Vacation: part 1

After driving to Charlotte, flying to Toronto and then catching another flight to Paris... I am here! First order of business? Test out my French skills and catch a bus to another airport to meet Daniel. Boom! Done and done and I celebrated my savy Euro mass transit skills with a $15 Starbucks coffee.... wait... $15?!?! Ugh! Fast forward 3 hours later and my hottie of a hubby comes strolling through the Arrivals terminal and we are finally reunited!  

After a long smooch in the middle of the airport (one good thing about Europe is their tolerance for PDA. We could've started to undress and I don't think anyone would've even blinked twice.) we hailed a cab to take us to my family's apartment. Well, sort of. The cabbie got us to the street but then we were kind of screwed because how were we supposed to know how to get up to the actual apartment. Neither of our phones worked and it's not like my family had a banner on their balcony directing us to their apartment (which I think would've been a nice touch, but whatevs). So I did what any female with a brain would do... I told Daniel to stay put and I walked across the street to a cafe and asked a few men if I could use their phone. Of course all of the horny French men were more than eager to help a sweet little American, and within two minutes I had called my Uncle and we were on our way to meet him at the door of his building. Thank mister for the phone... can't stay for a drink, my huuuusssssband is waiting for me. Boom! Vagina wins again!  

We dropped off our things in the apartment, ate, drank, took some Benadryl and POOF! 13 hours of sleep later, we were on our way to Versailles with our sweet little Frenchie cousins. Hi Ho, Hi Ho, it’s off the palace we go! We have our train tickets, we are bundled up, we have our massive “I’m a tourist” camera… and skeeeeerrrrttt! Put on those party brakes, sugar britches… here comes the train conductor/dictator and we are getting a 60 Euro ticket. Say what?!?!  Apparently our ticket was not the ticket we needed to be on the train, and we were now breaking the law. Ummmm then why did you let us on the train?!?! Talk about a buzz kill.

I’m not exactly sure how to describe the rest without making you fall asleep, so I will just sum up the rest of our time in Paris by saying we walked a lot, drank a lot, took a ton of pictures and wrapped it up by racing to our train station at 5am so that we could catch our flight to Rome (literally racing... and this girl is built for comfort, not speed)! Next stop, ROMA! And stay tuned… because this is where the drama happens! 

ok, so I'm banned... now what?

Well, I've taken time to digest what has happened... and I've decided that this suuuuucks. I'm a newlywed. I want to act like a newlywed. I want to talk to my husband face to face, not via Skype. I want to have dinner with the person I signed a legally binding contract with. I want to get irritated that I don't have enough room in bed. (In real life this is where I take a long dramatic pause and inhale an entire glass of wine... I suggest you walk away from your computer and do the same... Immediately, because then it's like I am drinking a bottle with girlfriends and not by myself... Apparently it's a "problem" when you binge drink alone.)

So Daniel has been back in the sandbox for over a month, I am banned, living with my mother, and I am 99% sure that this also means we are not going to get to go on our honeymoon. The honeymoon was planned to be taken during Eid (a national/Muslim holiday) and we were going to go to Thailand and lay on a beach and drink our body weight in fluid ounces and make some babies. Yea, I was 99.99% sure that wasn't going to happen at all. I will be dogged if I don't get some kind of a vacation! We need a hiatus... this year has been bullshit... and I am going to literally have a mental breakdown any second now. Get me out of here! I need to see my husband! And we only have two weeks to plan this! Ahhhh!!!!!

Panicking, panicking, panicking... breathe. Ok, so we need a vacation... but where? Well being the super cute and thoughtful couple we are, we decided to meet half way. And half way from North Carolina to Saudi Arabia is.... Paris! Holla Back Frenchies! Bonjour B*tches! Buuuuut we can't just do Paris... so we will throw some Rome in there too. Paris and Rome and wine and pizza and fun and lovin'... let's go!

(Planning included checking with my family, who lives in Paris, to make sure we can crash with them and renting a cute apartment in Rome that overlooks Saint Peters Square. Boom! So excited! Stay tuned for a vacation re-cap... it gets legit!)

Looks like I might be waiting for a while...

Re-cap:
- I was offered a job in March
- I needed to get an actual contract so I could change my visa type and legally work

Update:
- I've now been asking for the contract for over 4 months

Ok, now that we are all up to date, let's get started... I have been asking for my contract for over 4 months. It has been a stupid long battle of me saying "I need the contract" and the school saying "nobody has ever needed one before". Well no kidding nobody has ever needed one before... I am THE ONLY American female you have here! It has been a lot of fun trying to #1 - get someone from the university to respond to me; they usually only respond to Daniel because, as a woman, I am not worth the headache. And #2 - to convince them that the Saudi Embassy actually means what they say; they want a contract, so give them a contract!

Still no contract and it is time for me to come home for Ramadan. This is crap, but whatever just get me home! Not so fast... I first need to get my husband's permission to leave the country. No joke, I literally have to have him request a visa for me to leave so I can leave the country. It's like whenever you were in grade school and your parents had to write a note for you to miss class, I have to have a piece of paper saying that Daniel is allowing me to leave the country. Ugh, this country is suffocating me and intensifying my urge to shave my head, burn my bras and go full on feminist warrior mode!

Fast forward... I am home, I get an email from the university saying that they have sent my contract to the Saudi Arabian Cultural Mission in Washington, D.C. and that I am good to go. I go to get all of my medical work done AGAIN, spend a ton of time and money (because I don't have insurance in the USA anymore) and send off my paperwork and passport off to get my visa changed. I'm told it should be one week to have this processed and  I should leave to go back to Saudi about one week before Daniel leaves. Alright... let's do this!

