I need a new couch now

So this year’s Thanksgiving was rather uneventful. Andy and I went over to Maggie and Dave’s house, watched a couple of movies, ate some Thanksgiving dinner, and avoided bunny shit. The last item being the hardest feat of them all since the two rabbits my sister adopted a little over a week ago are not yet house broken. You would be amazed at the amount of shit a rabbit produces over the course of 5 hours. I could have built a fort with it all, if I was so inclined to handle shit long enough to model a structure out of it.

Rabbits: Serious Shit Machines

We actually left Maggie and Dave’s a bit earlier than we normally have. At the time I just chalked it up to being tired due to my “condition” and the lack of motivation to stay out since Old Fashions were off limits, but it turns out that I had, in fact, caught a really nasty cold. It never fails that during one of the year’s extended holidays (4th of July, Thanksgiving, Christmas or New Years) I will catch some sort of illness that renders my time off pointless. So this year was Thanksgiving and I’m saddened to say that save Bunny Shit Day, I was sleeping, trying to sleep, half asleep, mildly asleep, or watching TV for my 4 days of Not Having To Be At Work.

With 4 days straight on the couch with nothing but a remote control for entertainment, I have compiled the following list for you regarding my current musings on last week’s offering of cable television. Sorry, it’s all I got in the way of “Moe’s Current News”.

ITEM #1: There is, in fact, a certain amount of “Bridezillas” that you can watch and still be a sane human being. There does come a time (around the 6th or 7th episode) where you may find yourself siding with the bridezilla at the same time telling your cat that, “YO! It’s my fucking day bitch” when the cat tries to steal your seat on the couch. This is the point where you need to watch something else.

Just a bit misunderstood is all....it is her fucking day bitch.

ITEM #2: As much as I have a soft spot for Hanna-Barbera, the “Yogi Bear” movie – nay – even just the promo for the “Yogi Bear” movie - might be the most annoying fucking thing I have seen since Hannah Montana graced the airwaves. If I hear “razzle dazzle” one fucking more time (and I’m sure I will) I might just shot my television.

It pains me to actually post this, but you all need the evidence.

ITEM #3: Even though I saw “The Day After Tomorrow” in the theaters and immediately thought it was horrible, it doesn’t stop me from watching it anytime it’s on regular television. I’ve yet to figure out why this is. “Oh, “Day After Tomorrow”, I hate that movie. Let’s watch it.” It might be that I’m still in awe on how a pack of wolves survived the next ice age when every other living thing failed to do so.

Those crazy invincible wolves.  Well, their butts anyhow.

ITEM #4: I’m convinced that BBC America has lost all rights to all shows except ‘Law & Order: UK’, ‘Ramsey’s Kitchen Nightmares’ and ‘Star Trek: The Next Generation’.

ITEM #5: If movies from the 1980’s have taught me anything, it’s that nothing beats walking into the sunset with a kick ass power ballet playing in the background.

ITEM #6: How Adam Richman is not obese by now is beyond comprehension.

Chubby, yes...but not yet obese.  Whadda think?  Laxatives?

ITEM #7: I should really read more.

I hope there's a horse this year

Happy Thursday everyone! Well, I know it’s technically Tuesday but since it’s a 3 day work week due to the Thanksgiving holiday on the real Thursday, it’s pretend Thursday today. Hurray. It’s hard to believe that its Thanksgiving week already, time recently has been going incredibly fast and horribly slow depending on what life changing event I happen to be focusing on at the moment.

So yes! Thanksgiving - one of my least favorite holidays. To be fair, there aren’t many holidays I really enjoy outside of St. Patrick’s Day and my birthday – both which my work fails to recognize as valid holidays and thus forces me to use a vacation day in order to properly celebrate them. Thanksgiving of course is all about eating, watching football, and drinking as many brandy old fashions as possible to ease the pain of repeating to relatives on how well my job is going. I haven’t actually been back home for Thanksgiving in over 7 years so recently Thanksgiving has been just eating, watching football, and drinking as many brandy old fashions as possible before I pass out with apple pie smeared across my lips. It’s not a bad thing, this living 2000 miles from home.

