May 5, 2008

Apparently, this wait is making me a bit delusional because I’ve done something entirely crazy and inappropriate.

I’ve registered for school. I’m going back to school. I’m gettin me an edumacation. Fancy that.

But Jamie. You are adopting a child, you will soon have TWO disease-spreading, grimey, loud-mouthed short stacks running around your house and through your head, screaming banshee-like chants that will leave your brain feeling like mush by about 10 am every day. Do you not realize that your brain can barely press play on the tivo at night, let alone study algorithms and juxtaposed sentences?

Well, there is that.

I plan to counteract this decay of my brain by drinking lots of Tahitian Noni Juice and forcing myself, in all my snot-streaked glory, to the classroom whereupon which I will staple my eyelids open and slip a smart girl a 20 for her notes. (Was Tahitian Noni Juice all the rage where you lived too? Cure cancer, liver disease, flat feet and a lazy eye…. ringing a bell? Well, let me tell you, it was quite the miracle potion here in Mormon-land for a long time, maybe it still is, I’m out of the loop these days).

The thing is, I finally have the motivation and drive to go back to school. So I’m going with it. Because who knows when this feeling, this feeling of optimism, ideal and positive outlook, who knows when this will hit me again. I feel smart right now, like I could be smart, like there is this possibility of being smart. And I feel ready. I figure I best do something rash like enroll in school before my body (or my mind, whichever is playing this awful trick on me) realizes what has happened.

Plus, now that Mike is done (next week) I’m thinking it’s HIS turn to put MY arse through school. That’s what I’m talking about. MMmmm-hmmmm.

It’s not that I didn’t want an education before, I enjoy learning and of course I wanted a degree, I just didn’t know what in. What did I want to study? I was petrified that I would either A. waste my time studying something I would eventually loathe or B. waste my time studying something that would turn into ZERO job opportunities for me. Which is maybe why I avoided the whole inner-mind altercation and did things like enroll in 20 dance classes my first year of college.

So when I started this quest a couple months ago, I explored all options. What did I want to do. What were my options. What could I see myself doing. And I asked friends and family these questions as well. I got all kinds of responses back. Be a Nurse. A Wedding Planner. Be a Dental Hygienist. Get a Business Degree. Be a Flight Attendant. A Politician. A French Teacher. All of which I really put thought to and strongly considered. These and many more. I think my problem was that I could see myself doing any of these things, in fact, I would switch professions every year if I could! Be a Sheepherder for a year and then pack it in and be a Researcher for the next.

But then I watched Oprah, that job intervention show and realized I was thinking about it all wrong. I needed to be thinking about what my strengths were, what I was good at, and what I enjoyed doing.

That’s when I stumbled on the Journalism section of the catalog and realized that every single class offered within the program was a class I would LOVE to take. And that’s how I knew this was what I wanted to study. FINALLY. Journalism, who knew? Sheez.

So, I’m off and away to conjure up the courage to walk amongst 19 year olds and fight for parking. Buy notebooks and pens that say GO BRONCOS! Spend a disgustingly large amount of money on books and feel tired, even more tired, all the time. To take tests when I don’t want to and do assignments I don’t want to. To suck up to Teachers and pretend I don’t want to stab other students in the eye with that new Broncos pen. Oh the joy. But I’m ready.

Wish me luck. Here’s to studying Journalism.

And then I was kind of sort of thinking of trying for Law School after that. The End.

April 22, 2008

I used 5 heaping handfuls of conditioner and half a bottle of leave in treatment and STILL managed to pull out a pounds worth of my product-saturated hair. I measured the hairball. And after I measured the hairball, I grabbed a hatchet and chopped off my feet. Because I KNEW THEY WOULD FEEL BETTER ONCE I DID.

I’m back from Vegas ya’ll!

More later.

March 21, 2008

I finally had my appointment with the blasted lights people. The evil techie trolls that they are.

I don’t know why I put things like this off for so long. I have no explanation. Sometimes, I am a champion of efficiency, a can decimate a to-do list like a frickin SPARTAN when I want to. And then other times, I don’t know, it’s like I turn into a child again. It reminds me of when I was a teenager and my Mom would ask me things like “Did you get gas in your car yet?” or “Did you wash your outfit for tomorrow yet?” or “Did you brush your teeth yet?” and I’d sit there in my bathrobe and sigh. No Mom, I’m waiting to do all those things, okay? I want to be mad about them later, and then blame it on you, alright?