Two months later... still haven't gotten my passport back, nobody can really give me an update on what is happening, and Daniel has already gone back to Saudi. Now, bless my sweet angel of a husband's heart, Daniel is so dang positive. Me, on the other hand, not so much. I tend to be super dramatic and recklessly talk about how I am going to light myself on fire and jump out of a window or something else that is never actually going to happen. So while I am stuck in the USA talking about craziness, Daniel is in Saudi Arabia and trying to "talk me off of the ledge", but I can't really hear him because I am going nuts about how I hate this; I hate it with my whole life!

And then it came... the dreaded email... I have basically been banned from Saudi Arabia. Apparently (and I say "apparently" hunched over and rolling my eyes), I was not given the proper visa when I left the country back in July. So, on paper, it looks like I fled the country and left my husband. Say what?!?! My husband is the only reason I was there and for dang sure the only reason I want to go back. I didn't leave him. We just said "till death do we part", and I aint dead! (Side note - they really have a problem with people leaving the country improperly ALL.THE.TIME. See, people go over there to work because the money is really good and they think, "Yea man. This is going to be awesome. I am going to make so much money and it's going to be chill as ice.". Ummmm wrong. It is hot as hell and not that awesome. Culture, yes totally cool... for a Christian white girl like me, it's cool for like a week. So when people leave "improperly", Saudi put you in timeout for 2 years. And that is me, in timeout.)

So here I am, back in the USA. Even cooler than that? I am living at my mom's house. Yup, that's right. I am a 27 year old, college graduate, married, unemployed and living at my mom's house. Oh my gosh, it is so much more depressing to see that on paper than it is in the "reality" I've created in my head. Sooooo plan "B"? Ugh, I don't know. Give me a second to digest what just happened and a least a week to eat my feelings.

my first Wasta! (re-post)

This is a re-post from my old blog, but you need this background before I can tell you what is happening now...

I have officially been in Saudi Arabia for a full week, and in that week I have been to two malls, several restaurants, a ladies night and now… and interview?!?! Yes sir, an interview. I'm sorry... where is my vacation?!?!

A few nights ago I was in a drunken slumber… whoa, that is a lie from the devil! There is NO booze here, people. Hand to heaven, nothing! And nothing makes me feel like an alcoholic like the complete and total absence of it! Ok, let me start over… a few nights ago I was sleeping HARD at 6:30ish (yea baby, I am a senior citizen in training) and Daniel got a phone call from his friend, Ghazi. Ghazi told him he got me an interview for Wednesday with Jazan University’s  Director of English. Apparently Ghazi and this guy are homeboys from way back when, and Ghazi made a call for me, and VIOLA… interview! Wasta!

Let me take a minute and tell you about wasta. Wasta is one of the few Arabic words I know, and every time I tell somebody I know that word, they laugh and say “how do you know wasta?”. Wasta just means that you got the hook up! Holla if you hear me. It means you know someone who can help you. It’s not what you know, it’s who you know kind of thing. Everybody loves wasta and everybody hates wasta. Haters gonna hate! Wasta!

So today was my interview! I was pretty excited and actually felt very progressive feminista girl-power about working in such an male dominated country until I was asked me to pull my scarf over my head. Good Lord, here we go, the men are trying to hold me down! But whatever, I like looking like a refugee, so I did it. (no joke, I love covering my hair with scarves and my reasons have nothing to do with religion. I get that some religions have you cover your head from God, and that is cool for them but I love it because I think it is tres chic! I remember watching Schindler's List and seeing the sad little refugee Jews with scarves over their head and thinking "Yes! Work it girl!" and "Liam Neeson is the greatest man alive!". Then I realized how sad it was and thought, "oh my gosh... at least they look fierce!". And thus my twisted little mind has always believed that a scarf covered head is fantastic! Except for nuns... they still haven't gotten that one cute yet.) 

ANY-way, The interview was supposed to start at 10 and at 10:50 I was still sitting in the waiting area. Lord child. Nothing will work my nerve like not being on time! That is why we schedule appointments, that is why we have clocks, that is why you need to learn a little something called time management.  He was apparently still talking to another interviewee, but that aint my problem. If I ran the world, and obviously I plan to one day, everything would run on schedule. Life would operate like a well oiled train station. Schedule says it is leaving at 10:30, well I hope you are on by 10:29 because in 60 seconds that beast is going to fly out of the station like an underage teenager running from a house party when the cops show up. And for the things we can't always schedule an exact time for, we will go by the -ish  rule. The -ish rule means that you have a 20 minute grace period; so if I say 11-ish, that means you really have until 11:20 to get there and after that you are late and that is rude and therefore you are dead to me! (PS- the interviewee who was holding up my appointment time was a foreign woman and her husband, who looked incredibly intimidated that an American was waiting to go in after them. Awww don't worry mister. Your wifey will get the job. I'm sure she can teach English just as well as I can. Errrr maybe not, but I am 99% sure she is more reserved than me, and Saudis love a good reserved woman. I fall more into the obnoxious American category, so holla!!!!!).

Now it was MY turn!!! I walked into his office and sat down in one of the two chairs that were in front of the desk. That sounds normal, right? Wrong. Normally the chairs in an office face the desk, but not these. These two chairs faced each other like I was about to be on some kind of game show and the guy at the desk was our host. Physically uncomfortable. And to make it even more uncomfortable, I'm sitting there waiting to get the party started while the director and some random guy chatted for a few minutes. I must have been mistaken that you were ready for my interview to start. It's very misleading to say you are ready, invite me to come into your office and then talk to someone like I'm not even in the room.

