Author Archives: edrevets

Feb 29 2012
31 Comments
Egypt, Fiction, Two minute read

The Mummies of Niagara Falls

view from pyramids on a clear day

Today, Cairo was besieged by a dust storm, its air becoming the color of cinnamon. As a result, the sunlight that warmed my apartment was the color of a slightly dehydrated person’s urine. As I napped in the urine light, I dreamed of jumping into a pool with my clothes on. I don’t think it was a coincidence.

Unfortunately, the effect on both air quality (including taste), and visibility was not so pleasant. But perhaps the biggest shame of all is that this entire dustastrophe is likely caused by a stupid mummy from Niagara Falls.

Mummies are known worldwide to be needy, wrathful, and prone to outbursts of childish rage. Anything can send them over the edge and make them call down all kinds of ridiculous curses on Cairo*: hordes of seedy politicians, shark bites, annoying fashion trends, etc.

Though all mummies are moody, there is a group of particularly infamous mummies at the Egyptian Museum in Niagra Falls, Canada. Colonel Sydney Barnett purchased these mummies and transferred them to Canada from Egypt in 1850, back when Egypt was legally selling national heritage for a quick buck because there was a lot of it and it was just lying around anyways. A few decades later,  Theodore Roosevelt called these mummies, “a group of genuinely awful creatures.”

There are nine mummies in the Niagara Falls Egyptian collection, but only four have coffins.  The ones without coffins are named Slappy, Silly, Sally, Socky, and Stumpy, and the ones with coffins are named Sammy, Sudsy, Stubbles, and Trent. According to museum curators, these mummies have been nothing but a nuisance and a bother since they arrived in Niagara Falls. Slappy and Trent never stop complaining about the cold, and the endless grumbling really pisses off Socky and Stumpy. Sudsy and Stubbles both resent tourists’ “sausage fingers.” Sally has a crush on one of the museum curators and never shuts up about it. Sammy and Silly squabble endlessly over coffin rights, while Sudsy continually asserts that he was the Colonel’s favorite when everyone knows it was actually Socky, and all of them constantly try to annoy one another by poking each other or throwing stuff at each other’s cases. It’s a nightmare.

Between the nine of them, they’ve called down 203 curses on Cairo since moving to Niagara falls, one of which indirectly caused the Arab spring. Their life in the comfort of Canada has made them unbearable, petulant, self-important beings that forget they are essentially raisins wrapped in toilet paper. This current dust storm is probably just another effect of their brattiness. If I had to guess, I would say that Stumpy probably made Trent mad again by saying Trent wouldn’t be so cold if his wives had ever actually loved him, which is a low blow and doesn’t really make any sense.

On some level, though, I guess I can understand how that makes Cairo deserve a dust storm.

*Curses can only be called upon Cairo, not any other city.

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Feb 28 2012
11 Comments
Lists, Modern Life, Two minute read

Five Bad Ideas and One Good One

Oh sweet and savory. It does not get better. .

Uh oh. The weather is nicer than you expected and your coat and scarf are now grossly inappropriate. You’ve become too warm and are forced to take the scarf off and put it in your bag which bulges awkwardly, making you feel like a clumsy forest creature. This sucks.

Also, you’re locked out of your house.

The key is sitting on your desk, safe within the apartment’s walls. Your phone is dead, you have precious little cash on you, and your roommate is out somewhere in this godforsaken city.  She won’t be coming back until much later, if she’s even still alive. A salty panic rushes over you: “Oh God what do I do? I’m completely alone, getting hungrier and more fatigued by the second. Is there any hope??”

In order to save time, you should consider your extremely limited options as you panic. Remember that the situation is just as hopeless as it seems. You have only six possible courses of action.

