna say is…”Fool, do you know you wrote that last medication in a different color ink??? How the hell are you gonna try to fill a fake script with three medications written in black ink and the last medication written in blue?!”

You finally leave my counter, taking that long sorry walk back to your crack-head friends waiting in the parking lot for you to return with nada. I calmly go to my phone, and proceed to call not only the physician who’s prescription pads and signature you jacked, but every other pharmacy in town, to warn them that you and your sorry club of idiots are on the way.

I’m sure the police will be at the next counter you show up at, just to make sure you get what’s coming to you.

3.  Just Because You Have Medicaid Doesn’t Mean Every Prescription Is Always Free

So I’ll get down with Medicaid…some people really need it. And although it’s true that a lot of prescriptions processed through Medicaid end up costing $0.00, that’s definitely not always the case. God forbid, the prescription should end up costing $1.00 or $0.50.

And it always happens, without fail, that when I am in the process of checking you out, and I say, “Alright ma’am, your total is fifty cents…” that your mood goes from straight up to straight down. After a second of staring at you staring at me with this look that says you are about to punch me in my face, I politely repeat myself in the hopes that you just didn’t hear me. “Fifty cents ma’am…” I say with a smile on my face.

What ensues next is a hail storm of curse words, flying arms, fingers pointed in my face, and random uses of the words Medicaid, free, and my baby.

And I let you. I let you put on your Oscar worthy performance. After all, you have this down to an art. And when you are done, I politely inform of you of the fact that in case you didn’t know, I am not Medicaid. My name is Christine. I would love to give you and everyone else in the world their medication for free. However, Medicaid sees it differently today. They want you to pay fifty cents. Fifty freakin cents. And in case I still don’t have you convinced that fifty cents is not a big deal, and that you waving your long pointy finger with that broke funky colored finger nail in my face is unwarranted, and that yes, I agree with you, your baby is lovely and needs medicine…in case all of that isn’t enough…I proceed to inform you of the price of that very prescription WITHOUT the use of Medicaid. “Ma’am, without Medicaid the prescription is $34.95”

This however, doesn’t work, as you continue to curse me out talking about you ain’t got no $34.95, and “…is I outta my damn mind.” To which my response is, “Ma’am, you don’t need $34.95, all you need is fifty cents.”

“Fitty cent….fitty cent?!” you scream in my face, “Gurrrlllll I ain’t got no fitty cent…gurllll if I had fitty cent I wouldn’t be on no Medicaaaaid.” And as you are screaming this in my face with your eyes so big I fear they might pop out of your head and onto my counter, I look behind you at your baby, carrying a McDonalds happy meal box, trying to stuff a French fry up her nose.

“IS YOU LISTENIN TO ME?” you scream, your hot breath all over my face. And I politely inform you of my thought process. McDonalds happy meals cost more than fifty cents, so how did you get that? And if you can’t cough up fifty cents, then you are not getting this medication. And, for the love of God, get out of my face, please. And I say all of this with a smile.

And as you grab your child and dash out of the store like a mad woman, I scream down the aisle that we will have your prescription on hold for whenever you would like to pick it up, and I also note to my co-workers that your child unsuccessfully shoved that French fry up her nose, because it is lying on the floor in front of the pharmacy.

Not two minutes later, my technician screams at me that you were just seen driving like a Nascar speed racer through the drive through lane…in a Lexus.

And I shake my head…no “fitty cent” but you have a Lexus?

For God sake, will someone just get Pablo from photo department to clean up that booger fry on the floor?

The perfect picture of three little situations that happen over and over again. If you or someone you know fits this picture, warn them that there’s a “Christine” in every Walgreens pharmacy across this great nation of ours. And frankly, that crap doesn’t cut it.

So next time you decide to call the pharmacy in a rage, and you hear, “This is Christine, thank you for calling Walgreens, how can I help you?” Be a little bit nicer, because chances are, I just finished dealing with a complete looney. 

I Got Talked Into Doing This...

I'm 24. Yes - as of today, I am 24 years old. 