Last year my sister, Maggie, came out to California to help watch Chloe for 2 weeks while Andy and I were visiting WI. She planned on staying for a little over a month, just as a little getaway, but ended up falling in love (with a boy, not with Chloe) and not leaving. When Thanksgiving rolled around last year I think we were both a bit excited to have a bit of family to celebrate the holiday with. I, being the one with the larger kitchen and an experienced Thanksgiving host, offered to cook up the Thanksgiving dinner at our house. Maggie offered to help cook. Everything sounded wonderful. What could possibly go wrong?

Pillsbury Crescent Rolls is what went wrong. I told you all a bit about it last year, but it’s been a year and the wounds have healed so I can get into it a bit more.

About an hour before the "incident".

By the time Maggie, Dave and Cousin Tony got to our house, I was well stressed out from trying to assemble the World’s Most Awesomest Thanksgiving Dinner and Maggie was a bit tipsy from playing Drunken Uno with Cousin Tony for most of the early afternoon. I might have also had PMS. Maggie had come up to me and asked me if she could help out with anything. I handed her the tube of crescent roll dough and a cookie sheet and told her she could start on those. I was currently stirring the cranberries when I turned around and noticed that she had simply open the tube of dough and plopped the whole roll on the sheet without separating them out into 12 individual crescents and was attempting to put them in the oven in one big doughy clump.

In my defense to the following, I tend to get overly excited and mean when I’m stressed. Upon seeing the dough turd, I yelled, “What the fuck are you doing? That’s not how you make crescent rolls!” Maggie, slightly drunk, got offended. “What? What’s wrong? How is this not right?” Maggie proceeded to mush down the doughy clump so it was a slightly flatter doughy clump in an exaggerated effort to appease me. I got irrationally livid (as I do when I’m already stressed and am now being mocked), grabbed the cookie sheet out of her hands mumbling, “Fine, I’ll do it myself!”

It gets a bit hazy what happened next, but at some point I ended up going upstairs to the bedroom to calm down. Of course, our bedroom is right over the kitchen and both windows were open so I fully heard Maggie complaining to everyone else about “not knowing what the fuck my problem was” and “why I was being such a bitch”. This got me even angrier and I ended up going downstairs and without saying a word, grabbed my keys and my purse and I left.

Which is how I ended up at Mutt Lynch’s on Thanksgiving night. Which is also how I ended up getting fantastically drunk wearing a turkey on my head, petting a real live horse, on Thanksgiving night. Besides the whole fight thing (which is now referred to as the Crescent Roll Incident) and the mess I had to clean up once I got home, not to mention the leftovers a full uneaten Thanksgiving meal creates, it was actually a pretty good Thanksgiving by the end.

I drank enough that night to make up for the fact that I can't drink this Thanksgiving. 

Andy of course disagrees. Andy did not have a fun time at all last Thanksgiving as he had two irrational pissed off girls at the beginning, and one sloppy drunk one at the end.

One can't be angry with a turkey on their head, can they?

Andy has banned me from ever making Thanksgiving dinner again. Bit harsh I think. But I relented and was fully prepared just to sit at home with a sandwich this Thanksgiving. That is until Maggie texted me to let me know that she’s hosting dinner at her and Dave’s this year. I texted her back and told her I hope she wouldn’t get angry if I didn’t offer to help cook (for the sake of peace). Which she replied, “No, we’re getting the dinner already pre-made from Vons.” Perfect. I still hope there’s no fucking crescent rolls.

Chloe's Horrible Terrible No Good Day

Chloe had to go back to the vet yesterday for her follow up blood draw for the PETS passport. Chloe wasn’t having a very good day to begin with and the vet was just the icing on the cake.

