Thursday, August 18, 2011

Designing Rights

As we are nearing the 2 month mark of our real estate shenanigans (trying to find our next place, while selling our current home) I am starting to envision what the next place should look like. And of course, this time around Brett (from now on in this post known as -Go Big-Jones) gets his "man cave". Man cave is loosely translated into movie theater because an area for him to watch movies and get his butt kicked in Call of Duty sorry hun is just what he will need.

I agree(d) to let him have the design rights to his one room, so that I may claim designing rights in the dozen other areas in a new house. I am cool with that. And we don't even have to rock paper scissors for it. I did however tell him, we may or may not have x amount of dollars to save and to invest in upgrades. So lets keep the man cave as basic as possible until further notice! (ie, paint, new carpet, some couches we already have + whatever movie equipment we need) should be sufficient for starters. Should be.

That spiraled into over a weeks worth of researching the coolest, sickest home movie theaters he could possibly find. I mean like, here is my $2 million dollar home, and I only spent $45,000.00 designing this theater. Before I could even blink there were mentions of constructing platforms, recessed surround sound systems, new hallways, secret doors, you name it he found it online and wanted to do it.

During a walk through at a house we like I hear "I could just rip all of these walls out down here, and double insulate them." Oh? I'm not even sure at this juncture that he even owns a hammer. I think he has a few tool sets from Christmas's past, but I am willing to bet they are still in the plastic packaging whence they came. Getting him to swap out the air filter is a task in and of itself. So to imagine him doing a total remodel is rather difficult for me.

I don't mean to post this because I am terrible, and love to dis my husband. I love him dearly, but being a handyman is not his forte. And now that I think of it, neither is being reasonable!

--sidenote: -Go Big-Jones is aware that I am constructing this post to make fun of him, so he insists I leave it up so that later on down the road I can post pictures of the mac daddy version of the theater and be wrong. booboobeeboo.

Wednesday, August 10, 2011

The Poster Child for Healthy Living.

Today's post is brought to you by: these shitty tasting carrot sticks I am currently eating.

I swear, I am the worst example of healthy living.

I kinda feel like it doesn't matter if you are one of those weirdo 100% vegan tree huggin' hemp wearin' hippies who only ingests organic mush 24-7 and hikes the Appalachian trail barefoot OR if you are one of those eat whatever, and drink and smoke whatever because only the good die young. There are tons of cases of 90+ year old women who drink wine and smoke because they have done so since prohibition ended. And old dudes who have coveted their special brand of scotch since the paleolithic era. They are perfectly pickled.

I'm sure that the "perfectly pickled" people (say that 5 times fast!) are somewhat of a medical mystery. They probably have been getting yelled at by their doctors for decades, and despite their wishes kept up with those pesky habits.

Why do I mention these things? Because now, now I am a mom, and well no longer 21 - my metabolism went in the shitter after the baby got here. I don't feel quite as foxy as I should, and I actually have to formulate a plan to lose some poundage, and remain somewhat "healthy". I really don't want to set a bad example for Adeline that will haunt her for the rest of her life. And for me diet plans always work better than heavy duty exercise routines. Running, and playing any sort of sport is laughable when I am involved. The only time you will see my ass running is if something is chasing me. And sports, well, I played softball for barely one season when I was 10, and that mostly consisted of me walking up to bat, getting nailed with the ball, and getting to walk to first base. I don't even like sweating. Seriously, I didn't even sweat when I had a baby...Not gonna say it was easy (oh wait, it was) but I just don't like sweating. Which reminds me, I need to get the hell out of GA.

So there ya have it. I am stuck somewhere in the middle of not wanting to become the vegan spokeswoman for PETA who climbed Mt.Everest...Twice... And not wanting to become that 103 year old perfectly pickled pain in the ass who will never die and leave my children their well deserved inheritance. What can I say, I want to have my steak and eat it too!

Tuesday, August 9, 2011

green card

"Do we have everything we need?"
"Yup, I have all of our paperwork, and the scrabooks in this big bookbag. Now, what was your first pet's name? What town was your dad born in? Your favorite color, and I don't know- what would we say our first date ever was?"

That was a little bit of the conversation we had as we were on our way to the U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services facility in Atlanta. It felt so strange riding to our first interview just quizzing the person I had married a few months earlier, but had lived with and grown to know for 2 years. We were nervous as hell, if we answered something wrong, or forgot to bring in a certain form, he might be denied permanent residence, or who knows what.

We quizzed each other until we pulled into the parking lot. My stomach was in knots. We get inside the building and some employees who you could tell hated their lives made us remove our belongings and jewelry and walk through a few body scanning devices. After our thorough search and pat down they sent us up to sign in. We had to sign a few things after we checked in. One was a form that asked us what language we needed our interview to be conducted in. What the hell. Is this for serious? Call me crazy but I think MR. AND MRS. JONES would probably like their interview in ENGLISH. I understand we are the only caucasian people within a 5 mile radius, but do you?! That's like trying to card an 85 year old trying to buy booze. It's a little redundant.