And the really funny thing is that it’s still happening. My Mom would come over here and be all “So, your lights are still crazy” and I’d be all “Ya” and then she’d say something like “Don’t you have the number for the people who can fix it?” Yes. But you still haven’t fixed it? No Mom, I’m waiting to fix the lights, okay? It gives me something to direct my anger towards. If I FIX the lights, MOM, I might be forced to evaluate what I’m REALLY mad about. And that’s annoying, to talk about feelings. I don’t do feelings, Mom.

Have I mentioned I’m the daughter of a Psychologist?

So aaaaaanyway. After enough time had elapsed that I felt my marriage and family life had suffered a substantial and significant amount of time due to the motion controlled rave lights I refused to fix, I called and made the appointment with the techie trolls. The ghastly incompetent tech bots that they are.

The Receptionist that made the appointment for me asked “And what are we going to be doing for you at this appointment?” and by the end of my incessant rambling response in which I probably offered WAY too much information, she wrote three words down on the work order. Make. It. Stop. And probably made a little side note for the Employee to take along the company tranquilizer.

A couple days go by and every time the lights go on or off by themselves, it’s mixed response of either elation of soon-to-come revenge upon the lights and at the same time, sadness. Sadness, knowing that they would be dead soon at my expense. I didn’t necessarily want them dead, I just maybe wanted them to go live in a different house. That’s all.

Nevertheless, the Techie Troll came. The senseless and incompetent Hitman that he was. I knew it would be a long, drawn out appointment when the guy asked me to sit down so he could go over all the endless possibilities that his company offers. Even after reading his note that all I wanted were normal lights, he still felt I needed to know all about what I was missing out on. And apparently, this lights company, they’re serious about lights. They are a home automation company. Smart lights that aren’t really smart, if you will.

This guy from the home automation company, I had to offer him a glass of water half way through. He was appearing parched after 30 minutes, and counting, of detailing the endless possibilities. It wasn’t just lights, people, it was programs to benefit and protect your life. Lights that dim during a candlelight dinner? Simply press 367! Lights that stay on for 2 minutes? 10 minutes? Excellent! Simply enter 429! Want a beep when the garage door is open? Want a beep when the power goes out? Want the front porch lights to turn themselves on and off with the longitudes and latitudes of the earth’s sunsets and sunrise? Want to call in to your house and open the garage? Or turn off your lights? Want your house to call YOU if the lights are on? Want your house to call you on an anniversary? Want your house to dump buckets of formaldehyde on the Missionaries at your door? No problem!

That was mean. My husband was a Missionary once. He would have had to pedal his little bicycle home in formaldehyde while listening to the Mormon Tabernacle Choir on his walkman.

After repeatedly telling this Dude, no, all I wanted were perfectly normal, average, run of the mill lights and that I didn’t want a robot running my house, he nearly accepted defeat. But after seeing his pitiful face all gloomy and grim like that, I caved and told him “Fine, WHATEVER, give me auto porch lights, alright?” He happily programmed our fancy porch lights to come on at sunset and turn off a couple hours later and seemed content knowing that his time and glorified techie powers were not COMPLETELY wasted on me and my useless nincompoop self.

And as he was leaving, he asked one more time. Am I SURE I don’t want to add multitudes of thousands of dollars to the value of my home by programming the robot to run our lives? And I finally had to be all, Listen Man, it’s just not for me, okay? Nothing personal. (I was thinking to myself, Seriously, this guy takes his job WAY too seriously) and I kicked him out of my house. TWO HOURS after he arrived.

What is WITH people, right?

Then as he was walking out to his techie transmitter van, I glanced at the card he left me on the counter. It said “Techie Troll Man” and below that it said “Owner - Techie Troll Company”.

Aw, man! He was the OWNER!

How sad is that? I felt terrible. I felt like running after him, giving him a big hug and saying “Keep your chin up, Troll. There are lots of people out there who like this crap, okay? You win some, you lose some. I’m sorry, I could have programmed the lights to come on when the Fridge opened or something. That was rude.”

And then I would have said, “Okay but SERIOUSLY, you have got to send some of your techie spawn next time! YOU don’t get come! YOU are the OWNER!”

How dare they guilt me like this? I’m not supposed to do feelings.

March 19, 2008

You’ll be THRILLED to know that I have been to the all knowing and wise American Idol Guru again.

I know. Be still. I come to pass on his wisdom.