In the mornings, we typically leave the back patio door open for about 45 minutes so that Chloe can get some outside time while we get ready for work. Obviously when we leave we shut the door because by 7 AM, Chloe is usually upstairs laying down for a nap – or what I like to call, leaving a bunch of cat hairs on my pillow. Yesterday morning was no different. At 7 AM I shut the door though I fully admit that I didn’t check for Chloe beforehand (she hides in the flower bed from time to time). Even though Andy went out for a smoke after I shut the door, he simply figured that since the door was already shut, I had known Chloe was inside and closed it again without checking to see where Chloe was.

Chloe of course was hiding in the flower bed.

Chloe is like all cats and likes to go where she wants when she wants. As much as she loves hanging out in the back yard, if she can’t get back inside once she’s out, she starts howling. Which she did…..for HOURS. The next door neighbor actually got worried and brought her over some water but Chloe just tried to attack her (I should mention that Chloe is very protective of her domain).

As a slight aside: Chloe has been trapped outside before, though not for nearly as long. What’s infuriating about her (and all cats) is that after howling and howling to get back inside, if you open up the door but then step outside yourself she’ll dart inside for a mere moment (probably to make sure no other animal has disturbed her things) and then will come outside again to hang out with you. It’s this whole, “Yeah, I really wanted to be out here anyway but don’t fucking close the door on me, I can’t sniff my stuff from out here if the door is closed.”

Anyhow, thankfully Andy came back home around noon because we had some apartment inspection going on. Can I mention again that Chloe doesn’t like strangers? Can I mention how much she doesn’t like strangers in her domain? So yeah – 5 hours stuck in the garden followed by strangers roaming about her house. Not a bad enough day for you yet Chloe? Let’s go to the vet!


The vet had given us some sedatives to give to her to make her more manageable but like catnip, they were completely useless on her. That means, of course, that she got gassed again. I brought my camera along this time for the exact purpose of showing Chloe in the gassing box but this time the vet didn’t even try to take her out of her box in front of us, instead choosing to take Chloe to the back room where I’m assuming they clubbed her over the head with a wet fish then took naked photos of her to put on the internet. So I’m sorry, these are the only photos I got:

Chloe before the gassing.

Bored in the waiting room, we take meaningful photo montages about a man and his dog.

It wasn’t until we were out in the lobby paying that I noticed that they had to shave part of her chest to draw the blood properly. So now Chloe has been: locked outside in the garden, had strangers roaming her house, taken to the vet, gassed, embarrassing naked pictures on the Internet AND she looks like she was attacked by a 7 year old boy with a shaving kit.

 "What's next?   Are you going to put me in the washer for a spin cycle?  Mew."

This is probably why I've never been tagged...

I've been tagged by Liz at ItBeLiz to take part in a tag post and answer a few random questions. I’m actually quite stoked about this (thank you Liz!). Because this is my damn blog, I fully intend to tell you why.

I read a lot of blogs. It’s a bad habit I picked up from a co-worker back in 1998 when he introduced me to pamie.com. “Someone’s online diary? Shut up! That’s awesome! “ I have about 25 or so that I read and have bookmarked at any given time. Because I have so many that I follow, I tend to be pretty strict on how long I’ll wait for someone to update. My general rule is that I’ll stop reading if the blogger hasn’t updated in a month. The ones I have been reading for years and the ones that are just too damn good not to be patient with, I’ll hold out for.

One thing that I’ve noticed in all my years of blog reading is that some blogs tend to be tied to one another. What I mean is that some blog writers are friends with other blog writers either by knowing them in person or from meeting them through the blog. People with popular blogs (i.e. Pamie.com) tend to have loads of blogger friends and these blogger friends tend to tag each other willy nilly like tagging is the next Pog craze or something. Even though I’ve been writing in a blog for the last 10 years (fuuuuuuuuck), I’ve never been a popular blog. I’m going to attribute this to the fact that I keep changing domains every 4 years and not because my writing is subpar *sarcastic font*. (Not that I’m striving to be a popular blog with the all important goal of getting a book deal - can you imagine the book’s title? It would probably be “FUCK: Why hopefully my mother doesn’t read this fucking book”.)

