ARRRGH!!!

Oh where to begin. Let me update ya’ll on my current situation. My lawyer informed me that my husband’s application to change my status has been seating at my local immigration office since August 2009, Yeah, that long! That’s right, my future, in the hands of clerks at an office that sits only five miles away from me.

This Sunday I will be celebrating my two years anniversary. DH and I had plans of going out of town like we did last year to celebrate our first, but we are trying to save money and pay debts and all those pesky things that get in the way of being romantic. They don’t tell you those things when you read romance novels. They don’t tell you about the annoying traits that will make you want to kill your DH, or the disgusting things one has to witness when sharing a bathroom, or how the day to day life gets in the way of simply wanting to enjoy one’s marriage. They don’t tell you that the processes you have seen take only six months in your case will last 2 years with no solution looming in the future and putting a stall on your plans for life. Going to school, getting a job I enjoy, traveling, getting a license, getting a car, buying a house.

The INS is holding my future hostage, my plans, my dreams for tomorrow, the things I want to do, the things I want to become, they are all being held in the inexorable grasp of a governmental agency that apparently does not know what to do with me and has no rush in finding out. I am being held hostage and it seems to be just for their amusement. If they asked for some sort of ransom I am sure DH and I could come up with something, but I think they perversely enjoy making me wait, wait and wait.

I have no criminal records, speak perfect English, have not once received help from the government, I am young, healthy and able to work, willing to go to school, smart. Why exactly is the INS so against me? I sound wonderful on paper, hell if I were my own country I would want all my residents to be like me (modesty’s obviously not my forte).

Even though I talk about Canada and Europe every time I feel frustrated with my situation the truth is I don’t want to move. I want to stay in the U.S. I don’t want to uproot myself once more and go through all this process again. I also want to tear my hair out, gnaw my arm off and just give up.

I hear people telling me oh you are so strong, so determined. I am neither. It’s sheer and simple stubbornness. Well, it’s 50% stubbornness and 50% laziness. I am so tired I cannot imagine myself picking up and leaving after I have been here for nine years, almost a decade of my life as an unwanted guest. That’s enough to damage anyone’s self steam. When does it stop? When do they decide I am worth noticing? Do they care that my life has been in limbo for the past two years? The answers are, probably never, never and no.

It won’t stop, they are never going to think any immigrant is worth noticing and no, they don’t care about the past two years of my life or what is doing to my marriage and my psyche.

So when does one truly give up? I have dreams of saying Fuck Off! Flip them off and walk away to Europe where I become a blogging sensation, then an acclaimed writer and then Oprah would want to interview me and I would be like, sorry your country didn’t want me, now I don’t want it!

Sigh. Such petty dreams.

That’s the thing, like a fool who goes to her friends to complain about her boyfriend who cheats and then goes back to him; I will probably remain here until I am old and wrinkled. I will be waiting for them, counting my days, my weeks, my months and years for a reply. Waiting for that stupid official looking letter where they say “you will be interviewed on such and such date”.

Not only do I have to go through the humiliating process of explaining that yes, this is really my husband, yes we are really fucking, yes, he is the man I chose. No, not because of papers, no, I sleep on the left side of the bed; I don’t know his favorite color. Maybe ten years from now when I am comfortable in my lack of status they will say, sorry after ten years reviewing your case we have decided your request has been denied, you have 90 days to put your affairs in order and leave the country (which has happened to people here, I’m not making that shit up).

Argh!

Hopefully I will have a nicer post for tomorrow.

THE INEXORABLE PULL OF RESPONSIBILITY

I wish I had coined the phrase since it seems to describe my very existence. I am, it seems, trapped by a sucking, drowning, black-hole of responsibility. There are, I know, people who seem free of such a crippling emotion, because that is what responsibility is, an emotion. A feeling in the pit of your stomach, in the center of your heart that makes one do things we don’t want to do, but we do nonetheless because it is expected, because one has to.

Girls always dream of being Lizzie and holding out for love, for passion, for someone who is going to understand one’s quirks in personality. Girls dream of being Lizzie and being brave and holding out for Mr. Darcy, but I am afraid I would have never been a Lizzie Bennett and that I am destined to be a Fanny Price, my most hated of Austen’s heroines.

I am afraid that my sense of responsibility keeps me from doing what I dream of doing and sending everyone to hell and being utterly selfish and caring only about what I want and what I need and what I expect of life. But I am, no matter how hard I try, going ‘round and ‘round doing what I have to do.