Basically, the interview eventually starts and the guy speaks perfect English. He goes on the brag about himself and tells me that he recently just finished his Master’s degree in Kansas (he said “I am a Jayhawk.”, to which I practiced perfect restraint in not saying “Well I am a Seahawk beeeeetch!”). We had a very standard interview that started off with, "Why should I hire you?". Ummmmm, because I speaka la English?!?! It almost made me laugh out loud. I am not a legit teacher but I am legit the only native English speaking woman in this city, and he knew that! So how is that even a question? If I needed someone to chop some wood for me and there was only one big burly guy in the city, I wouldn't ask him how is qualified. But whatevs... we went over salary and growth opportunities and long story, short version… he offered me the position! BOOM! Still got it! He told me he “liked my spirit”… translation = you seem just crazy enough for this.

Wasta! Now I just wait for the official offer/contract and we’ll go from there! I am about to climb this corporate Saudi ladder like a spider monkey! Hahaha, but seriously I am excited for the opportunity and I think the students will really like my unstable-self! I am now accepting wacky teaching ideas for the classroom… nothing that will get me arrested... Please and thank you!

this is not what I signed up for

I don't consider myself to be a high maintenance kind of gal. In fact, I can be pretty friggin' gross (with the exception of dental hygiene. Seriously people, there are maybe 3 legit reasons to ever go to bed without brushing your teeth... Being in a hospital, being held hostage by a psycho, or... well I can only think of two, but I am sure there is a third reason out there somewhere.). I don't always shave or do my hair or shower (because it is totally overrated and waste of water), but every once in a while I like something nice. I like to get my hair done (by people who know what the heck they are doing), my nails done (by Asians... yes, that is racist but don't get your panties in a twist. Asians can just do things the rest of the world has not figured out yet. Don't hate, Celebrate!), facials, massages... you get the picture. Well today was one of those days... MASSAGE DAY! 

I love a good massage. A nice relaxing, kumbaya, dig in deep and get those knots out massage. No talking allowed, just crank up that creepy Enya soundtrack and make me drool through the little face hole on the table! I was to have difficulty walking to my car afterwards because my body is too relaxed to properly function. And I thought that is what I was going to get today... but sweet baby Jesus, I was wrong! 

So I go to the spa, which shall remain nameless for reasons you will soon discover, and my masseur comes to the reception area to bring me back to the room. Masseur = boy. Definitely not my preference because a man just doesn't know jack about a woman's body. It's not like I can tell him, "My lower back hurts because I am about to start my period and I hold a lot of tension between my shoulder blades because a carry a purse that is comparable to a midsize dog because it is SUPER cute."... a guy just wouldn't get it. He might say he gets it, but he doesn't; because no matter how gay he is, he will never know the true discomfort of ovulating. But if you tell a girl the same thing, she gets it! Boom, Pow, and her little heaven fingers will go to town on easing my female hell. 

Ok, back to the massage boy... he starts talking to me as we walked back to the room and apparently I seemed really really interested in being friends with him, because he did not shut up for the next hour and fifteen minutes! It went a little like this...

He is about 5'6", 40ish, white trash and gay gay gah-haaaayyyyy! We walk in the room and he sits down on a chair that is in the room. Ummm excuse me sir, don't sit! Now we have an awkward stance going on here. I am not going to hop on the bed and talk to you while you sit on the chair. Get up! He asked me if I had a massage before but did not allow me to answer because somehow the conversation shifted to how he really knows his clients and how much they love him. Ummmm don't care! Get out of here so I can undress, lay down and you can do your job (ewwwww that sounds dirty haha). 10 minutes later, his ego is sufficiently self-inflated enough to leave the room and let me get ready. Finally, silence! 

He comes back in, turns on some meditation tunes and for a moment I had hope that things were going to be normal. False alarm! He starts telling me how he has studied both Western and Eastern massage and even has some experience with chiropractics. That is quite possibly THE WORST thing to hear. Some experience with chiropractics does not make you a chiropractor, so don't try it! POP! Ohhhhh, he tried it! He has lost his mind! Breathe, Brittany. Just breathe. And I probably would have said something had he not bulldozed his way into talking about how he teaching pole dancing lessons in 12 inch heels. #1 - Vomit in my mouth. #2 - 12 inches? That's not even sexy, that is Ringling Brothers circus 'ish! Who are you?!?! He has to know that this is not even close to proper etiquette. People come to a spa to relax and NOT talk. I don't even want to hear you breathe, must less talk! 

Don't worry, he didn't stop at the pole dancing lessons. He proceeded to tell me about all of his travel adventures and how he keeps bringing back prohibited items into the USA, because that's really cool??? Seriously. I mean, seriously?!?! What is wrong with this man-child?!?! This is about the time he is massaging my arms and all of the sudden my arm is pointing straight to the ceiling. What is he doing? "DAMN GIRL! Look at that rock! Does your husband have a brother for me?!?!?". Jesus fix it. He did not just do that. Oh yes he did! This is the longest hour of my life. 

Here comes the finale... he says, "Do you drink a lot of water?"... Ummmm yep, sure do. And all of the sudden I feel his white trash hillbilly hand grab a fist full of my back fat. You know, that really sweet area where your bra sits and women are usually super sensitive about? That is exactly where he grabbed, and he didn't let go! "I can tell you do because if you didn't, I could never grab like this." Holy heavens, get me out of here! I am going to lose my mind on this guy in like 2 seconds. Done! Done! And thank the good God in heaven, we were done. I've had better massages from turbulence on an airplane!

I will never get a massage from there ever again! Never again! I will not be a victim! My body, my choice! And I am not really sure why I felt it necessary to blog about this, but I did. Sooooo yea... that's all for now. K thanks bye! 