Anyways, we took a seat and tried to act like we weren't freakin' out about who our immigration officer might be. As they came out to call in different people we tried to size them up. "that guy looks like a jackass, I hope we don't get him" and so on. We look to the row of seats next to us as a couple is called back, and I can't even make this shit up. The woman (who was the american"anchor" in the relationship) was, no lie, about 6'3'' and I would ball park 250 lbs. Her husband? He was Indian (they were both dressed in full garb and head pieces IN JULY IN GEORGIA). He was maybe 5'5'' and maybe 130 lbs. Anywho, about 15 or so minutes after they disappeared into the enclosed hallway they walked out of the waiting room and we were directly called back. The officer we met seemed nice enough, as she called us back into her rather small office. As soon as we walked in it hit us. A smell that was so potent it reached up and smacked us in the face. It was an incredibly disgusting combo of body odor and curry? maybe? Whatever it was it was obvious that the jolly green giant and her pint sized Indian were probably the culprits. It was so bad the immigration officer asked if we minded her spraying an immense amount of lysol to quell the stench. We said please do.

As soon as we were seated and comfy we had to stand back up again to do our oaths. You know, to swear that we won't lie about anything. sidenote: we were told, and had read to absolutely make NO jokes! about anything...

So, we are in the process of raising our hands and standing to take the oath when Brett's big butt tags the side of my rib cage and I fly into this woman's office wall. Brett without skipping a beat reaches over and picks me up, almost brushing me off and says, "oh it's ok, this stuff happens all the time, I kinda forget how big I am." -I can't decide...can I laugh? I say oh what the hell and let out a giggle and agree "yes and he forgets how small I am!" We do the oath and then Brett gets a special quiz and I am not allowed to talk. Some of the yes or no questions he then gets to answer straight faced involved things like, harboring fugitives, taking part in terrorist organizations, smuggling drugs, smuggling prostitutes, you know THE USUAL?!?!?!?!

And if any of you know my husband, talking to him about any combination of those items and expecting him to not make a joke or laugh is like asking him to stop breathing. Seriously. Luckily after he "took me out" during our oath the woman had warmed up a bit to the fact that we are a ridiculously silly pair of people. So she let a few smirks and comments slide.

Then I get to talk! yay! time to answer questions that have nothing to do with the fact that I may actually be in love with my husband. Wanna get an idea of what they are allowed to ask, and just might ask? Here ya go. Good stuff right? Stress me right out! Then we show off the wedding pictures that further prove we actually like each other, and had a legit ceremony, and didn't blow $30,000 for a weekend because we think scamming the US government is a fun, yet pricey hobby. Then I was asked, "Can I take some of these photos out to keep in your file?". Why no, you can't. Those photos are glued to an immaculately designed scrapbook. Isn't there a $10,000.00+ copy machine that my tax money paid for lying around here somewhere that we can use?

We conclude our interview and Brett gets a handshake and a congratulations- he is now allowed to work and pay taxes. Congrats sucker! But at least we were then on the long road to him becoming a productive "citizen". We are creeping up on our 3rd anniversary now and all he has is a temporary green card. But I will save that headache for another day.

Wednesday, August 3, 2011

Still a one man wolfpack.

Ok so, aside from the distracting and strange personal photograph (yes, I AM wearing Zack Galifianakis on my chest, and yes I AM also wearing retractable aviators that come with a special leather carrying case. be jealous. or laugh. whatever). But that is neither here nor there. The purpose of this post is to let myself know that I am still me. And I do exist outside of my baby. I mean, she does rock in an inconceivable way. However, I am still pretty cool as well. Or that is what I tell myself.

I thought it might be worth looking at some of the things that used to make me, well, me - pre baby days. Wanted to see if I still have the same interests and hobbies, and if I can figure out what new likes I am in to I can make some fun for myself (for myself...not fun OF myself...I do that enough already).

I still like:
-being lazy and watching random tv series on netflix with my man friend.
-being crafty
-talking to dead people
-pretending to be organized
-pretending to be healthy (it helps form the habit people!)
-decorating and redecorating anything I can get my hands on. Which makes the prospect of us buying a whole new house for me to make our own super exciting.

I no longer like:
-getting hammered at smokey bars. I may try this one out a time or two more just to make sure though!
-people who want to waste my time. My time is a hot commodity these days with the baby being around. Dealing with drama is no longer my forte.
-people who say they are my friends but in essence are not. Facebook is the death of the true meaning of friendship.
-with that last line in mind...I am starting to not like Facebook.
-worrying about my image. Just because I don't like it doesn't mean I don't do it though. But really, I am coming to terms with what real women are supposed to look like. I am allowed to have a big ass, and I am allowed to be the color I was born to be (and that's NOT the orange glow created by a fake tan or a real tan that will lead me to a path of skin melanoma).

I'm not really sure that this helped me much, but maybe it will in some way sometime soon. Until next time just remember - I am still a one man wolfpack.