I would’ve married Mr. Collins. I would’ve married a totally unsuitable person to save my family from destitution. I would have had sex and bore him children and endured the attentions of Lady Catherine de Burgh simply because it was expected of me.

There is no rebellion in me, no overwhelming passion, because responsibility shadows, swallows, overwhelms everything else. I am doomed to be responsible. I am doomed to swallow my wants and do what needs to be done. Why do I have to? Why can’t I just ignore everything that needs to be done and simply be? Is it my lot in life to take care of what needs to be taken care of disregarding completely the hungers in my soul that need to be fed?

I wish I was more ambitious. Ambitious enough that only my interest seemed to matter, but my ambitions are simple: Health for those I love, to be loved, a house of my own, a job that I like and occasional travels that show me the world out there. I don’t wish for riches and grandeur, I don’t crave fame and fortune. I work for a multibillionaire and I know that money does not necessarily mean happiness. I can’t help but think that if I wanted it more, wished for it more, ignored others more I could have everything I wanted.

Sometimes I want to run away from everything, expectations, family, friends… and myself. Let’s combine those two and really put together what I want to run away from: Family expectations.

Sometimes I wish I was more like my brother, who has no regard for anyone but himself. No regard but what he wants. Sometimes I wish I could grab my credit card and disappear into oblivion in a small town in the middle of nowhere U.S. and work at some dinner where my name is not my name and I can spend my days doing something little and meaningful and write and get up knowing that I will write some more and do something with my days that does not include disappearing in anonymity in an office, doing nothing worth wile and being invisible.

I know the feeling will disappear and tomorrow I will get up and do what is expected. Dry, cold, reliable, and responsible Melissa, doing what needs to be done, no matter what. But right now I want to be more, do more.

I know it’s silly. I get to the end of this post and I realize how many times I have said in the past, “With privilege comes responsibility” and I am oh so privileged with a big family. I just wish there was someone to share those big responsibility’s with.

They feel so heavy sometimes.

HERE WE GO!

Well everybody here’s a new year before us, what to do with the time that has been given? I am determined to stay true to my resolutions and so far this four days have been meatless, none of God’s creatures have died to feed me (aside from the salmon on my rainbow rolls) but I did spend them in bed reading instead of being more active. Tomorrow after work I should be meeting BT for some very, very, very needed exercise and we will start a regime, regiment? (I am never sure of those two words) and we should be working out three to four times a week.

Continuing with my resolutions I realized this morning that we are at the moment incredibly behind with all the paperwork that should have already been filed in order to get my status as Dear Husband’s wife in order. Dear Husband had to see a loquero (shrink) for our petition and I am hoping that before the end of the month we are finally in our way to having all our stuff together.

It’s incredible the amount of shit the Federal Governments asks for when an immigrant marries a citizen, according to a friend of mine who married her fiancé who is a citizen during the interview the agent was horrible to her and told my friend’s husband he was there to defend his rights as a citizen of the U.S. and that if she was just after his papers he would do him the favor of deporting her. Nothing sends a shiver of fear up and down my back like the D-Word…and of course roaches. I am truly hoping that when our interview time comes I will get someone who is nicer because I don’t think I’ll be able to stay quiet while someone trashes me as if I wasn’t there. We have so far collected, pictures, wedding cards, wedding presents, wedding pictures, proof of travels we have taken together, bank statements, emails, phone records, lease or deeds to both our names, certified letters from families, friends and co-worker attesting to the true nature of our marriage and so on and on.

So here we are seven months after meeting with our lawyer and $5,000 poorer still just in the beginning stages of our process. I was hoping to be able to travel out of the country by 2010 to celebrate our Honey Moon in Ireland but it seems we are going to have to honey moon in the U.S. so our plan so far is to fly to Seattle and drive down the PCH and stop everywhere our little hearts want.

I am determined to get this stuff done. “Determined” is what I am going to be all this year. Determined is going to be my fucking middle name.

I have been in this country seven years and have spent all these years doing one thing or another, interview after interview, trying to solve my issue with my paperwork, I have been covered by process and in the way I have gotten my SS# (which felt incredible) and my work permit (which allowed me to stop cleaning kitchens and toilets) but it hasn’t been a complete solutions, they all have been simply patching up the big problem is putting a band aid on a bullet hole.

I have in the 7 years in this country gotten my fingerprints taken at least five times (us Aliens have ever changing fingerprints apparently), gotten interviewed, accused, being looked over, asked to say “yes” instead of “yeah” in front of a judge, asked why I don’t have an accent when I speak in English, asked if I am a democrat or a republican, asked if I loved my country, asked why I am here, why do I want to stay and if I love this country.