If I see one more happy "post", I am going to kill myself!

I once read an article that said Facebook is a trigger for depression. That reading how "much I love my job" and "my husband is the best in the world" and "best vacation of my life" and vomit vomit vomit, actually makes people more depressed. YUUUUPPPP, that ish is true! I mean, I am totally happy that you are living in Pleasantville LaLa Land with Buddy the Elf or whatever but I am two steps away from eating my body weight in Breyers ice cream. And lucky for me it was on sale for Buy-2-get-3-Free, so that threat is a very real possibility!

You are probably thinking, "OMG, what is wrong with Brittany? I thought she was fine. She looks so happy.", so let me save you the wondering and just break it down for you...
- I am a newlywed. I am absolutely crazy about my husband. He is smokin' hott and I intend on acting like newlyweds until the day the good Lord takes me home (if you know what I'm sayin'! yea?!? Yea!!! hahaha I love saying creepy little things like that). But here is where it sucks... he is literally 5,000 miles away from me! It's bullshit (excuse my French - and by "French" I mean my white trash mouth that just says whatever it wants)! I feel like I am internet dating with a really nice ring on my left finger. I mean, I am super grateful for the nerdy geniuses who gave us the magical little World Wide Web, but I aint trying to be the recreate a Match.com commercial... just GIVE ME MY HUSBAND!
- I don't have a job. I have an offer for a job. A process for getting an employment visa that has been going on since February. I have an ulcer from going back and forth with the University I am supposed to work for and the Embassy who is supposed to issue my visa. But no actual purpose for waking up and staying awake and doing anything other than eating a bag of chips on the recliner and watching Bravo all.day.long! ---- now I know there are people reading this thinking, "Oh I wish I could just relax and eat my face off all day everyday." well I am here to tell you that is a slippery slope. Don't go there sister friend! It aint all it's cracked up to be.
- I am living with my parents. I am 26, married and living with my parents. I totally appreciate the free food, laundry services, and luxury amenities... but c'mon... let's revisit the facts... I am 26! Married! and living with my parents! It was cool for like a month, mainly because Daniel was still here and we were traveling a lot, but now I feel a bit like a loser. It might not feel so lame-tastic if this were Europe, where people live with their parents for-ev-er, but this here is North Carolina. People my age and marital status are not tip toeing to bed at 10:30 at night because their parents have been asleep for hours... but this girl is!

Now I'm going to need all of you to pump your brakes before you get all "concerned" and try to set up some sort of intervention. Or worse, you try and give me some "words of encouragement". I am not the girl who responds to a pep talk. I am not really depressed, I am a realist. It's harmless talk/thoughts (thoughts for when I need a filter to avoid going all white girl crazy), it's usually pretty funny and nobody gets hurt. Don't believe me? Here is a perfect play by play for how I react to something going terribly wrong...
The week of my wedding, the girl who was coloring my hair eff'd my ish up BAD! I am talking like 11 hours in the salon to fix it bad.
Hair Lady: "I like the color."
Me Outloud: "Ummmm I see some stripes."
Me In my Head: Holy ish. I am going to cut you. How do you even have a job? You need to be punched in the face! This is my wedding week. WED-DING! 
Hair Lady: "Oh yea. Well I think we can fix it."
Me Outloud: "Yea. It'll be fine. It's ok. It's just hair. I know you can fix it."
Me In my Head: Ohhhhhh girl! I am about to pop off on you and you don't even know! Get me out of this dang chair because if I have to look at the mirror one minute longer I am going to LOSE MY MIND!

See what I mean? Nobody got hurt (physically or emotionally) thanks to my amazing filter and I didn't have to sugar coat anything when giving the play by play of my hair appointment from hell. It would have been so easy for me to just say, "Yea, I got my hair done for the wedding and it looks amazeballs." and not say anything else about it. But #1 - that approximately 98% less dramatic than I prefer, and #2 - I'm not here to sprinkle sugar flowers all over the place. I am here to tell you the raw and super real details of the stankness that life hands out.

So to conclude this little cluster of thoughts... I am not really going to kill myself... at the very most, I will probably just give you a huge eye roll and at the very least, I will tell you that I hate you with my whole life (super dramatic-like Toddlers and Tiara style)! And then laugh and move on. And if you want to make me laugh, join in on the fun. Tell me that you are looking into getting a wig because something or someone makes you want to pull your own hair out and your hair is way too cute for that or that you would rather swim in dinosaur pee than smell your boss's breath that smells like a treasure chest full of buttholes one more day! But seriously people... one more fairytale FB post and I am going to eat myself into a little food coma. Don't test me!  

My first clinic experience (re-post)

Daniel and I are confirming our travel plans to come back to the USA for our wedding (yay! can’t wait!) and a MAJOR part of those plans includes getting our exit/re-entry visas. Daniel is all set for that paperwork to be issued, but I have to get put on to his iqama (residence card) to get permission to come back into the country; and that is where the adventure began…

To get an iqama, you must submit six passport photos and get a series of blood-work done by a Saudi clinic. Sounds quick and painless and easy enough, but do not forget I am in Saudi Arabia. We went to three different photo shops to get pictures made and none of them were open, so we decided let’s just go to the clinic and get that part out of the way. I am expecting to pull up to a hospital-like building; nice, clean, orderly, but what we pull into is literally within spitting distance to a gas pump. Oh hell to the no! I am not trying to get diseased in a medical clinic! But it’s not like I really had a choice. I had to get this blood-work taken care of as soon as possible otherwise I won’t get able to get my re-entry visa, and I am not doing a long distance marriage.