SO YES! Non-popular blog = No blogger friends = No tagging. With Liz tagging me I now feel like I’ve dipped my toe in some weird secret cult where everything is awesome. Of course, because I still have an unpopular blog, there’s no one I can legitimately tag back that hasn’t already been tagged, but I’m going to tag a blog I stumbled upon recently anyhow and hope to God she doesn’t think I’m a weird stalker person. To be fair, I am a bit of a weirdo, but I left my stalker days behind when Alasdair Gillis only sent me back a form letter instead of a handwritten letter where he declared his love like I was expecting.

Go ahead and break my heart, chicken lover.

But enough faffing about...

Here are the rules:

1. Link to the person who tagged you.
2. Paste these rules on your blog post.
3. Respond to the following prompts (in bold).
4. Add a prompt of your own and answer it. .
5. Tag a few other bloggers at the bottom of the post.

------------------------------------------------------------
1) The best investment you ever made:
My bartender’s license. Being a bartender actually led to me getting a technology job without a college education (score!). I also made a crapload of friends, learned a new sport, and to this day I still know how to make an awesome Bloody Mary.

2) If you could’ve written any book, directed any movie, and composed any song, which three would you pick:
Book: “Sean and David’s Long Drive” by Sean Condon. The book that made me realize that travel writing can actually be humorous instead of tedious.
Movie: “Clash of the Titans” (the 1981 version) – I would have made an optional ‘skip past the scary Medusa bit’ for the kids if I directed this one.
Song: “I’ve Been Everywhere” – Johnny Cash. I haven’t yet, but would like to think that on my deathbed I could confidently sing this.

AHHHHHHH!!!  Terrible clay animation still freaks the shit out of me.

3) Weirdest quirk:
At any time I feel like I’ve jinxed myself (for example: driving along and thinking, “I haven’t gotten a speeding ticket in awhile.”) I will use my fist to “knock on” my head (“wood”) to undo the jinx.

4) One wish immediately granted:
To immediately be able to read, write and speak every language in the world. Maybe the universe if we ever get around to needing it.

5) Most expensive hobby:
I’d say travel but everyone has said that already. I’ll say gnomes...TRAVEL gnomes.

6) An inexhaustible gift-card at which store:
Amazon, definitely. I think they sell live body parts on Amazon.

7) In another lifetime, you’d be:
Burned at the stake. I always think how cool it would be to live in another era only to realize that with my trucker’s mouth, I’d be killed by an angry mob before I hit 18.

8) The most famous/interesting member of your family tree:
Not my direct family, but my step mother’s family – John Billington was the first person hanged in America.

9) What would you say to your teenage self?
Study! History isn’t going to learn itself. Oh, and lay off the Aquanet will you? You shouldn’t be able to store shit in your bangs.

10) What do you want to be when you grow up?
Lucille Ball, but less dead.

Tagging Melissa. (I’m not a stalker!)

Lies, lies, and some more lies

OK, I lied. One last little thing about pregnancy, or some advice really.

If you plan on getting yourself knocked up anytime in the near future, please let me recommend that you go get all your dental work done now. Don’t put off that cleaning or that weird thing in your molar that you think might be a cavity. Get that shit taken care of now. If it’s a bit too late for that because you went to that rave two months ago even though you knew damn well you’re too damn old to be going to raves and you just happen to shag that hot guy wearing day glo earrings in the nasty women’s toilet with no toilet paper and a distinct smell of Johnson’s baby oil and got yourself all sorts of “with child”, then I’m sorry, that advice will be no use to you because now it’s Too Late.

If you are knocked up already and you were smart enough to get your dental shit taken care of beforehand, please promise me you’ll be extra special careful not to fuck up your teeth. And if you happen to make it the full 9 months without biting into the recommended snack of an apple (falls under the 80 servings of fruit and veggies a pregnant woman is to consume daily) only to lose your god damn filling in the process, count yourself lucky. Because the one thing the dentist will not give a pregnant woman is local anesthetic.

Oh, it looks bad...but trust me, you want this.