  1. Break the door down. Borrow your neighbor’s Gerber Camp Axe and bash that bad boy in while thinking of people or societal situations you don’t like. When your roommate gets back and starts to ask questions, wondering why she stepped onto a heap of door splinters after entering the apartment through a gaping hole, say you don’t know what happened and that you’ll go fifty fifty with her on a replacement. Encourage silence by wearing a pair of her patterned socks as an unspoken threat.
  2. Use your spider-human powers to shoot thick, moist web from the disgusting holes in your wrists and swing up to the balcony. If the door is unlocked, you can stride right in and pretend nothing happened. If not, you can smash that bad boy in and follow the instructions from the previous piece of advice.
  3. Depending on your manna levels, you might be able to reduce your body density and float through the door. This is an advanced maneuver, however, so be careful when trying it. Internal organ damage is likely if the density reduction is done improperly.
  4. Go to the grocery store and spend all of your money on chocolate pudding. While you wait for your roommate’s return, devour it in front of your door with the spoon you keep in your pocket. The pudding won’t help you get into your house, but you’ll feel better about the situation with a belly full of pudding.
  5. Go across the street to your landlord’s mom’s apartment and eat meatballs while watching foreign soap operas until your roommate comes back (Note: this option is Egypt-specific).
  6. Go to IHOP’s National Pancake Day Celebration and eat free pancakes. Stay awhile and make friends with the staff; they are your new family. Leave your old life behind and never look back.
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Feb 27 2012
14 Comments
Anecdotes, Two minute read

Secret Cookie in my Pocket

Give me a book and the cookie. Spare me the class.

I didn’t read the book for class, but I did have a secret chocolate chip cookie in my pocket. Whereas the rest of the class intended to mire themselves in the angst of post-modernity, I intended to wait for a little bit and then eat my cookie.

Oh it was going to be delicious. It was by far the best cookie in the classroom, possibly the best in Cairo, and a certain contender for the best cookie in all space and time. Its buttery taste, the fluffy yet chewy texture of the crumb, the chocolateyness of the chocolate chips….yes, bringing this cookie to school was likely the best decision I was going to make all week.

The class begins and my eyes instantly glaze over. I am already far from this place, my mind slowly orbiting around three topics: “I have a cookie in my pocket. How will I make it in San Francisco? I need to do laundry today.”

As if through a window, I see the professor in front of me yammering about something, the other students nodding in agreement. I find myself doing the same, compelled by a primal instinct that forces the human to avoid scolding by pretending to listen.

Group work is vicious, dragging me to back to the classroom to offer my own fabricated insights. This is difficult to do because of the cookie distraction. One day the students will turn on me, pointing their fingers at me and saying in unison, “This one sucks.” But that day is not today. The work ends, and we return to our own worlds that are supposed to revolve around the professor and whatever she’s saying. I go back to thinking about the cookie.

My stomach growls and I know the moment has come.

I remove the cookie from my pocket, its tender body protected from my coat pocket by a thick layer of foil. As I unwrap it gently the foil yields forth its precious burden. The student next to me gasps.

I know what she is thinking. Yes, this is a chocolate chip cookie baked fresh from my kitchen. Yes, it is America itself contained in a bit of flour, butter, and sugar, and it is likely the most valuable thing at the university at this time. It is mine, and I’m going to eat it now, and as the crumbs dissolve on my lips, I too will dissolve away from here and from this classroom where words are being said about the novel I didn’t read, the point of which only the author could understand.

This cookie, however, I understand. Why couldn’t the author write something more like it?

P.S. You should try “The Chewy Recipe” for your cookies, courtesy of dude Alton Brown. They are very delicious and better than homework.

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Feb 24 2012
28 Comments
Fiction, Humorous

Karen’s Unicorn: Gym Nuisance

this is after she was arrested and executed for manslaughter and then put on display as an artifact

So I saw Karen’s unicorn at the gym last night. She was benching about 250 in that belly shirt of hers, all her glittery unicorn flesh just hanging out for the entire gym to see and of course she was sporting those short shorts, prancing around the gym every chance she got. And that dumb swooshy tail of hers that she whips around nonstop, spraying toxic magic dust everywhere—-swoosh, swoosh, swoosh, like she’s the freaking queen of the dumbbells.

It’s pretty ridiculous if you ask me. And she never wipes the machines down. Never. So if you use one after her, you’re definitely going to get unicorn dust all over you and God knows what’s going to happen after that. I heard it can even be addictive, like you get some kind of unicorn buzz and colors are more vibrant and you feel alive, but then immediately afterwards you’re a wreck. Life loses its meaning and everything tastes like ash. People have died from this so I don’t think it’s too much to ask her to wipe down the freaking machines.