So we walk inside this clinic and I almost died. I looked at Daniel and just laughed, “Are you kidding me?!?!”. It was filthy and run-down and I was positive I was contracting some sort of communicable disease. The girls at the reception desk did not speak any English so that led Daniel and I playing charades to let them know I needed somebody to take my blood; classic. We walked down the hall and stopped in front of the “spectacular” filing system that was displayed on the wall. It was a joke. I could feel my OCD kicking in because I suddenly had a huge desire to take the ratty folders that were hanging out of the wall shelving and just fix it. Oh Jesus, just fix it! The good news was their machine that tests the blood was broken and we needed to go to a different clinic. On to the next one!

The next clinic was much better. Much cleaner, much newer, much better. The receptionist spoke broken English, I smiled a lot and somehow we managed to communicate the reason I was there and get all of my paperwork completed. Then came trouble… trouble came to me in the form of a female Indian Yokozuna. Not familiar with Yokozuna? Remember the show in the 90′s, Dinosaurs? “Not the mama! I’m the baby, gotta love me!”… yep, that was this girl, in the flesh!

She took my paperwork and asked me a few questions and then girlfriend was ready to take the blood. No gloves, to test tube to collect the blood in, no nothing… but she was ready! And apparently so was my audience. Two Saudi men were watching this whole interaction go down and as soon as the monster stabbed my arm, their jaws dropped to the floor. Now it hurt a little bit having that needle go in and it wasn’t particularly comfortable as the blood was being suctioned out of my arm, but I hadn’t felt the pain yet! My walrus of a “nurse” decided she had enough blood and apparently she was in a hurry to get me out of there because simply pulling the needle out slowly in the same hole it went in was not an option. The sumo-sized Indian literally ripped the needle out of my arm thus causing me to scream out loud in this Muslim country, “Dear Jesus! Holy God!”! What a freaking hooker! She passed me a cotton ball, that I bled straight through, and sent me on my way. She maimed my arm and all I got was a cotton ball?!?! I bee-lined out of the closet-like room I was in and ran straight to Daniel… crying! No joke, I was laughing because I couldn’t believe that just happened and I was crying because Shamu just sliced my arm open.

Daniel’s face was priceless. You don’t expect your significant other to come out of a room where you were just getting a simple blood sample, crying! And he handled it like any good hubby would; he made fun of the nurse, held my purse for me and made me laugh all the way home. What a nightmare! I am just praying daily that I won’t ever get legit sick here because I am not confident they could handle me. The only people I have seen working in the clinics are Indian and Filipino… are either of those countries known for their excellent healthcare? Yea I don’t think so. Oh mercy, I am so traumatized, Jesus take the wheel!

Let's play bumper cars, but with the real thing! (re-post)

Here is a random piece of trivia for you… Car accidents are the leading cause of death in Saudi Arabia. Don’t believe me? Come on over and see how these people drive. It.is.insane! So from the moment I first got into a car here in Saudi, I knew I would inevitably be involved in at least one accident while I am here. I’m not scared of accidents; I’m actually a car accident survivor extrordinaire. My first car accident was when I was in high school; my older sister was driving, I was in the front seat, boom, pow, totaled car, ER, blah blah blah. Since then, I have been involved in the totaling of  at least 5 cars and that was all before the age of 22. (Side note – in the soundtrack of my life I am currently playing a mashup of Destiny’s Child “Survivor” and Carrie Underwood “Jesus Take the Wheel”, and it is amazing!)

So yesterday we were on our way to see the Jazan Dam. It is freakishly close to Yemen so I was already mentally prepared for insanity, but I had no idea I would encounter the drama before we could get to our destination. Long story, short version; we were sitting in the left lane at a stop light & homeboy to our right decided that he wanted to make a u-turn in front of us! I know, sounds bizarre, so just take a minute and process it. And then take another minute to realize that people pull that move all the time over here. Now take one last minute and imagine my face when he hit us… WTF buddy?!?!

We all pulled over to the side of the road and we were promptly greeted by a group of nosey Ethiopians who wanted to get all up in our biz-nasty. The Saudi who hit us looks at the car and says “Ok. No problem. I go.” to which I promptly responded with “Wrong. This is a big problem. You stay!”. The man didn’t speak English so I was basically just saying that to Daniel and about half of the Ethiopians, but I didn’t care… I was fired up! I guess my outburst embarrassed Daniel because he told me I needed to calm down, which made me a heartbeat away from loosing my mind. I cannot stand when somebody tells me to calm down or stop stressing or just let it go… it’s like, I hear what they are saying, but I begin to have an out of body experience and I transform into Teresa from The Real Housewives of New Jersey “prostitution whore!!!!”. 

Well, the next bit was just a blur because I am pretty sure I almost blacked out from the rush of adrenaline and mid-day desert heat combo. The police came, Daniel’s friend came to help translate, we all went to the police station and we got a report saying the Saudi man was at fault. We then continued our journey and attempted to find the dam. After getting unnecessarily close to Yemen, we called off the search and retreated back to town and went to McDonalds where I continued being a stereotypical American. I was conned into super-sizing my value meal so that I could get a Coca-Cola Olympic tribute glass (USA! USA! USA!). I love the Olympics and I love Coca-Cola glasses, so basically the choice made itself.

Blood Drive Lovin' (re-post)

Daniel and I went to the mall last night for a little coffee/dessert date. It was casual and cute and relaxing… and then we passed the blood drive station that was set up in the middle of the mall. #1 – How awkward?!? Why in the world do they have this set up inside the mall? #2 – How sketchy?!?! Like all other medical set-ups I’ve seen here, this does not seem very clean. There are blood splatters on the tile floors, I see a half empty bag of blood behind one of the recliners and there is just an open cooler that they are putting the blood in. Red Cross would not approve of this set up at all!