BAAAAAASICALLY, we all can’t wrap our big internet arms around the cute Irish girl with the rockin pipes because the Guru says Scary Blue Eyes gives off a yellowish-green aura which indicates that she feels as though she deserves to win the show. And nobody likes a deservy-show-winner.

Elaborate?

Let’s.

It’s not as fun to watch someone accept praise by going “I WAS JUST ABOUT TO SAY THE SAME THING!!!” than watching, say, David Archuletta or Jason Castro who nearly stutter themselves off the stage with all their goofy, awkward likeable-ness. Watching one makes you cheer and watching the other makes you feel like you don’t need to cheer, the contestant already loves themself some self enough, they don’t need your cheers. Cheers are way more fun to give to someone who will blink excessively and make squampous facial expressions in front of 130 million people.

I still like her. And when she hits those big notes, it really does give me chills. The Ladies just aren’t doing it for me this season.

A little lady who DOES do it for me, is this one:

I give you: The after-cut.

It’s not nearly as scary in these pictures as it was in real life.

But see how she puts her fist up by her mouth like that when she is embarrassed or shy? It’s quite possibly the cutest thing ever to happen on earth. Cuter than that baby Panda. Cuter, even, than Justin Timberlake in the Mickey Mouse Club.

She’s doing it again here. She was, quite visibly, disturbed about the whole thing. Especially since she was, like, totally stoked about her chop until her psycho, lame MOM came in to ruin everything.

So, there you are. Once again, the two most important things in my life wrapped into one post. My kid and tv. Another valuable discussion here at the Battle Station. Class adjourned. You’re welcome.

edited to add: So now I feel bad because Irish was in the bottom three. And so now I like her again. Not that I didn’t like her before. But I kind of didn’t. But now I do, more so than the little I did. Damn you American Idol. You musn’t play with my emotions this way!

March 5, 2008

You guys, thanks for the love. I love the internet. I got some awesome emails. One in particular was from Mel and contained within it the most beautiful gift. Pictures of another child with the same mangled butch cut and big sad cry eyes. Mel said, “I have always saved these pictures because I KNEW someday I would be able to help comfort another victim of toddler scissor hair.”

Another awesome email, I loved this, it said that when SHE pulled those kinds of shenanigans as a child, then SHE would be forced to go under the scissor herself. That’s right. Delaney’s cousin should have to sport the scrimpy crop as well.

Which, don’t get me wrong, the idea made me laugh. A really evil laugh reminiscent of Cruella DeVille, envisioning Delaney’s cousin being strapped into a chair, squirming and me coming at her golden locks with a pair of freshly sharpened scissors.

BUT. That’s a little excessive. And she’s four. So that also makes it weird. In addition to that, I don’t think she would even know why it was happening. Just like you can’t punish a puppy for pooping on the carpet 3 hours ago, too much time has passed, the puppy doesn’t get it. So it would be in the case of the Lock Amputator. That sort of thing has to happen directly within the moment of the action as a sort of natural progression. You cut my child’s hair, you get cut. Boom, right away, like that. But alas, it was not so. Sadly, my first instinct isn’t to lash out at my four year old niece. Damn.

The pictures do exist of those first fateful moments after the incident but unfortunately they are on my sister’s camera and for those of you who know my sister, you know that I will never see those pictures again because my sister, she suffers from an incurable, devastating disease known as “Erratic Follow Through Syndrome”. But we love her in spite of this.

So in light of not being able to show you the sad, dismal and dreary pictures of her tattered hair, I can show you what it looks like now. So, here we go.

From the front:

From the side:

From the back:

Pretty stinkin cute, right?

I mean, aside from some crazy sparse bang action on the right side, it looks somewhat like a hairdo a parent would pay another adult hair stylist person to do. Am I right?

Delaney is still loving it, if the pictures don’t already give you any indication of that. And as long as she’s happy, I’m happy. Except when an Applebees’ waitress asks what “HE would like off the children’s menu”. That doesn’t make me happy. Because when I was about Delaney’s age, my Mom did ON PURPOSE AS AN ADULT to me what Delaney’s cousin did to her except my “hairdo” had a tail. A TAIL of hair coming down my neck. (Pause here while I barf) Needless to say, it was the most DISGUSTING thing to ever happen to me and I still haven’t forgiven her for it.