And just because she’s a unicorn, she thinks she’s so special, like she deserves to use the stationary bike for longer than 30 minutes. Well, I’ve got news for you, sugar, just because you’re a minxy tart of a shimmery, magical creature doesn’t give you the right to come into our gym, coat our machines with your poisonous dust, and then trot out of here on your pearly hooves like you own the place. What forest did you prance out of that you think this is okay? What does Karen have to say about this? Why are you using the treadmill anyways? Isn’t there some mystical wood that you can go romp around in with your other deviant friends? Can’t you just leave us non-magical folk in peace and not torment us with your sweet, sweet unicorn dust?

Do I even have to mention the experience of using the bathroom after her? It’s a nightmare. The stall is so heavily scented with cinnamon and vanilla I can hardly breathe. Literally I almost suffocated when I was changing clothes. If that wasn’t bad enough, my shoe touched one of her mane hairs left on the ground and the whole thing turned into a flock of yellow butterflies that just fluttered away.

Do you see my point here? My shoe flew away. This was my shoe, that I had purchased to wear for the purpose of engaging in athletic activity, and it flew away. This is simply unacceptable. Karen’s unicorn has got to go. I can’t stand the thought of seeing her again, doing squats with her majestic unicorn might, her belly button ring glinting in the  fluorescent lights. Do you know how distracting that is?

And I want her to buy me a pair of shoes and/or catch the flock of butterflies. Am I being unreasonable?

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Feb 23 2012
8 Comments
Anecdotes, Open Letters, Two minute read

Open Letter to the Brown Upright Piano in Our Living Room that I Played for Eleven Years and then Abruptly Abandoned Upon Graduating from High School

an actual photo of a piano drowning in heartbreak

Hey you. It’s been a while hasn’t it? How have you been? You look good– I noticed your new picture frames; they go really well with the Bach bust and the fake plant, and I’m not just saying that. I mean it. I would never lie to you.

Well I guess there’s no point in avoiding the subject, so I’ll just come out and say it. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything. I’m sorry that after the thousands of hours we spent together over the years I just left you like you meant nothing to me, like you were something I was ashamed of and wanted to forget. I’m sorry.

I’m sorry for those wonderful years we had, only to have our relationship ripped away from you without warning. All those days we spent frolicking in the sun, meandering through hidden forests filled with magical creatures, exploring alien planets, visiting ages long past. While the rest of my family was tortured with the endless repetition that is piano practice, we were somewhere else entirely, floating above imaginary canyons colored fuchsia and turquoise, never scared when we were together. You have to know I’m telling the truth.

And I’m sorry for all of those holidays I spent at home while visiting from college, when I would avoid looking you in the eye. I’m sorry about the way I would whisper of what we once had and act embarrassed when anyone brought it up. I’m sorry. I didn’t know how to deal with all of it, with the way my life was changing and the way it seemed you would no longer have a part in it.

At some point we have to admit these things to ourselves. You knew I wasn’t a brilliant pianist. Don’t try to deny the truth. Sure I practiced a lot, and sure I was “advanced” and perhaps my teacher’s best student, but I didn’t have the shimmering gold talent it takes to be a real concert pianist. More importantly, I didn’t have the passion. I tried to tell myself I loved playing, and I think I believed it. Sometimes it felt so real, as we were tramping through the villages of Eastern Europe in a mythical spring, stars falling around us as we twirled upward into the night.

But at the end of the day, it was a ruse, a lie I was telling myself.  I didn’t have the passion it took to be excellent, and the love I had for playing came from a love of being the best. I know all this now, but at what cost! Oh my dear piano, you have to know it wasn’t your fault. There’s nothing you could have done. But know this: we still had everything, for a time, those beautiful early mornings in winter, the world dark and frozen outside but us warming ourselves with the glow of quarter notes, the quiet afternoons when I was alone at home and could play as loud as I wanted in front of the only audience that truly mattered: you and me.

I will always remember you, even if I forget how to play entirely, even if my parents sell you to a lady named Fern without telling me. I will always remember you and me, a girl and her piano, and how life seemed better together. I can’t forget something that’s a part of me.

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