Well, my sweet husband is too darn nice to walk by a blood drive and not feel compelled to give, so we stopped and before I knew it he was filling out his information on a donor’s sheet. This is insane! What is happening here?!?! Is he really going to do this?!?! I would sooner die than have somebody stick me with a giant needle in the middle of a blood spattered station in the middle of a mall! Especially after my last experience I had with the walrus nurse! No way, not happening… and then it happened… they second classed me!

Here in Saudi, men reign supreme. It’s a cultural thing, but (in my expert super feminist opinion) it stems of insecurity of the men. The more modern thinking progressive men are not threatened by women making their own decisions or driving or working, but it is the old school fellas who make me want to claw my eyes out. So while Daniel is filling out his form, one of the men says “Just you, not your wife.”… Ummmm excuse me sir... you tryin' to fight me sir?!?! Let me tell you what you can do with that macho comment... You can suck it buddy! It’s on now! Sign my butt up because I am giving you a bag of my blood even if that means I have to suck it out myself! And thus my first Saudi Arabian blood drive experience began…

Daniel filled out the form for me and the nurse-man asked if we were healthy. No joke, that was his exact question, "Are you healthy?". Good to know that is the baseline for being able to donate blood here. And then came a language barrier… the nurse-man asked “Are you administration?”, to which I replied with “No, I am not working.”. I guess that isn’t what he meant because he asked again and again and again. FINALLY I figured out that he was talking about menstruation! Homie, there is a BIG difference between administration and menstruation! That is a word you really cannot afford to interchange. Regardless, I informed him that I am not bleeding from my love tunnel and moved on… or so I thought. Nope, Mr. Nosey McNosey wanted to know if I was pregnant! WTF you jerk! I am not pregnant… I am just fat… and I am wearing an Abaya that doesn't exactly provide a slimming effect!

So now that I am officially insulted,  I go to my unsanitary lounger and give the guy my arm to stab and pump out some blood. Daniel is finishing his bag and the same nurse-man walks over to my lounger and starts picking on me! “Did you cry?”… No I didn’t cry! I am a woman, a WO-MAN! I was built to push out a watermelon through a lemon hole; I am pretty sure I can give blood at your unsanitary station. Daniel comes over and the nurse-man completes his string of ridiculous comments by telling Daniel that he needs to carry me out to the car when I am done. He tells him it would be nice and that he would carry his wife, but his wife is too fat to lift! WHO SAYS THAT?!?! This guy officially needed to by punched in the face! Thank God I am done with my bag… we need to go!

They took out my needle, bandaged me up and then stood in front of me with my blood bag and a pen asking me what blood type I was. #1 – I don’t know. #2 – Is that what yall do? You just take someone’s word that they are a certain blood type? Test it! Please Jesus, I pray I never need a blood transfusion in this country! I am seriously sketched out. But, we did a good deed and contributed to saving some Saudi lives. So bravo to us, but next time we go out of coffee, I just want coffee!

Guest Bloggin' (re-post)

I was a guest blogger for my dear friend, Denise, a few months ago and recently I had the opportunity to do it all again… so I did! Denise and I have a friendship that is easy and natural. She is one of those people that you can go months or years without talking to, and then everything just falls back into rhythm when you see each other again. I’ve learned that those are the friendships that mean the most and last the longest and I am eternally grateful. Denise is also one of the most beautiful women I have ever met and I can’t even hate her for being so pretty because she has the kindest soul that is just infectious. She decided to do a series of posts from her friends about “What I have learned since I said I do” and the advice her friends have given is so perfect for a newlywed, like myself, and great reminder for those couples with a little more tenure! Check out her blog http://gratefullyinspiredtheblog.blogspot.com; I promise it will make you smile and you will feel like Denise has been your friend forever. Here was my post…

I’ve only been married for a little over a month, so when Denise asked me if I would want to write about what I’ve learned since “I do” I just laughed. Advice is supposed to come from people with lots of experience and time tested theories, right?!?! Wrong! Lucky for yall I am extremely opinionated and always pumped to share my point of view. In a nutshell, what I’ve learned since I’ve said “I do” is that IT.GETS.REAL!

My husband and I live in Saudi Arabia and it is just a mess over here. The desert aint no joke sista; it is H-O-T-T hot! I’m talking like a daily heat index of 125 degrees. So while most newly-weds are busy nesting and practicing their baby making skills, I am literally laying on the tile floor in a pool of sweat because our air conditioner has broken for the millionth time and I am convinced I am going to die of a heat stroke! That’s right, you can just call me The Sexy Wifey a.k.a it just got real.

This is a country where the food can be questionable at best. There have been quite a few date nights that have been cut short because one of us have suddenly lost all color in our face and began sweating profusely. The race home is always an exciting fight for your life as we dodge the wreckless drivers on these no-rules-roads (seriously driving laws basically do not exists here), and !BONUS! once we get home we are reminded of our lack of privacy. We live in an apartment that has one bathroom, so guess what?!?! it.gets.real.

I think the first moment I realized how real it really is was when we were unpacking our bags in Saudi and Daniel opened my suitcase to find 80 tampons; he was horrified and I loooooved it! I thrive on awkward moments. Not the awkward moments that hurt somebody’s feelings, but the moments that bring in a physical uncomfortable-ness that leaves you teetering on laughing or running as far away as possible. I still laugh out loud when I think about his reaction, “Who needs that many?!?!”. Ummm this girl does because True Life: I live in a country that does not sell them! Poor Daniel, he just found out that it.gets.real.