Fillings and replacing a filling requires the dentist to drill into the tooth so that the filling stuff has something to “stick to”. (I don’t know what this filling stuff is actually made of, I’m assuming it’s similar to the hard candy your grandma has sitting in a glass dish by the television since 1968.) Drilling into a tooth will mean that at some point the dentist will locate the one nerve in your mouth that somehow controls your bladder and the urge to kick people in the nuts.

Good for kicking.

While the dentist has the hated drill in his grubby paws, you will ask tenderly, “will this hurt?” and the dentist will lie and say, “not too badly”. He’ll then look away for a moment in guilt, realizing he just lied to a pregnant woman (the worst kind of lying EVER), and will correct himself by saying, “it will hurt for 5 seconds. Can you do 5 seconds?” Because you like to pretend you are Tough Shit you will say, “of course I can take 5 seconds of pain”. At second number 1, you realize that you are the biggest pussy ever and that this pain you are feeling now must be worse than sawing off your arm with a dull pocket knife OH MY GOD. At second number 2, you pee yourself and think about the banana you will be sticking in the dentist’s tail pipe. At second number 3 your leg starts jerking looking for some balls to kick and by second number 4 you grab the drill from your mouth and use it to poke out the dentist’s eye. OK, that’s not actually true. By second number 4, the dentist is actually done drilling (he lied again!)(you can forgive him for this lie as long as that drill gets set out to sea). The rest of the appointment will go fine but part of you vows never to go to the dentist again even if all your teeth start coming out in little shards.

The moral of this story is: Apples are evil.

Don't you just HATE posts about babies?

We had the gender determining ultrasound today (well, it was really a “check if all the bits, not just the gender determining one, is OK” scan and I’m thrilled to report that all the bits are in fact OK). It appears that we are having a no-doubts-about-it boy. Seriously, the penis practically slapped me upside the head it was so blatantly obvious on the screen. That didn’t stop me from asking the technician, “Are you sure?” though. I’d actually have the balls (ha!) to post the picture of my son’s endowment if I wasn’t somewhat fearful that by doing so would somehow convince him to become a porn star later in life. “I don’t know why you’re so upset Mom, you’ve had my penis on display before I was even born.”

So yes! A boy. I’m in a bit of shock due to the fact that I had been convinced that I was having a girl. Truth be told, I was convinced that I would have a girl even before I got pregnant so perhaps it was more wishful thinking than it was “mother’s insight”. I’m not sure how I’m going to handle a boy. I was really looking forward to having a girl who would be nice and quiet and who would like to draw and play with stuffed bunnies instead of a boy who is going to sleep with a pile of dirt and scream “poopie” from 6 AM to 9 PM and ram monster trucks into my ankles and who will think that bugs are like, The Best Thing Ever. Boys are loud, energetic, and messy. Those three things are totally against what I stand for. Oh why oh why can’t I give birth to a 60 year old librarian?

There's still a chance, right?

I already told Andy that I’m going to spend the next 18 years following my son around with a Dustbuster.

Who throws nuts and bolts around?  Oh, that's right...BOYS.

Before I get hate mail – or hate comments – I’m actually very happy (shocked, but happy). The baby is doing great. Nice and healthy, which is all I could ever ask for (well, that and a million dollars which I don’t mind admitting that I would totally get pregnant for again if I could somehow shoot $100 bills out of my crotch). I just need to wrap my head around having a boy.

Because this isn’t a pregnancy\baby blog, this is most likely the last pregnancy\baby centric post you smart-enough-not-to-have-children readers will have to sit through until I pop this thing out, I have to get one last pregnancy\baby thing off my mind. I’ll be done with this topic for the time being then – cross my fingers, hope to pie.

