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V is for Visa, Valium & Vodka

Friday morning, right in the middle of my "Tom Cruise drunkenly groping 2 girls on a couch while I quickly search for my cell phone to call Katie Holmes" dream, I was woken up by my fiance.

Why?

Because it was V-day.

Visa day.

The big day.

The special day where I get to sit in front of a British government official and beg for sweet mercy that he (or she) will for the love of jesus let me in the fucking country, please, I beg thee, pleaaaase.

I have been sweating, and fretting, and shitting myself since February over this visa business.

So you can imagine what I was like Friday morning. Especially after having Tom Cruise haunt my subconscious...

I was bitchy. I was at a level 24.56 when I should have been at a level 6. I was raging. So what does that add up to?

OH. Early AM diarrhea, that's what.

That and a horrible, bile churning, hive inducing panic that had taken my coping abilities hostage.

I just kept thinking, "The rest of your life depends on this day" and, "Oh my god oh my god oh my fucking god oh my god I think I'm going to kill myself or someone -no!- everyone if I don't get that fucking visa."

I tend to get a tad bit irrational when I'm stressed.

For example, the entire week before hand I slept in my Union Jack camisole, and decided on wearing my Union Jack socks to my appointment.

Ya know, because the government is so easily influenced by cheesy souvenir attire.

I even considered serenading the consulate official with the National Anthem. Ya know. For brownie points.

I also thought that perhaps if I just dropped in conversation that I, "just freakin' adore Tony Blair" or wrote "God save our gracious Queen" on the "Other Comments" section of my visa application that that would perhaps help.

Maybe. Just maybe, baby.

So. I managed to dress myself, get packed up, check out of the hotel, and get in the car.

I had been OH SO SMART and Google Mapped -cuz that's a verb- where the consulate was. Yeah.

I was so prepared, it fucking hurt.

I took the address I put through Google and plugged it in to our Tom Tom satellite navigation doodad. We had 45 minutes to drive the 13 miles. Piece of cake.

(As all of the LA natives laugh so hard they cry all over their keyboards and electrocute themselves.)

And here's a sample of my internal and actual dialog during our drive:

Oh look! We're on the freeway! No traffic. God, I can't believe this. It's a sign. Every thing's going to be fine, we'll be early, everything is calm.

Oh my god. Oh my god. Traffic. Traffic everywhere. I'm going to pass out from the panic.

It's fine! It's fine. According to the satellite navigation, we'll arrive there in plenty of time.

HOLY FUCK. We only have 15 minutes to get there.

WHY ARE WE GOING DOWNTOWN? I didn't know this fucking thing was fucking down town. WE ARE NEVER GOING TO GET THERE!

Iain: "OH look baby! The Hollywood sign!!!!!!!"

Me: "BITE ME!! We're late! It's over! I'm going to have to kill myself."

Okay. Okay. We're downtown. We're almost there...

Satellite Navigation: "You have reached your destination."

Iain: "Where is it?"

Me: "I don't see it. OH my god. Where is it? Why are we at Good Samaritan Hospital? Where are all the Union Jacks and government officials???"

Satellite Navigation: "You have reached your destination."

Me: "Fuck!!! It's 9:22. We need to get there NOW. Baby!??! Where IS IT???"

Iain: "Hold on, just double check the address........"

Me: "Okay. It says we're at 1176 Wilshire Boule-"

Iain: "1176? We're supposed to be at 11766!!! You missed a 6!! Oh my god.We're at the wrong fucking place!!!"

Me: "OH MY GOD. That's 15 miles away from here!?!?!!?!!??! OH MY GAAAAWWWWDDDD!!!!"

We were going to miss out appointment. We had 8 minutes to go 15 miles, on a crowded, traffic ridden Los Angeles freeway at 9:24 in the morning.

Yeah. Fucking. Right.

Nothing would get us there on time.

Not driving at 86 miles per hour.

Not weaving in and out of traffic.

Not even flipping off and cursing the Japanese tourist in front of me that's driving 46mph in the fast lane so her passenger can take pictures of the LA freeway. (Although it felt so good.)

 "We're fucked."

And considering there's a note at the bottom of our appointment confirmation warning that if you're late, you will NOT be seen...We were fucked. Royally, Englishlly, officially F-U-C-K-E-D.

It took 35 minutes before we even got near the consulate.

We had missed our appointment. MISSED OUR APPOINTMENT.

HOW COULD THAT HAPPEN???!?!?

Out of all of my psychotically pessimistic scenarios of why I would not get my visa, this certainly was not one of them.

Iain tried calling the consulate, but just got recordings, and got transferred to automated voices that couldn't exactly understand our distress.

I was a hot mess.

Would we have to go to Vegas? ? Spend thousands of pounds travelling back and forward because without this visa I won't be allowed entry? Will I have to go back to making cappuccinos? Would we have to get married this week?? Was Iain going to have to smuggle me back in the country in a dog carrier??

I was trying to process the nasty cocktail of hysteria, panic, and fury that my mind had conjured up.

I couldn't cry or scream or pass out. I just had to drive. I just had to get there.

10:05 we arrive at the consulate.

We run to the front door. Security checks us in and escorts us to the elevator.

Just to add to the fun we thought it would be good to get off at the 11th floor instead of the 12th.

Then the little elevator got all sassy and decided to take us up to the 14th floor, and then all the way back down to the 1st floor before taking us to the 12th.

By the time the elevator doors open, I was pretty sure I had had an accident in my pants.

We were prepared to beg. Steal. Lie. Camp out in front of the consulate until Monday morning where we would then offer sexual favors or "much American dollars" in exchange for that little, embossed sticker for my passport. ...

We followed the hallway around to this little room with a massive Union Jack mural painted on the wall.

They check our bags, coats, and pockets for weapons of mass destruction, and we were told to sit down and they'd call us.

No begging. No explanations or apologies for being late needed. There were only 3 other people waiting to be seen.

I couldn't believe that we would still get interviewed.

Apparently the 10:30 and 10:45 appointments didn't show up...

We were seen at 11, by a bald little British man with a lazy eye.

Every question he asked, we had an answer for. Every piece of paper work he needed, we provided.

Add in our endearing charm and extremely good looks and, my god, how could he possibly refuse us?

He kept my passport and told me us to come back at 2.

Come back we did, prepared to do some more begging and charming...

However, all I had to do is stand in line, and they handed me my passport,

"Okay, just check and see if the information on your visa is correct, and then you're free to go."

Check to see if the information on MY VISA is correct???

I got my visa.

I didn't have to kill anyone, give sexual favors to government officials, or beg.

I can legally go back to the UK and legally stay.

I can come and go as I please.

But most importantly, Iain and I can legally get married.

I can be a BRITISH WIFEY.

All of the ups and downs and hives and constipation and diarrhea and tears and unemployment that the waiting period for this visa has induced were finally validated.

I have more faith than ever. I have even more faith in us, and that everything WILL BE OK, and will work out.

But most importantly, I have faith in the Epsom Thai restaurant that gave me the psychic fortune cookie:

"Your patience will soon be rewarded"

Who knew that eating duck could lead to such comfort and reassurance?

I should have known to just listen to the cookie.

 

The Bitch is -almost- Back

 

And another thing about feminist values!!!! - Kidding!

Unclench! I kid, I kid.

<Collective sigh of relief>

So. Tomorrow, at this time, I will be sitting at Heathrow airport, gel-less and liquid-less, waiting for the plane that will reluctantly fly me back to California.

What is it like to go back home, after you have been creating a different life across the world for the past 6 months?

I hear a lot of:

"But don't you miss your family?"

"You must want to go home. You poor thing. You must be so home sick."

So. Here's truth.

I miss our fine family tradition of sitting around the TiVo with our 3 dogs, while my Mom, Step dad and I create our own dialog for The OC while my sister screams,

"SHUT UP! Shut up! God! I can't EVER watch this without you guys talking!! This is serious! That's NOT what they're saaaying!!!! SHUT UP! Rewiiiiiind iiiiitttt!"

I miss my chihuahua (Bug, or more commonly referred to as The Bug or Bugawuga) driving me crazy because she just won't lay down with me, and instead wants to drag my dirty underwear out of the hamper and run around the house with it.

I miss my Step dad using a power drill at 7:34 on a Saturday morning while the rest of us are still asleep.

("What? It's not THAT early? Come on, Princess, wake up!")

And I miss seeing my mom in her glasses before she goes to bed, and her Ponds lotion on my skin after she kisses me goodnight.

Corn dogs, Taco Bell, The Roseville Galleria, and Starbucks' baristas that recognize me from that 1 time we worked together and not only give me a discount but understand what prissy drink I want.

(What's so hard about a tall, 2 pump sugar-free vanilla, soy, no water, no foam, with whip, chai??)

I miss the familiarity of driving up 80. I miss seeing people I know at Target and avoiding them.

("I hate that bitch. Do you think she saw me?", "She's right behind you.")

But my heart. My life. My fresh and promising new start that is composed of everything I love and am passionate about is 5,000 miles away from the life, and family, that I was raised to be a part of.

How can I ask them to understand that I was miserable in that life? Not because of them...But because it just wasn't enough for me. I needed more than amber waves of grain. The Golden Gate would never be the Tower Bridge...

They have let me go with as much ease as they could and without direct protest. They have understood the big crush that I've had on England since I was a little girl. 

I just don't think it ever occurred to them that my crush would turn into a love affair that would move me 5,000 miles away from 'home".

And that this love affair with black, wraught iron fences, scones, tea and red telephone booths would lead me to the man that I was born to be loved by.

And to all of you men and women who have moved your life to another city, state, or continent, I'm sure can understand and appreciate that it is not easy.

At my worst moments, I have guilt. Guilt for leaving. Guilt for my absence at dinners, birthdays, and those lazy sunday mornings where we sit around eating country potatoes watching Nascar.

My heart finds it's home in two places.

One of the fun side effects of this, is that I have become somewhat of a Culturally Mutated Freak.

I will always be an American. I will always be a California girl. And my cowboy boots and Sugarland CD are ever present.

But I now say things like,

"For fuck sake! That got me right up! I got so fucked off that nearly gave him a bollocking!"

or

"That's absolute rubbish. Complete shit, that."

I now love Curry and Thai food. I tried "Duck in Oyster Sauce" the other night for the first time, and I loved it.

I can now drink multiple pints of lager like a pro, and I even enjoy a good Guinness every once and a while.

I can go into a restaurant with a table for one, and enjoy a meal alone without feeling embarrassed.

In fact, I can buy myself a glass of wine, and sit in a pub alone, too.

(Who says you should never drink alone?!)

I've really had to learn to be blunt, and honest and to really say what I mean. I've learned how to put those who give me unsolicited advice in their place.

 

These things may sound silly...But they're things I've never done before, and I don't know how long it would have taken

me to learn these things had I stayed in my comfort zone.

I have learned how to be still. I have finaly learned how to be comfortable and safe in my own skin.

I may not have it all figured out, but at least I'm not too scared to try.

So. Am I nervous to return home? .... I've had the runs for the past 24 hours.

Am I scared about applying for my visa? ....Scared shitless. I haven't slept much.

Being apart from Iain for a week isn't really going to be much fun either. :(

And thank you  mother nature for increasing my emotional instability by giving me the gift of menstruation this week.

How I look forward to getting up every 3-4 hours throughout the flight, stumbling through the aisles, and trying to use a tampon in the bathroom the size of a coin purse during an inevitable storm of turbulence.

I wonder if they make tampons for long journeys...

Like, instead of Super Plus they'd make one, huge tampon with a incredible absorbency level...

Ya know, like, "Jumbo Jet Tampons, for those Transatlantic Flights".

Toxic Shock Syndrome? Pfffft. I'd be fine.

But, I'm still not packed....

Next time you hear from me,  I'll be blogging via California, with my laptop on one leg, and my chihuahua on the other.

(And Iain on the phone, my Step dad sawing through a wall, and my sister screaming, "Get off the fucking phone! I can't hear Tyra Banks!!!!")

...Wish me luck.

I'll send you a ePostcard or something :)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

God Save You From The Queen!

If I were Queen, I think the world could be a better place.

I'm not just talking the Queen who gets paid to sit around and wave.

I'm talking head chopping, ballroom dancing, law enforcing, crown jewels sporting- motha fucking Queen! Would this mainly be for my own personal adjenda and beliefs?

Fuck Yes.

But those of you who don't agree with me, well, I'll just behead you anyway. Muahahhhaahhahhh.

I would be a beheading machine.

Fear me. I would make Bloody Mary look like Strawberry Shortcake. (Minus the whole Catholic thing...)

I'd be more intimidating than Judi Dench as Elizabeth I (Minus that whole ugly thing...)

My first plan of action as Queen of Fucking Everything would be a little something like a "Stupid People Genocide".

Politics, wars, and terrorism?

Don't  worry your pretty little head about 'em, because once all of the said Stupid People have been wiped out...well, I don't think these things will be a problem.

To divert away from a political debate, I'm just going to leave you to decide what activists like Cindy Sheehan, and world leaders like Kim Jong II that I would behead.

We'll just stick with the Stupid civilians for now.

So, to begin with, I'd start with 2 different kinds of Stupid. Currently, the two strains of Stupidity that I would currently have executed are firstly, the:

College Educated, Statistic Spewing, 'Holier Than Thou', Asshole.

This type of Stupid likes to use 'big words' in every day conversation, not because it's a natural part of their vocabulary, but because they heard it on The West Wing the night before, and thought it would impress the masses. By the way, you don't sound smart, you sound like a self-righteous twat. Everyone can tell you're faking it! It'd be easier for you to to fake an orgasm than to try using the word 'Brobdingnagian' in sentence...Jackass. 

This person also likes to ramble off statistics in arguments, instead of articulating an actual rebuttal. Nothing pisses me off more than when people try to sound soooo fucking smart because they memorized The World Almanac.. If I ask you a math problem, or how many people were killed in a war, fine. But why don't you just fucking use your own  words and sentences to talk to me, instead of trying to cloud the actual argument with bits of possibly made up information.

 

This type of Stupid Person's general attitude that their high form of intelligence therefore makes them superior to all other beings, makes me want to puke. Having a high IQ, knowing statistics, graduating from college, or memorizing your SAT vocabulary words does not necessarily make you intelligent, or more likely to succeed in life.

Take this little diddy from the chapter entitled "When Smart is Dumb" from Daniel Goleman's book "Emotional Intelligence: Why it can matter more than IQ"

"Academic intelligence has little to do with emotional life...People with high IQ's can be stunningly poor pilots of their private lives...One of psychology's open secrets is the relative inability of grades, IQ, or SAT scores, despite their popular mystique, to predict uneeringly who will succeed in life...The link between test scores...is dwarfed by the totality of other characteristics that [one] brings to [their] life." (33-34).

I absolutely have nothing against people who want to want a higher education, go to medical or law school, have high IQs, or are earning their PhDs or a Master's Degree.

My problem lies with those who think that they are more intelligent, more successful, and are on the only possible correct life path. People can be correct, happy, intelligent, and successful without having a huge vocabulary, college degree, or high IQ.

OFF WITH THEIR HEADS!

Next up:

The Ass Kissing Twat.

This is a personal favorite. You more than likely know someone like this. That bitch in your office that back-stabs, and talks shit, but the boss loves her because she has her lips firmly planted on his dick ass at all times.

She's sugary sweet, and tries to be your best friend, but secretly wants you dead. She wants your boyfriend, your job title, your lunch, or even your soul. She seemingly has everyone fooled. (It is even worse if she has nice hair.)

 

When her bitchy intentions become accidentally revealed, she just smiles and says, "Oh, sorry babe, it wasn't intentional!" pats your head, and skips off into the sunset.

She gets away with murder by tricking everyone around her into think she's their new best friend, or friendly, reliable coworker, or a potential fuck buddy! She's a vile little thing. She's just a willowy, delightful, young girl...Why, she wouldn't hurt a fly!

But guess what sweetheart? I SEE YOU! I see your manipulation, your insecurities, and your faults. Why?

Because you're stupid -thats why!

You become whatever anybody wants you to be, so that everyone will like you. You have no passions, so you like what every one else does. You lose your self-respect by flirting and shagging everyone male in sight so you can climb up the social, and corporate ladder. And, sorry, that's not 'using what you got'. That's being a slag.

That's not having a mind of your own. That's being a STUPID GIRL.

And yes, everyone around you is equally stupid for buying into your bullshit...So guess what?

OFF WITH EVERYBODY'S HEAD!

Next up: Pigeon feeders, girls who wear multi-colored ankle boots, and the group of women  in the pub I went to last night that were knitting and drinking orange juice, with no vodka. If you're knitting in a pub, please, please be drinking vodka.

They frightened me to my very core. Did they not read my last post?

Do they not understand how fragile I am right now????!

 

 

 

Desperate Not To Be A Housewife

Words like:

Knitting, sewing, baking, cooking, cleaning, mending, ironing, slicing, dicing, icing, measuring, sifting, kneading, and scrubbing...All make me CRINGE.

I can't cook, and I'm not clean.

When I was 11, I could make a delicious, homemade apple crisp.

But now? How about I throw some Pillsbury chocolate chip cookies in the oven, hope I don't make the portions too big, put them on the wrong oven rack, screw up the temperature, or forget to set a timer.

I’m not exactly the housewife type, nor am I any where close to blossoming into a ‘Domestic Goddess’.

Iain doesn’t want a housewife. (Thank god.) And I certainly don’t want those nasty, yellow rubber gloves to become a regular part of my wardrobe.

A 'Joan Cleaver', I will never be. I will never knit a fucking sweater...Or sew an inspiration quote on a throw pillow…

So then why is it that I can’t help but stare at Nigella Lawson's book “How to Be a Domestic Goddess” every time I go to Waterstones?

I suddenly become possessed by an intense urge to bake cupcakes from scratch, top them with swirly clouds of pink frosting, and shower them with dainty, little sprinkles. (And then skip through fields of wild flowers while I sing and dance and play.)

There’s even something about the presence of pink kitchen accessories that makes my secret domestic cravings become painfully obvious.

It’s like I have this tiny Martha Stewart on one shoulder, and a tiny Betty Friedan shouting “Put the whisk down!”on the other.

However, I can’t ignore the fact that I’d really like to cook for Iain, instead of always having him cook, or to play hostess and have friends and family over.

I would even love to someday cook a Thanksgiving dinner for my family.

(Cut to a vision of me in 10 years trying to explain what Thanksgiving is, to my half-British children, who wear cowboy boots but speak with proper British accents...Our poor, future spawn. They'll surely be made fun of in school for being freakish, cultural hybrids.)

I feel like I'm betraying that charmingly neurotic, undomesticated, unruly side of me.

It feels practically blasphemous. How am I supposed to keep up my ‘don’t fuck with me’ attitude while I’m baking blueberry fucking muffins?

Maybe I'll just be the charmingly neurotic, undomesticated, unruly Wifey that chugs Vodka straight from the bottle as she cooks...But still manages to make a fabulous meal?

(“How does she do it?”)

What does a domesticated, yet feminist, young, but married 'wifey' look like?

Is she naked behind her frilly apron?

Is she smoking while she ices her cake?

Does she marinate over Martinis?

The parts of me that don’t cook, clean, or knit feel so juvenile when I go over to another woman's house who cooks up a Sunday Roast, offers me wine, and has made a Tarte Tatin simply because that’s what they wanted to do that afternoon.

 Am I hanging onto that part of my youth in protest so that I will not become a boring domestic stereotype?

(Or worse…Feminist roadkill!)

Do I treat my domestic handicap as a clear border between myself and all of the other unemployed fiancees/wives that make their life about running their home?

And now I’m realizing that I’m afraid that if I suddenly do excel at things that flirt with "housewife territory" that the separation between myself and a 'subservient housewife' will blur.

Will I start knitting pot holders, and alphabetizing recipe cards, and choose to get a head start on my weekly ironing on Saturday night instead of going out to the pub??

…Ok…I’m not that stupid or naive. I know it’s not really going to come to that.

For example, just because I’m getting married doesn’t mean that our sex life will dry up, we’ll pop out 4 babies in the next 3 years, or that I’ll start sleeping with the Gardner.

It’s just. I’ve never had an example set for me.

My life; It isn’t modeled it after anyone else’s.

My choices, are not choices that Societies Rule Book recommends. So, I surely cannot expect my marriage, wedding, future children, household, or cooking abilities to weigh out like anyone else’s I know, or have seen.

I know I’ll have to figure it out for myself, and blaze my own domestic trail.

And, yeah, it will be tipsy, messy, and rough around the edges.  

But I  just hope to fucking god that it’s edible.

"But will he fit in my Prada bag?"

And now, as I write this, millions of girls are rushing to parks around the world

 with bags of stale bread to feed, and embrace ferrel pigeons.

Pigeons are the new Chihuahuas.

They are so hot right now.