But getting real is what makes this journey a lot of fun. It’s not all about the tragic (a.k.a. hilarious) moments of life; there are the sweet moments too. Like when he prays for me or when he is talking to his friends or family and casually refers to me as his wife or when he grabs me for a random slow dance in the kitchen… that stuff is sweet, but the real stuff is funny! And I fully admit that I live for the surge of fear and adrenaline that runs through my veins when I realize, “Holy moly… I am married… legally bound… ‘till death do us part… grow old with me… make some babies… living in Saudi Arabia… married!”, is what keeps it fresh and it is definitely what keeps me laughing.

“Sexiness wears thin after a while, and beauty fades. But to 
be married to a man who makes you laugh every day, ah, 
now that’s a real treat.” -Joanne Woodward

Like a BOSS! (re-post)

I am a big fan of being intentional. With that being said, this whole post could now go one of two ways. Option #1 – super sweet and heartfelt Hallmark card-esque. And if that were the case, I would say things like “don’t take advantage of the people who are in your life; be intentional about those relationships.” blah blah blah. And while I think that is all super important, I think those kind of pep talks should come from someone like a pastor or Oprah or the Dalai Lama… and because I am none of the above I will give you my point of view of what being intentional is.

Be intentional… Brittany Style! Step #1 – changing the phrase. I like to say it with a little more sass and swag, so take “be intentional” and swing it with a little flare to sing out, “Like a BOSS!”… trust me, you will feel like a boss and being a boss feels ah-may-zing! Step #2 – develop your signature facial expression. You should be able to scream “Like a BOSS!” without uttering a single word. My signature facial expression consists of a steady smeyze (smile with your eyes), a half joker smile with puckered lips and a little head nod. LIKE.A.BOSS!

Now that we are up to speed on that, let me enlighten you on everyday situations you can handle like a boss…

- Over Eating: Don’t ever feel bad about eating an entire tub of ice cream ever again. You ate that ish because you wanted to and you finished it because it was darn good. So when you scrape the bottom of that carton and realize that you just smashed 80 million calories in a single episode of Grey’s Anatomy, be proud and announce to the room (even if it is just you and your cat) “LIKE.A.BOSS!”. Boom! You just took control of that situation and bossed what could’ve been a complete melt down of tears and guilt into a victorious moment… and I am proud of you.

- Going #2 in public: It happens to everyone and I am here to tell you, it’s ok! We shouldn’t shame ourselves or others about dropping a stank bomb. Do you have any idea how bad it is for you to hold that stuff in?!?! We are talking about serious medical problems. So next time you are in a public restroom and you hear someone doing work in the stall next to you, don’t laugh or gag or talk to your girl friend about how bad it smells… just give that stall door a high five and encourage your fellow female by saying “Yes mam! LIKE.A.BOSS!”. And then walk out… quickly! Once the poop is verbally recognized, face to face contact should not be made. Awkward! —- And if you are the pooper and you happen to catch eyes with a co-bathroom goer while you are washing your hands, do not say a word! Speaking only invites the kind of awkwardness that ends in uncontrollable laughter. And while I appreciate these kind of insanely uncomfortable moments, not everyone does, so have some respect and use your signature “LIKE.A.BOSS!” facial expression… and once again, exit the bathroom quickly! I am not a fan of engaging in any kind of bathroom activity with strangers for more than 10 seconds. You never know what kind of George Michaels freak could be in there.

- Staring: I hate when people stare at me and then look away when they think I caught them. You aren’t doing me any favors by doing that. You look embarrassed and I am left wondering “what was that about?”. If you are going to stare, stare hard; stare LIKE.A.BOSS! If I am going to stare at you, it is because something caught my attention and I am not going to look away until my curiosity is satisfied. I don’t care if it is awkward for the person I am staring at; I am usually staring because there is something awkward about them. I’m going to stare at you like a boss until I can figure out what the heck is going on. And if you want to get on your sassy-horse and ask me a dumb-ass question like “What are you staring at?”, I will let you know. “I’m trying to figure out how much hairspray you used to get your teased mess of a weave to sit like that on your misshapen head. Fascinating!”. Try me, trick! Trick, try me! So when you stare, I encourage to stare LIKE.A.BOSS!

I could literally go on forever about doing things like a boss, but I won’t keep you all day. I realize that most of you are reading this while sitting at your work computer and that your boss can, and probably will, come around the corner at anytime and realize you are wasting “valuable” company time. So when he/she asks you what you are doing, I want you to keep this blog up on your computer screen, turn around slowly in your chair, stare at him/her LIKE.A.BOSS and say, “You look great today! Have you been working out? I am going to get some coffee, can I get you something too?”. Stand up, smile and walk away quickly. They won’t have a chance to slam you for wasting company time (thus saving your job… honestly, nobody likes unemployment), they definitely won’t have time to tell you if they want coffee (thus saving your dignity… you aren’t their servant), and all they’ll be able to remember is that you complimented them and left them smiling… LIKE.A.BOSS!

Smile Giiiirl --- (re-post... deal with it)

If you ever see me in person, I am usually smiling. I have huge teeth, I am a huge fan of oral hygiene and I love to show off what my twice a day brushing, flossing and mouth washing has provided me. When I run I… whoa whoa whoa! I almost lied to yall! I DO NOT run (unless I am being chased… and that is only after a fair assessment that the chaser could kill me.)! Let's try that again... when I walk, I breathe with my mouth open in a not-quite-full smile, but definitely smiley enough that people will always smile back and say hello. I blame the smile-breathing on dancing. When I danced (and I am not talking about in a club or on a pole you sicko!) I quickly learned the best way to get through two and a half minutes of a high energy, crowd pleasing, physically friggin’ exhausting routine  while caked with as much makeup and hairspray on me as the entire hair and beauty section in Walmart, is to breathe! But nobody wants to watch a tired heifer on stage huffing and puffing right?!?! Right! My dance teacher always said “make it look easy”… hence my smile-breathing was born.