I am ready to end this everlasting phase in my life where I am drifting around like a castaway neither here nor gone, just floating around in a sea of bureaucracy and paperwork. I will have you know United States of America that you could do a lot worse than having me added to the name of those many lucky immigrants that become part of this country. Damn it I am smart and hard working, haven’t broken any laws (haven’t even jay walked in my life!) I pay my taxes, I donate to charity, I don’t litter and more importantly I am healthy and speak the language. I would be a freaking awesome addition not a burden.

No matter, I am as I said before, nothing but determined. And you guys haven’t seen me when I am determined! It won’t be easy to get rid of me! I am staying here. This is my home now and I ain’t leaving without a fight.

HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!!

I just came home from an exhausting weekend with the family and I mean exhausting because having too much fun takes its toll. We (Dear Husband, sister, mom, uncle, and pets) drove up to Tampa to hang out with the family we have there. The same family who lovingly open their home to me when I was spoiled brat 8 years ago used to asking for everything and doing nothing on my own.

We spent two amazing days laughing our asses off playing board games, dancing, drinking, eating (of course) and remembering the old days, from when we were little to the horror stories of our first jobs in the U.S. The cultural shock and horrid jobs behind us gives us the opportunity to laugh at what before made us want to cry. There is something simply delicious about looking back and laughing hysterically at things, experiences, jobs, pains, falls, etc that drove us crazy and depressed us. The personal triumph of moving past it couldn’t taste any sweeter.

After playing games and utterly crushing our only male cousin playing we started getting ready for the party. I had forgotten how the simple fun of sharing a bathroom with so many other women feels. What a simple pleasure to sit down with little eye shadow pots, brushes, steaming curling irons, tweezers, pencils and chattering voices, felt like. I had forgotten the fun of simply being a girl with other girls who you love while men stand outside complaining about how long we take and make fun of us.

We made it to the party late of course and danced and laughed, ate and danced, laughed some more. We laugh a lot, I noticed. I don’t know why it struck me so strongly that exact moment but we do a lot of laughing and the thought of it made me happy. Happy that in spite of all the hard things we have gone though, heart ache, losing family, losing oneself in this vast and foreign land we still find pleasure and laugh, out loud, until our bellies ache and we are gasping for air.

Twelve o’clock finally came and the deafening sounds of music and other voices drowned our own, we hugged each other, taking turns, wishing each other a happy new year to come, happiness, health, love, laughter, security…There is something about that precise moment, that instant, that last a second, that short moment when the new year begins and the old year ends that is almost indescribable. There is something about the energy around, flowing like bubbly champagne; something about the screams, laughter, the happy almost euphoric feeling, there’s something about that exhilarating emotion that makes the most cynic one of us feel overwhelmed with happiness and the beauty of hope.

None of us know what the New Year will bring, but in that very moment we are all, as one, expecting, hoping, wanting and wishing each other the best for the year in front of us. All that positive energy, all the good juju cannot be all in vain.

As I sat there surrounded by the people I love and the people I share blood with, people that had seen me grow and people that love in spite of my many, many, many flaws I felt so incredibly lucky, lucky that the people I care about are mostly in good health, well, working, living, breathing, enjoying life. Lucky that I have a husband that loves me and mine, lucky that my family is just the shit and I wouldn’t change even one of the crazy characters in it.

I ate my twelve grapes, wishing wishes, for Dear Husband, for my brother, my mom, my sister, the rest of my family and myself. More than anything I wished for more years where we are just like this, spending it with family, eating until we burst, dancing, wishing each other another happy new year, another year where in that moment we are so incredibly happy and we are so overwhelmed we want to cry.

I wish you all my same brand of happiness, the same brand of luck. This is a new year, a blank slate that we all get one time each year, so start this new one with renewed hope, with new plans, with a positive mind, with a happy feeling. You never know what good is around the corner, when love may come your way, what blessing life might throw you. This is the year to be happy, so be it.

THE NEW YEAR'S ASS KICKING FROM YOURS TRULY

I can safely say that in the twenty seven years of my life I have never, even once stuck to my New Year’s resolutions. At least not the whole lot of them. One year I did stick to one of them and lost a lot of weight and ended up 109 pounds of bony chin and clavicles (so unattractive) and another year I did finally learn how to drive (yeah I was 25 when I finally did it but the point is I got it done). Those are the two things I’ve stuck to. I haven’t ridden my $450.00 bicycle each weekend as I promised myself I would last year. I didn’t stick to my vegetarian diet (I did last 9 months, so yay me!) I didn’t learn how to play piano, or guitar, violin. I didn’t take ballroom dancing lessons and I didn’t try to learn Japanese or French.