Where was I going with that? Right, I was called a boy all the time and it really messed up my whole entire life. I, to this day, remember exactly the whole scenario when another Mother at the park called me a little “boy, or girl or child.” You don’t forget these things. I just don’t want Delaney’s life to be ruined forever.

And that’s all I have to say about that.

February 25, 2008

I would say that one of my best attributes and one of my worst attributes is the same attribute. It’s that I am incredibly naive and trusting of people. Like, too much so. To the point that I am going to be screwed over time and time again in the span of my life until I’m an 85 year old Ninny who hits people with her walker.

I feel it’s a positive in that I typically give people the benefit of the doubt and never rush to judgment. Unless, of course, you are sporting one of those “I hate women” or “I hate gay people” or “I hate puppies” shirts and I suppose in that case, the judging would ensue. But even then, I’m still nice. I just assume that you don’t know anything. And that’s sad, so I feel sorry for you. Plus, you have a REALLY ugly shirt.

I feel it’s a negative attribute in that I get screwed over. And it takes me about 3 days longer to figure out that I have been screwed over than the average human being. A lot can happen in 3 days. You know?

The other day I got a call on my cell that was an area code “210″ number. This is not an Idaho number or any number I recognize from out of state either. I answer and wouldn’t you know it? It was a SCAM ARTIST! A real live one. The call went like this:

Hello, Ms. Battle Station?

Yes.

This is Mr. Buttface McGoo calling from the Idaho Statesman Newspaper.

Okay.

I’m calling because it looks like you recently canceled with our service (this is TOTALLY true, btw) and we would like to offer you a great deal to get you back on subscription with us.

Well shucks! That sounds fantastic Mr. Buttface McGoo! Tell me more!

Well, Ms. Battle Station, we would offer you an introductory rate of only $1.00 an issue AND we will waive your unpaid bill!

Uh. Hold up there Partner. We have an unpaid bill?

Yes, Ma’am, it looks as though you do. An unpaid bill of $46.38.

You don’t say?

But Ma’am, we can waive that unpaid bill for you and get you all set up again with our Newspaper if you can give me your credit card information.

Well I’m just confused about the unpaid bill. Let me have you talk to my husband. He pays the bills.

Mike: Hello? We don’t have an unpaid bill. We are paid in full. And we don’t want to renew our subscription. Thank you bye.

I was all, but BABE! Are you sure?! You just hung up on poor Mr. Buttface! He said he would give us a great deal!

So, then Mike decides he should call back just to be TRIPLE sure that our bill was paid in full and wouldn’t you know it? The number didn’t go through when we called back. And when we called the Idaho Statesman, the REAL Idaho Statesman, they had no record of calling us and still showed us paid in full.

The rat bastard had me fooled. And I was pretty mad about it. How dare he! The GALL! To be a scam artist is one thing but to call and try to scam ME! Well that was another.

Mike did some research and entered the number onto Google. Apparently, this number has been a scam number for years and has been reported time and time again on the web as being a well operated scam ring. And everyone said they’d call again. And probably a few more times again after that with different scams each time.

We were ready. Bring it on Buttface.

A few weeks went by and just yesterday, they called again. I was caught off guard since it had been a few weeks, but the call went like this:

ringringring

Me: Hello?

(music and automated voice): This is USAA (military benefits company) calling, we have an important message for you, but all of our service representatives are busy right now. Please hold.

Me: (Uh, weird. But okay).

(music, then someone picks up): Hello?

Hello?

Helloooooo?

Yes, hello?

Hi, is Mr. Battle Station there?

He is not, can I ask who’s calling?

This is Mr. StankMouth McBean calling from USAA.

Me: (WARNING! WARNING! RED FLAG! RED FLAG!) Oh really. And how do I know you are calling from USAA?

Well is this Mr. Battle Station’s wife?

Maybe it is. Maybe it isn’t. Maybe you’re full of crap.

(pause) Well….. if this is Mr. Battle Station’s wife, I can divulge the information to you.

Okay. Okay, what’s his wife’s name? Huh? I’m on ALL the records, what’s my name, Playa?!?

(pause) Well….. let me look a little deeper in the file here.

(loooooong pause here) And then I hung up on him.

BOOM! Take THAT Scammers! Scam me, nu-uh! Scam THIS! Ain’t HAPPENIN!

And that’s how I broke the mold, the naivety mold. The weak and broken mold that WAS me, shattered. So, I’d like to thank the scammers that thought they could penetrate the firewall of skepticism that is me now. Because now I am tested and true, UN-SCAMMABLE, thanks to them.

And that’s the story of how I emerged victorious from the battle of the scammers.

And on another note, I’d like to tell you all that my massage with Tarah the other night was the most phenomenal, marvelous experience of my life. She’s like a healer. A master of hands. A Goddess, really. I am in love.

February 18, 2008

Me: Hey, I am having my friend Tarah come over to give us massages on Wednesday night.

Mike: Who’s Tarah?

Me: A friend.

Mike: From where?

Me: From our adoption group and blogging.

Mike: Well…….that’s creepy.

Me: Why?

Mike: Well I don’t know, what does she do for a living? Is she a masseuse?

Me: Yes she’s a masseuse, what do you think, I just invite, like, our Realtor over to give us a good rub down? Of course she’s a masseuse.

Mike: Well…. good.

Me: Alright then. Good talk.

We are a massage couple. Usually on holidays, anniversaries, birthdays, time periods in which we are so immensely stressed out and insane with tired, etc… we get massages and can’t begin to tell you how much we love them. We both emerge from our room at the spa looking like as though we are emerging from an opium den at Woodstock. The relaxation and complete loss of tenseness and stress, well, I don’t think I was that relaxed even as an infant. My Mom will attest to this, I have revolted and despised the human touch from day one, even as a breast-feeding newborn. Remember this story? I am not one to touch or be touched. But massages have never been a problem. And I think it’s because I carry ALL my stress in the shoulders, like most women do, and the massage bit just gets rid of it all. I don’t need a counselor, I just need a massage.

And can I say that finding a good masseuse is probably just as hard, if not harder than finding weapons of mass destruction in Iraq? Do you not concur, internet? Has everyone reading not had the most horrid and awful massage experience in their life because of the masseuse?

The masseuse.

Word to the wise? When you are making casual chit chat with a client as you’re starting a massage and you finagle the details out of him that he’s a soldier getting ready to head to Iraq for a year, just a little tidbit of masseuse protocol, don’t discuss bloody war details and staggering death statistics over the duration of your massage with said client. It’s not actually THAT relaxing. Thanks so much.

And another quick tip? When a client says “Ow, that hurts” and maybe follows that up with “HOLY CRAP, THAT REALLY HURTS” and then possibly mentions again a few minutes later that you must “STOP DOING THAT, PLEASE JUST STOP!” It maaaaaaaay be beneficial in the end that you stop. Stop the torture. I promise, the client will NEVER return or refer friends to you if you PHYSICALLY HURT them the entire hour. A good indicator? A helpful tell-tale sign? When the clients hands start SWEATING from the pain. I’m just sayin.

Lastly, and this is mostly just a request on my part, a simple preference really. Please don’t use random knick-knacks and gizmo object thingies on my body. I don’t want Inspector Gadget to give me my massage. Really, I could ask my 4 year old to bring in her new Hannah Montana lip gloss kit and poke and prod my back for an hour if I wanted this effect. Just plain ol’ hands on back action is what I’m lookin for. The trinkets and lockets are not my thing. Sorry.

But when it’s good? Holy moly, it’s goooooood. When the light music is going, the blankets are soft and comfy, the massage starts with my feet since they are always icicles, the masseuse is ROCKIN the good grub of rub, it’s just phenomenal.

And on a side note, if and when ya’ll go to Playa del Carmen Mexico and stay at the Riu Palace Mexico, head down to the beach and you’ll see a cabana with three pristinely white massage tables set up with a picturesque view of the ocean behind it. STOP THERE. Be eternally glad you did.

Wednesday will be lovely, I can’t wait. It’s what I live for right now, is Wednesday. If I post a half-logical and rambling post on Thursday, you’ll know why. Which is funny, since all my posts are half-logical and rambling. Get it? That’s funny.

February 9, 2008

I apologize for being absent as of late. It’s just that we moved to our new house with these lights with a mind of their own, our computer keeps shutting down and then for reasons I can’t exactly pinpoint at this time, I have bought this DOG.

I choose D, all of the above, as my answer. The question being ‘Why are you continually popping Advil tablets and Starbucks shots?”

So, one thing at a time. Let’s start with the house.

It’s fantastic. We have this enormous bonus room now and Delaney walks into it everyday completely bewildered. We still have the same floor plan as last time in regards to us being on the main level and the kids being upstairs. We love this, for reasons I believe to be extremely obvious. And we have a back yard. A real one!

Where things start to go awry is when you turn on the lights. Which, unfortunately, is MUCH HARDER than you could EVER POSSIBLY imagine. And not just the turning on of lights part but the STAYING ON of lights part and the turning OFF of lights part as well. All three. Which I can attest to as of late, is done much more often in a day than coherently realized. Have you ever mentally noted each time you touch a light switch in your house? BECAUSE I HAVE. AND IT’S A LOT.

Someone thought it was REALLY cool. And high tech. And super savvy. To have these “smart lights” installed in this house. Lights that are MOTION CONTROLLED! Who wouldn’t want that! Who wouldn’t want to turn OFF the kitchen lights at night only to have them TURN BACK ON AGAIN as you MOTION to leave the kitchen! Who wouldn’t want to sit down to eat dinner only to have the lights go off in the middle of your meal because you’re NOT MOVING! Who thinks it’s cool to have them SWITCH BACK ON AGAIN when you get up to get more milk! YAY! It’s like living in a RAVE! Flickering lights all the time!

I’m telling you. The grave reality is WORSE than it sounds.

I sent an email to the Realtor that went like this:

“Hello! The house is great! We love the house! Everything’s lovely! But tell me, can you ask the Sellers just a real quick little question for us? HOW DO WE GET THE LIGHTS TO BEHAVE LIKE NORMAL LIGHTS? Just regular old conforming old fashioned lights? We appreciate the fanciness of it all, but really, we would just like the lights to stay ON when we tell them to and then stay OFF when we tell them to.

Thank you kindly. Our marriage and the future of it thanks you as well.

Sincerely,

The Battle Station Family”

We got a reply with the most glorious information possible within it. The NUMBER of the home automation people. The responsible party. Sweet Mercy, there is a light at the end of the tunnel. And it stays on when I tell it to. Hopefully this issue shall be remedied shortly. I will keep you informed. And in the mean time, think of me tonight as you turn your lights off. And be grateful for what you have. A light that does not MOCK YOU.

Secondly, on the computer side of things. Let it be noted at this time that buying a new HP computer with Windows Vista on it (which ALL computers come with now) is quite possibly the WORST decision you will make, aside from perming your hair in high school. We have had MORE problems with this thing in the last 6 months of owning it than Mitt Romney has had in his bid for the White House. Which is to say, a LOT of problems.

It shuts down unexpectedly all the time. One of the fans is broken so the tower keeps overheating. It did not come with WORD on it either. I repeat. Our computer did not come with Microsoft WORD on it, the single most basic and widely used computer program in the history of computers. Just stupid stuff like this. We despise our HP. Go with a Mac. I wish we had.

On to Annie, our new dog. I have to say, we are extremely proud of her. In the week that we have been living at this new house, she hasn’t had a SINGLE accident in the house. I know, right? After practically insisting that she shat and piss all over the last house before we moved and then confusedly FREAKING OUT every time she did, we knew we had to take a different approach at the new place. And we have been very diligent. She is being kennel trained, taken outside several times a day to do her thing and then when she is allowed to roam within the house, it’s only in a very defined area with vinyl flooring and a baby gate on guard. It’s worked like a charm but that’s not to say that it hasn’t been constant work to maintain the regimented plan. Plus she’s kind of a princess. She’s truly not even a real dog, she’s more in line with the sloth family. Which, fine. To each her own. It works. And Delaney is still SMOTHERING her with love.

The only thing I have been truly bummed about lately, with the exception of the lights, is the fact that we are “on hold” with the adoption stuff until we get our paperwork in line again. When you move, you have to have an addendum done to your home study to make sure your new place is suitable for kids, meaning no breeding of pit bulls or making of drug labs and things of that nature. But it’s somewhat of a time consuming process having the social worker out to the place to inspect and then write up the addendum and then send the addendum in to the Immigration Services again for re-approval and yada yada yada. In the mean time, you have to go on hold while this is all sorted out which means that although you can keep your same place in line when you go back ON the list, in the mean time, you are not eligible to receive a referral.

Which means I don’t have that daily excitement and anticipation of getting a referral and running to the computer to check other referrals. Which I guess is good since running to the computer these days would result in flickering of lights throughout the house and then who’s to say the computer wouldn’t crash when I got to it anyway?

Annie and I will, instead, behave like sloths and watch all the caucuses and primaries around the country. What are your thoughts on those?