Now don’t get it twisted. Just because I appear to be constantly smiling does not mean I am just one big ball of sunshine. If you could hear what is going on in my head, you.would.die! I’ve always said that if I actually said everything I was thinking I would have no friends. And while sometimes I've flirted with the idea of unleashing the fury that stirs in my head and dealing with living a life in solitude, I usually restrain myself. However, I've been known to occasionally let a comment slip out every now and again to sort of “test” the reaction of my audience. I need a way to know how sensitive my friends (or potential friends) are and their reaction is a great way to get an immediate reading of how long we will be friends. And let's be honest... 87% of people do not make the cut.

This is basically the way I rate them… If I let something fly out of my mouth filter-free and they look scared, they might as well hit the road because we are clearly not going to make it. Just because I say I am going to kill myself, doesn't really mean I am going to kill myself; get your panties out of a bunch sista! If they smile awkwardly, I give them one more chance to prove they don’t have a stick shoved all the way up their arse. But it is seriously only one more chance. Life is just too short. If they laugh out loud and say “oh my gosh”, then I just smile because I know that they are thinking the same thing I just said, and that makes my heart happy to know that they are a little sick-in-the-head too (these people are one of my two favorite kind of friends). But the final reaction is my absolute FAVORITE!!!! These are the ones who don’t skip a beat and say the very next thing that is in my head without hesitation (usually straight faced or with a total fake CoverGirl smile… totally Mean Girls style!)… this is girl friend SOUL MATE status!

This doesn’t make me or them bad people… it makes us HILARIOUS! It takes a certain sense of humor to make me really laugh, and these type of friends just do it for me. I know you might be thinking… what kind of Southern white girl/Sunday school teacher/smile-centric person finds people like this. Your answer is… THIS GIRL! Life is a bit messy and annoying and a little disastrous... and if you can't make a joke and laugh about it, then it is going to be a bore of a journey for you. I literally have some of the best girlfriends who make me laugh constantly at their sick sense of humor. It’s like having Miranda (from Sex and the City… and yes, I do talk about Sex and the City characters like they are real people) around 24/7, and I love it! So here is where I say "Thank you" to  all of the sickos who keep my smile more than just a vain attempt to show off my pearly whites or a unconscious breathing exercise… Thaaaaaanks! 

Ummmmm Hi?!?!?

Ummmmm... Hi?!?! Brittany here. I looooove introductions; like, I LIVE for them. They are almost always awkward and super creepy and they leave me with a ridiculous large grin on my face (think Joker-esque) and me singing "awwwwwkk-waaaaard". I wish I could give you an introduction of myself that I LIVE to hear from other people, but I am a firm believer that awkwardness is not something that can be faked. It is a real and raw and locational (you have to be there), and without creepy body language and an uncomfortable amount of eye contact, I don't think I could pull it off. But don't you worry, I vow to share with you as many of my life's awkward encounters (without being disowned by my family and friends) as possible. It isn't always pretty (nothing ever is... and if you think it is, I want/need whatever drug you are one... and if you aren't on a drug, then you are just a liar, and not the fun kind of liar that makes me laugh, the really pointless kind of liar who needs to be shot in the love tunnel - ouch!)... so just hang on tight, keeps your hands and feet inside this crazy train at all times, because here.we.go!

Name: Brittany 

(B, Britt, B-Ritt, Brittany B*tch, Encyclopedia Brittanica, Ella, Lil' B, Brittany Bullfrog, Sugar, Peanut Butter... and I am sure there are a A LOT more that are used behind my back... say it to my face! say it to my face!!!)

Nationality: 'Murikan 

(that's "American" for all of you non-Southerners)

Country of Residence: Saudi Arabia

(not even close to lying)

Relationship Status: Married 

(finally got one to take the bait!)

Thoughts to live by: Love Others, Laugh Always, and Keep it Real

Sooooo I've been contemplating on whether or not I really wanted to blog publicly or not for like a while now. I've actually had a blog, for maybe a year-ish, that I have sent to family and some friends so I could kind of test the waters on whether I am clever enough to actually engage the general public... turns out I am friggin' awesome, or at least that is what everyone has brainwashed me into believing. (Side note - I do not think my "material" is blog appropriate. Aren't blogs supposed to be uplifting or instructional or something at least the slightest bit useful? This isn't. This blog is not going to give you any helpful tips for getting the best ass of your life (although, if anyone has a link to a blog like that I would be TOTALLY interested), or tell you what you should eat to lose 10 effin' vanity pounds (seriously, if all you need to lose is 10 pounds you are fine! Fine and probably annoying as shit to all of your fat friends who have to hear you bitching about it all day when they can barely roll out of their car because their booty-do (when your tummy sticks out more than your booty do) is pressing them against the steering wheel so hard, it has created a vacuum seal). It's more like a hodge podge of hott mess on a stick; eat up beeeeeches!) So here I am, putting it all out there, like Janet Jackson at the Superbowl Halftime Show, like Britney Spears who, for so long, could not figure out how to get out of a car without showing her entire YaYa to the world... bottom line, take it or leave it (and if there is a Sweet Baby Jesus in this world, you will take it!) annnnnd because chances are you are not as epic as Janet or Britney, always wear under garments.