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!