Wait...I think I skipped a part...(see that?! I already screwed up and it's like line two! ohhh geeezzzz!)

My name is Christine Monir Shalaby, and I'm 24. Everyone calls me Shalaby (and I mean EVERYONE), but you can call me whatever you want. Whatever makes your little heart happy. I respond to almost anything, as long as it sounds like someone is making some sort of noise in my general direction. But for the most part, it's Shalaby. 

I'm Egyptian. I'm Southern. I'm Coptic Orthodox. And I'm pretty sure if you don't know me at all, and have somehow found your way to this blog, that you are thoroughly confused, and that you are probably googling the words "Coptic Orthodox" to see what the heck that is. Let's face it, all you're trying to find out is whether or not I believe in Jesus. 

Because that's always the first question. 

Person: What religion are you?

Me: Coptic Orthodox

Person: So...do you believe in Jesus?

Me: Yes...I am a Christian

Person: [beginning to look rather uncomfortable in a 'really gotta go to the bathroom' sort of way] Sooo uhhhh...you believe in God?

Me: [getting rather annoyed and now looking at said person with my nose scrunched up and my eyes all squinted] ummm yes...I just told you I'm a Christian...God, Jesus, Mary...all of em, I believe in all of em...

You would think these rather uncomfortable conversations would end at the point when we've all confirmed that yes I believe in Jesus...and anyone else you've read about in the Bible...however, stupidity is a disease that doesn't seem to really have a cure, because as soon as the holidays roll around, I always find myself in the midst of the same annoying conversation...

Person: Hey...what are you doing?

Me: Getting ready to eat Thanksgiving dinner, what are you doin? Happy Thanksgiving by the way...

Person: Dude...I didn't want to text you Happy Thanksgiving because I wasn't sure whether or not you celebrate Thanksgiving...

Me: .........[staring at the phone with my nose all scrunched up and my eyes all squinted]..........

Person: but I mean Happy Thanksgiving

Me: You do know that Thanksgiving has nothing to do with anyone's religious affiliation? 

Person: uhhh

Me: And didn't we have this conversation already???? I'm a CHRISTIAN...ya know? PRAISE JESUS HALLELUJIA THANK YOU FATHER GOD OUR FATHER WHO ART IN HEAVEN HAIL MARY FULL OF GRACE...allll that, I'm allllll that 

Seriously! What the hell??? Deep breaths everybody...deep breaths.....

I feel like the word Christian should cover the situation, but apparently it doesn't. 

Anyways....back to what we were talking about. I guess I just gave all the needed essentials...name, age, ethnicity, region of residence, religious background....I feel like I should breakdown the rest of me for all you eager readers, but unfortunately, this blog would never be enough room to encompass all of me. 

BUT...if i was forced to choose one word to describe myself....it'd be...BIG

no...the word I choose wouldn't be big, as in number of letters that make up the actual word,...the word itself wold be "BIG". I can just see all your little faces now, all confused, as to why I would choose the word "BIG"....because normally, I know when I hear the word "BIG", let's be real...not so pretty pictures come to mind. You automatically kinda get that look on your face like ehhhhh...especially when you hear the word "BIG" and girl in the same sentence. 

It's like math...

Big + Female = not the greatest ever  

But it works for me...for other reasons...

Big personality

Big hair

Big voice

Big eyes

Big heart

Big dreams

Big smile

Big opinions

Big texting addiction

Big career

Big facebook friends list

Big bed in my room

Big closets full of clothes

Big shoe addiction

Big traveler

Big food lover

Big aspirations

Big curious mind

Big amounts of bad luck in this world

Big Apple fan 

Big music addict 

I mean the list could go on and on...and the word "BIG" fits perfectly in front of every single thing. So why not just boil the whole thing down to just "BIG"?

And this is gonna be my really big blog to go with my really big life. 

And you, whoever you are, if you choose to be, will be along for the ride. So buckle in y'all, because this life is anything but ordinary. 

Peace and Blessings (click me!)