The thing I really need to get off my chest is the people who assume that since I’m breeding now, I will want to continue to breed forever and ever until my uterus falls out. I can’t tell you how many people I’ve had discussions (read: arguments) about this with. This child I’m carrying around now? It’s the last one that will grace my insides. I DO NOT WANT MORE THAN ONE CHILD. I don’t know why people find this so hard to believe. Like since I’ve done it once, surely I’d want to do it again! You know, I almost drowned once – boogie boarding in the Pacific, which to be fair is about as pleasant as being pregnant, and I’m telling you, I don’t want to do it again. I wanted one kid, one kid to grow and teach all my bad habits to, and then let it be. I didn’t grow up thinking that being a mom (and just a mom) was what I was destined to do. Having a single child gives you the flexibility to be a great mom and also have a life of your own. It’s not going to be, “Johnny’s* got soccer at 5, then Jenny’s dance lesson at 6, then I’ve got to get the baby to the doctor to check out the rash”; it’s going to be, “Johnny’s got soccer at 5 but he’s spending the night over at his friend’s house, so sure, I can meet you for a couple of drinks later tonight.” I might actually be somewhat delusional about my flexibility once my son is older (I’ve never done this before, remember?) but I’m certainly not delusional about my feelings about having more than one kid. So you out there! Stop your fucking smuggy-smugness, “oh, just wait – once you have one, you’ll want more.” Bite me. I DON’T WANT MORE THAN ONE CHILD.

Just so I don’t offend anyone, I would like to say in all seriousness that I know that there are mothers out there with more than one child who manage to have a very full life (career and personal) outside of motherhood. I admire and respect those women more than I can say. I wish I could be like them, I really do.

*We are not fucking naming our son ‘Johnny’.

End of pregnancy\baby talk, I swear. Just to prove my earnestness in that, here is a picture of the cat:

 The damn cat trying to steal some of Andy's ice cream.   Hey!  At least it's not a baby picture.

It's like SomeECards KNOWS me...

50 business days!? FFS!

Just received:

Dear Applicant;

We have received your application at the UK Border Agency in Los Angeles and it is currently being processed.

Please note UK Border Agency service standards for all applications are: to complete 90 per cent of visa applications (except settlement categories) in not more than three weeks, 98 per cent in six weeks and 100 per cent in 12 weeks.

The current estimated processing time in Los Angeles for UK visa applications (except settlement applications) is 5 - 15 working days plus return mail time, however in certain cases it is necessary to make additional enquiries on an application which will extend the processing time. The current estimated processing time in Los Angeles for UK settlement applications is 50 business days from the date of this email.

You will receive a further e-mail advising you of the outcome of your application in due course. This e-mail will also provide you with the UPS tracking details of your return package.

The UK Border Agency strongly recommends that you do not purchase flights or make other travel arrangements until you have been granted any requisite visas and physically received your passport.

Please note that due to the volume of applications we receive, the Los Angeles Visa Section is unable to respond to status enquiries.  Further information on UK visa services is available at www.visainfoservices.com

Once you have received your package back from us we would be grateful if you would complete our Customer Satisfaction Survey at: http://www.ukvisas.gov.uk/en/features/survey


Regards,

UK Border Agency, Los Angeles

That's 10 weeks for anyone that is counting.  We plan on leaving the 2nd-3rd week of January.  That's cutting it pretty damn close if you ask me.

The One with the Biometrics Appointment

I’m going to try to get this post out because I think it’s important that I do (sadly more for me for memory purposes than for you, whom I usually try to entertain).   Unfortunately I am working on 4 ½ hours of sleep (more on that later) so as much as I want to write a concise recount of yesterday my mind is tending to slip into a monotone whine of, “I’m so tiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiired.”   This post might not make any sense but I’m too tiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiired to proofread it so expect an apology post later.   This is actually a bit dangerous since I’m dyslexic and I tend to misspell words, leave bits of sentences out all together or my personal favorite, substitute one word for another.    If I happen to have a sentence below that reads: “Sitting in a char I was that only one getting a pizza” please self translate that to: “Sitting in a chair I realized I was the only one getting a visa.”

SO!  Yesterday I went for my biometrics appointment.   This account is not going to serve much purpose to anyone who isn’t getting their UK visa in Southern California, though I can’t imagine your personal account will be too much different.   It is, at its heart, dealing with US Government employees.

