I take to understand that most little girls dream of a big white wedding. Me, I dreamt of Karate lessons and acquiring more legos. But as I am signing that contract, and as he refuses to get a tattoo with me, (Drat and drat again!), I went wedding dress shopping today.
I didn't want a white dress. I didn't want to look like a prom dress cast off, either. I had this feeling that it should be longish and it needed to look good without a bra. I tell ya, my lovely lady lumps, wait, that's my butt, right? Ah damn. Anyway, I tend towards top heavy, with a little in the middle of the sir-mix-alot flavor. But all kinds of white girl ass.
>>>Its been remarked upon by my older students. They're great critics, one time they told me I needed to shave my armpits and take off the bandanna cuz I looked like a pirate. Pirates didn't shave, its been heavily documented.
Atanyrate, the first place I went to literally ONLY had one long dress I was into/slash was in my [imagined] dress size ranged...it was sort of this off white thing at a distance but when you looked at it closely it had this reddish brown paisley pattern that totally looked like cell division. I tried on a scratchy one, a slouchy one and two totally hip dresses you need to be brave enough to wear a belt on your head with. Puh, you wish you was old school enough to do it right!
I should mentioned Sebastien's opinion on the matter. He basically wants me to look what he calls "sexy"...Read as street legal pornographic. Like, Halloween pornographic. Yeah, in front of my mom, good plan. My fam is so uncomfortable with me putting on a short skirt that I would rather just spare us all the discomfort...mostly me though.
By store two I was like, whatevski, I just want to wear something I feel pretty in and I have a lot of those at home. Nothin yummy via store 2. I felt like calling it a day, by this point. If I hurried home I could still lounge by the pool and bask in the last few hours of day light. But Sebastien is blowin up my phone like, stay in Friendship Heights we can have dinner together once I get off of work. (He's doing this political ad campaign analysis thingie I don't particularly understand. ) And so I start walking over to a coffee place when I see a bunch of long dresses in this window at this one store and low and behold, I finally find something. I took Sebastien to see it and he liked it too, so I bought it. It is long, strapless, silky, colorful and I don't need to wear heels to avoid stepping on it.
I bet I'll post plenty of photos of me and mine having a good time while I am still in said dress so I shall not dawn it now for a photo shoot. Sorry Charlie.
I am getting pretty excited about the wedding weekend. All of my besties are coming in from all over north America to stay at our place and play catch up. Its gunna be a sleep over! Our moms are gunna cook some of our fave dishes so we can leave them in the fridge for the folks to feast on, periodically. We gunna make music and laugh and play the radio, real, real loud. Gunna make you say, banagrang and mean it.
Well, if I hurry I can still convince my mister to take some pictures of me in the other little dress I picked up today....
I'm working on an upcoming photo comic post, stay tuned for that!
Niters.
Rockbottom Sweetheart
Dear America,
Have you ever found yourself throwing up your hands and yellin, "Screw this gene pool, I'm movin to Canada!" ? Well good luck.
Its fucking hard moving to anywhere east of obvious. (or west of it, for that matter.) Now, I'm a lady of letters, but I know when I'm out classed. I therefore acquiesces to the giants in the field, ninja what they know, and know how to say it better. (Most humbly)
The hitchhikers guide to the galaxy had this to say about France, inoffensif, la plupart du temps. But when I quarried encyclopedia intergalatica on the matter of immigration it had THIS to say. So fuvk them, I asked Jeeves
Which led to this:
I can haz a jackpot?
So that's it. Get married to a French citizen. Preferably one whom looks great in glasses, is a classically trained pianist, puts neo-cons in there place, loves reading to me in bed and knows how to kick it to me horizontally. ( Eat your heart out, Shakespeare.)
Settled: we're getting hitched. I won't say where or when cuz I can't invite you all. Yer not pokemon! But it will be before we move to France. Thankfully all roads lead to Rome, cuz there are still way too many balls up in the air to call the game just yetski. I'll explain what I mean, once I know what I mean. All that about 20/20 and lookin past yer ass.
Instead, content yourself with this short vid I shot on my cannon g 10 on Sebastien's birthday.
I can't help it, America. Sometimes all the ducks are in a row. (and then I cook other tasty things in their fat) I less than three this man-o-mine. I've never really loved anything besides music before this, maybe writing. But those are just arms on my octopus, extensions of my self. Oh, sure I've lusted after the best of them. But I don't expect another glove to trust my hand so well. And I know I won't trust my hand to another glove.
I hope you mutha truckahs are clickin these links. They sometimes take me several minutes to steal.
Forgive me, they were so sweet, and so cold.
-Quoth the server, 404.
Have you ever found yourself throwing up your hands and yellin, "Screw this gene pool, I'm movin to Canada!" ? Well good luck.
Its fucking hard moving to anywhere east of obvious. (or west of it, for that matter.) Now, I'm a lady of letters, but I know when I'm out classed. I therefore acquiesces to the giants in the field, ninja what they know, and know how to say it better. (Most humbly)
The hitchhikers guide to the galaxy had this to say about France, inoffensif, la plupart du temps. But when I quarried encyclopedia intergalatica on the matter of immigration it had THIS to say. So fuvk them, I asked Jeeves
Which led to this:
If you are an American and plan to visit for 90 days or more for any reason, you need a visa. If you plan to work, even if it's just for a month, you need one. If you are a journalist on assignment in France or hold a diplomatic passport, no matter the length of your visit, you need one.
Now you might not know this about me but I graduated both college and high school thanks to my dear friend, the loophole. I also hardly plan things, trusting instead that the Force will be with me. So why stop at schooling? Papers? We don't need no stinkin papers. What is this AZ? And yet, America the list of requirements go on and on!
To apply, be sure you have the following:
- Passport signed and valid 3 months after the last day of stay.
- Four long stay visa application forms by applicant signed and legibly filled out. Print in black. Indicate your phone numbers and e-mail.
- At least five recent passport size photographs (4 glued on the forms).
- A proof of resident status in the country where you are applying.
- A proof of employment in the country where you are applying
- Financial guarantee such as:
- Letter from your bank showing that you have sufficient means of support to live in France.
- Justification of retirement pensions or regular incomes
- A notarized declaration of your sponsor stating that he/she will be responsible for all your expenses and a proof of his/her financial means. (+ 3 copies).
- Proof of medical insurance with coverage valid in France (+ 3 copies). Letter from the insurance compagny only.
- A non-criminal record certificate to be obtained at the police's office of the city of residence (+ 3 copies). I would recommend obtaining this record as early as possible, since some police stations take a few weeks to issue the record.
- A note, dated and signed by the applicant, stating that he/she does not intend to have in France a paid professional activity which requires a work permit.
- For the spouse of a French citizen, the "livret de famille" or a copy of the French marriage license, or the official French transcript of the marriage license when the marriage took place out of France. The French citizen must prove his/her nationality. Note that an American citizen spouse of a French citizen wishing to live in France does not need a visa. He or she must apply directly for a residency card once in France (with the "livret de famille").
- Processing fee: payment by credit card (Visa, Mastercard) (especially for files sent by mail) or money-order made out to "Consulate general of France" or certified checks. Cash is accepted only if you apply in person. No personal checks.
I can haz a jackpot?
So that's it. Get married to a French citizen. Preferably one whom looks great in glasses, is a classically trained pianist, puts neo-cons in there place, loves reading to me in bed and knows how to kick it to me horizontally. ( Eat your heart out, Shakespeare.)
Settled: we're getting hitched. I won't say where or when cuz I can't invite you all. Yer not pokemon! But it will be before we move to France. Thankfully all roads lead to Rome, cuz there are still way too many balls up in the air to call the game just yetski. I'll explain what I mean, once I know what I mean. All that about 20/20 and lookin past yer ass.
Instead, content yourself with this short vid I shot on my cannon g 10 on Sebastien's birthday.
I can't help it, America. Sometimes all the ducks are in a row. (and then I cook other tasty things in their fat) I less than three this man-o-mine. I've never really loved anything besides music before this, maybe writing. But those are just arms on my octopus, extensions of my self. Oh, sure I've lusted after the best of them. But I don't expect another glove to trust my hand so well. And I know I won't trust my hand to another glove.
I hope you mutha truckahs are clickin these links. They sometimes take me several minutes to steal.
Forgive me, they were so sweet, and so cold.
-Quoth the server, 404.
The distance to here.
A year ago, I was not here.
Not here in DC, atanyrate. Taken as a point of reference, let us say that on the day that Michael Jackson died, it was about four AM on the same day I had landed in Paris. Meaning I had been in Europe, most notably Spain for 8 days preceding that flight. That would put me at this time last year in Lyon or perhaps on my way to la vieille valette, Robiac. Or, in point of fact--perhaps already there. But although I kept a highly detailed journal at the time and made one or two potiential posts full of hot links and dread me nots, when I had the coins or the leisure, I couldn't really stand to think that the scrolling system put the first posts on the bottom and the newest post on top. The reader wouldn't know why I was where I was in my journy unless they scrolled down and started again!
Yeah, I know, it's the way it's always been for blogs and yeah, I know a truly clever girl would have no problem reversing the poles of such an arbitrary system. But my mind had it that I should wait until my adventure was over and then copy the pages from my journal. I barely had time to write in it, let alone be all up onz the puter writing it again for youz.
So that idea basically lead me to here, where I flip through it sometimes and go, hmm, I can't really read this anymore...I should have posted it when I still remembered what it said...
But alas, I did not. And so you were all left with that wicked long post about my sad happenings in Madrid. I would take it down, but I sort of like it. I wish I knew how to use semicolons all good like; but an excerpt I can share:
No one ever said that I know how to plan. With me it's little more than romance and funds. I am on a train to Bordeaux. Apparently I was expected to arrive hier. Left some people waiting for me at the gare. I couch surfed last night in Paris. I note that almost no one bothers speaking French with me. I shouldn't really complain. Instead of saying, "I'm finished, it was good." to a bartender I said, "I'm finished. I was good." I said well, bein not even good, bon. He gave me an odd smile and said, "Thank you." in English. I said, s'il vous plaît to a guy my age and he took it as a mistake. Which I guess it was, its like if you call a young checkout girl, mame. But he was selling me a ticket, so I mean..
ah, whatever. I'm listening to Goblin. Sort of this epic metal group. There are no words but it's a live show and I'm pretty sure they're Italian.
Its odd to take this road by train. I flew over this terrain last night. The Paris underground isn't too hard. But what Madrid lacks in moisture it makes up for in simplicity. Oh if you could hear this band right now.
The W i n d m i l l s are so b e a u t i f u l.
So yeah, there you have it. I'll think of other things to say. Some of them may be worth your time to read. If you dig my blog link me. I read almost all of my news and happenings on the puter so if you want to link up or think I should read yers, let me know.
Not here in DC, atanyrate. Taken as a point of reference, let us say that on the day that Michael Jackson died, it was about four AM on the same day I had landed in Paris. Meaning I had been in Europe, most notably Spain for 8 days preceding that flight. That would put me at this time last year in Lyon or perhaps on my way to la vieille valette, Robiac. Or, in point of fact--perhaps already there. But although I kept a highly detailed journal at the time and made one or two potiential posts full of hot links and dread me nots, when I had the coins or the leisure, I couldn't really stand to think that the scrolling system put the first posts on the bottom and the newest post on top. The reader wouldn't know why I was where I was in my journy unless they scrolled down and started again!
Yeah, I know, it's the way it's always been for blogs and yeah, I know a truly clever girl would have no problem reversing the poles of such an arbitrary system. But my mind had it that I should wait until my adventure was over and then copy the pages from my journal. I barely had time to write in it, let alone be all up onz the puter writing it again for youz.
So that idea basically lead me to here, where I flip through it sometimes and go, hmm, I can't really read this anymore...I should have posted it when I still remembered what it said...
But alas, I did not. And so you were all left with that wicked long post about my sad happenings in Madrid. I would take it down, but I sort of like it. I wish I knew how to use semicolons all good like; but an excerpt I can share:
No one ever said that I know how to plan. With me it's little more than romance and funds. I am on a train to Bordeaux. Apparently I was expected to arrive hier. Left some people waiting for me at the gare. I couch surfed last night in Paris. I note that almost no one bothers speaking French with me. I shouldn't really complain. Instead of saying, "I'm finished, it was good." to a bartender I said, "I'm finished. I was good." I said well, bein not even good, bon. He gave me an odd smile and said, "Thank you." in English. I said, s'il vous plaît to a guy my age and he took it as a mistake. Which I guess it was, its like if you call a young checkout girl, mame. But he was selling me a ticket, so I mean..
ah, whatever. I'm listening to Goblin. Sort of this epic metal group. There are no words but it's a live show and I'm pretty sure they're Italian.
Its odd to take this road by train. I flew over this terrain last night. The Paris underground isn't too hard. But what Madrid lacks in moisture it makes up for in simplicity. Oh if you could hear this band right now.
The W i n d m i l l s are so b e a u t i f u l.
So yeah, there you have it. I'll think of other things to say. Some of them may be worth your time to read. If you dig my blog link me. I read almost all of my news and happenings on the puter so if you want to link up or think I should read yers, let me know.