I am a quitter, I must say. It is so extremely difficult for me to stick to stuff I don’t readily enjoy. I enjoy riding my bicycle but I enjoy more staying in bed and reading novels. I do love animals enough to become a vegetarian but it takes so damn long to cook meatless dinners! I would love to learn to do the quickstep and I’ve always dreamed of playing the piano. But I fear that the piano might take too long to learn and I don’t have the dough to spend on dancing lessons.

Nevertheless I am determined. This year is the year of the new me. No more half assed attempts, no more no-can-do, no more excuses. No more rationalizations. If I want to learn how to play the piano then I won’t get myself the $120.00 pair of shoes but the $30.00 option instead (Eeek) I guess I could stop spending $60.00 on haircuts…sigh. I guess I can stick to my guns. I will see results. As God as my witness I won’t be lazy anymore!! … I’ll try my best to not be lazy anymore! ... I’ll make an honest attempt to not be too lazy I'll make an effort!! (Oh God, I can’t even commit on paper!)

No, I will not give in, damn it! Next year is the year. Next year I will:

• Write no matter what or how badly every single day.
• Show Dear Husband how much we love him.
• Take Zoey for longer walks.
• Finish the immigration paperwork.
• Become a vegetarian…or pesco-vegetarian since I am not giving up sushi (I don’t care how much PETA wants to call fish the kitties of the sea) and don’t quit just because of the holidays.
• Go bicycling with BT each weekend and exercise most days because she is getting married and I can’t let her down with her very important goal of losing 20 pounds before the wedding.
• Use the Rosetta Stone to learn French at least 4 times a week.
• Use my yet to be paid treadmill at least 3 times a week.
• Be a nicer person (I always miserably fail with that one)
• Volunteer at animal shelter (yes, sometimes they kill the animals, but stop being a pussy!)
• Learn to play piano or guitar or both.
• Try to be nicer, be diplomatic, not to hang up on, don’t murder tolerate dad.
• Stop being such a smug, superior and snobby know-it-all.
• Read less and practice hobbies that involve other people aside from me.
• Get a hold of viper tongue.

Like Julie, from the movie I saw Saturday, I think I should set myself some timeframe. Since I don’t have A.D.D. as an excuse reason to not finish anything then it should be easier for me. I should have finished at least 2 of the 3 books I’m working on. I should at least know how to play some songs in the Piano by July. I should at least know how to say “I need the bathroom and can I have more beer” in French by April and I should have lost at least 15 pounds by July with my new pesco-vegetarian diet and exercise.

So prepare yourself 2010! Come hail or high water, no matter how much my comfy blankets reel me in. No matter how much I want to eat a piece of meat, no matter how lazy I feel or how pissed off I am I vow I will get up and bike, I will not lay down for 6 hours straight and hole up with a book (too often), I will not eat cute cows, pretty piggies or charming chickens! I will be active, I will, if it kills me, swallow the meanness and be nice.

So help me God.

LAND OF DREAMS? YOU BETCHA!

One only has to turn the TV on to see all those faces full of hope, talent and sheer determination. From singing hopefuls with beautiful voices to limber stretchy dancers who twirl on a stage hoping for a chance to shine.

The U.S. truly is the land of dreams. Not because here they magically happen but because here you can dream about being whatever the hell you want without having to worry about what people may think. Children here are told from a very young age that they can do and be whatever they want. There are Magnet schools specifically designed for those whose bright future is undeniable. Doors open, paths are paved to make way for those with the talent to walk through them.

I know the freedom to want to do anything and feel that you are entitled to do with your life and fate whatever you want is very American but most people here have no idea how it is everywhere else and they feel they don’t have to worry about reality getting in the way of their dreams.

Back at home one is forced to be practical. There are no dreams of being a star, singer, actress, painter, and writer. The arts are so incredibly underestimated that even if the need to paint, dance, sing and write makes everything else dim in comparison, even when it's all you ever want to do, one holds those thoughts close to the chest as if it was a shameful dark secret to be taken to the grave.

My best friend in high school was a beautiful dancer. She used to watch all those dancing shows, and go to the ballet with me and sigh over complicated contemporary choreographies or painful looking arabesques. I had no idea she wanted to be a dancer. One time for P.E. we had to either make a choreography for a dance or something else that had to do with balls and headstands and all that stuff that require coordination and athleticism and since I am not at all athletically inclined she and I decided to go for the dance. Our group of four met at her house and saw her choreograph a dance that would make the producers of “So you think you can dance” break down in tears. Her arms flew with a grace I didn’t believe her capable of, and the shy friend who never spoke up came to life with her movement. After doing the homework we stayed over to do some underage tequila drinking and only after force feeding her some shots she admitted she dreamed of being a dancer. I never stopped to think how depressing it was that she had to be drunk and coerced into admitting her dream. We never spoke to her about it and we all pretended after that night that we didn’t hear it, that the confession never happened. Neither one of us wanted to be the one to tell her it wasn’t going to happen. Neither one of us wanted to be the one to say her talent would be forever wasted.

I was a closet writer for as long as I can remember. I used to sit in my room, under the bed, in the closet and devour harlequin novels. I would spend hours re-reading Wilde, Twain, Dante, Dumas (Jr. & Sr.), the Bronte sisters, Austen, May Alcott and everything I could get my hands on, from vampires to history, romance, satire, mystery and a bunch of erotic stuff I shouldn’t have been reading but I did anyway and use them for inspiration for romance novels I would never finish, science fiction stories with horrible endings and historically inaccurate novellas.

I couldn’t tell anyone I wanted to be writer. It was such a silly unreachable thing to want to be. I had to dream of being a lawyer, a doctor, engineer or something that could provide for a bright future because otherwise I would be silly. It was shameful to want to be a painter, or dancer, a writer or a philosopher, it was shameful because what kind of future could that afford? What kind of silly person would consider that an option when realistic possibilities were everywhere? I spent my school career writing essays for everyone else because to me it was fun, writing love letters for my friends for their boyfriends and girlfriends and pretending it was just a hobby. I remember telling my dad once I wanted to be a writer and maybe a veterinarian and he said he wouldn’t pay for my schooling just so I could end up being homeless. Way to support your youngest daughter, dad!

Here in the U.S. it's so very different. One can afford to dream to be whatever you want. It is not a dirty secret. It is not something to be ashamed of. I remember the first time Dear Husband read something of mine. I had posted something on facebook about missing home and he was shocked I had written it. He had no idea I “dabbled” and he encouraged me to do a blog, write a book, etc. I hated it when I first met his family and he would say “she’s a writer” when they asked me what I did for a living. I would blush and stammer as if he had just say: “She panders ass” and felt so incredibly uncomfortable about people knowing my secret because deep down I was expecting a lecture. Deep down I was expecting them to smirk. Deep down I was expecting them to say behind my back “what is she thinking?” and laugh at me and my silly notions.

Back at home we are never truly encouraged to pursue our dreams, we are taught what to dream and encouraged to pursue those dreams and those dreams only. We have drilled into us the need to make a profitable career. We are taught that poverty leads to hunger, prostitution, destitution, death and there is now possible way to rise above that. We are taught that only a career will save you from the certain future that will await if you don’t go to medical/law/engineering school.

The funny thing is that when I came out of the writing closet nobody was really surprised. They all assumed it was what I have always wanted to do and all the things I had done so far were simply to pay the bills. It felt so exhausting keeping such a big personal part of me private. As if I was hiding a child that everyone knew was mine.

Here you can dream about being anything you want. You can be the president, an astronaut, an actress, a singer, a fashion designer, a painter, a circus freak, anything! There is no warranty that you’ll make it but just being able to dream about it, just being able to voice it, just being able to put a name to it, just being able to believe it might be possible is incredibly rewarding.

I still have ways to go before I am comfortable saying I am a writer. I haven’t published anything, I don’t have an English degree, I have never gone to a creative writing class and I have a hard time remembering when to use “If” and when to use “Whether” but I am a little more comfortable each day about it. I don’t freeze when Dear Husband throws me under the bus and tell people I write and I no longer give him dirty looks. I ask people to read my blog and when I see someone posted a comment I feel a little less scared every time that they are going to say I am a talentless fool who should shut the fuck up. I fight against that pragmatic Hispanic upbringing every day.

I am so damn thankful that I don’t have that secret burdening me anymore. Because I don't make it I will know it was because it wasn’t my time, or I didn’t have enough talent and not because the Hispanic in me was too much of a chicken shit to dare to dream.

My cousin who is an amazing artist has been blessed with an undeniable talent she has no doubts about and she can blatantly go after because she is here, please check her out at http://andreamontano.blogspot.com/.