Andy prepped me the night before telling me that the best place to park was in the back of the building in Santa Ana.   He said that there was underground parking but depending on the time of day, parking in the back was only $1-2 dollars, if not free.   I didn’t have any cash on me, so I stole two bucks from his wallet in preparation.   The next day I managed to find the building and back of building parking just fine but I was a little dismayed that the parking attendant informed me that it was $1 per 20 minutes.   Although the parking attendant was very flirty, he still wasn’t able to tell me how long this fingerprinting was going to take nor could he move me to the front of the line as much as I batted my eyelashes.  I had a few quarters in my car so I decided to risk parking there anyhow.  It was fingerprinting – seriously, how long does that take?

 Cool, but nothing like the fingerprinting they did.

Walking in, the security guard asked me if I had a cell phone or other recording device (no) and checked me in.  That is, he circled a number on a sheet of paper and told me to wait in the back row of chairs.  That is important by the way – you must sit in the back row of chairs or else you will get yelled at (I may or may not know this by experience).   The whole basis of this office’s sorting system is where you are sat.  

While sitting in the back row, you have to wait for the receptionist to get back from his lunch or taking a crap or getting a pedicure or where ever the fuck he was for 20 minutes ($1!) so that he can stamp your biometrics appointment confirmation sheet and give you a ticker-tape number which at first you are happy to realize is only 13 numbers away from the current number until you realize that it take them 5 minutes to get through each number.   (That may be a run on sentence.  Fuck it. )  You are then instructed to sit in the first or 2^nd row of chairs.   Please don’t sit in the back row as you will get yelled at.   Please also don’t announce “for fuck’s sake!” when you are asked to move from the back row to the 1^st or 2^nd rows while giving a sarcastic look and a sarcastic thumbs up to the security guard because they might not let you leave or they might take away your passport.  Most likely though, it will just make sitting there a bit more uncomfortable when you realize how much of an asshole you’ve just been.

 The only type of "thumbs up" you should do at your Biometrics appointment

I continued to wait in the first row of chairs for another hour ($3!).    During my hour I quickly realized that I was the only one there who was attempting to get a visa to get the hell out of this country instead of trying to get a green card in order to stay.  Of course, I may have changed a few of the immigrants minds by announcing, “for fuck’s sake!” when all I had to do was sit in a different row of chairs.  

After all of time and eternity (I’m happy to announce I had a healthy baby girl who has since grown up and gone to college, as well as three boys via Emmanuel who I was sitting next to in row #1) my number was finally called.   They took my fingerprints and a photo (my hair, I might add, looked FANTASTIC before I went in – after an hour of getting yelled at for chair rows it turned into a flat mess) and I was free to go.   3 minutes.  That’s all it took.    Well, an hour and 23 minutes.   

 This was more like it actually was.  I'd like to congratulate the guy who managed to get a camera in past security.

By the way, I only had $4 total in quarters but I flirted my way with the parking attendant to let the last dollar slide.   I’m not proud of this and I certainly felt a bit dirty afterward but sometimes a girl has to do what a girl has to do when she doesn’t have the last fucking dollar to pay for parking.

Having the very last piece of documentation I needed to submit my paperwork to the British Consulate in Los Angeles (which was the Biometrics Appointment Sheet stamped), I rushed to the mailing services and posted my package for overnight.   Now begins the Great Wait where I do nothing except worry that I fucked something up on my paperwork and have to do the whole thing over again.  Which brings us to my 4 ½ hours of sleep…

I woke up at 3 o’clock last night with the sudden thought that the passport picture I gave them was too big.   I don’t know why this popped in my head, but there it was.  I analyzed it over and over – mentally comparing the size of my face against all the other passport photos I’ve ever had  - and convinced myself that my gigantic head would never meet the strict rules and regulation posted by the British National Passport Picture Nazis.   When I finally talked myself down and realized I was being paranoid, I was wide awake and couldn’t get back to sleep.    I’m so tiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiired.