Line of Demarcation

I am from Wisconsin.

I state that like I am at an AA meeting.

Being from Wisconsin has a sort of social stereotype attached. It is the kind of stereotype that was bound to happen with the rise of people like Jeff Foxworthy. We (being Wisconsin collectively) are not as sexy as California, as cool as Colorado or as sophisticated as the East Coast. We may bring forth visions of fresh faced (maybe slightly hearty) milk maids with short shorts and long, braided pig-tails to mind, but the painful reality is that although we are America's Dairy Land, California kicks our ass in both milk and cheese production (apparently California didn't have enough to brag about already. Selfish prats!). We haven't been a hot-bed of American politics for some time (thank you Senator McCarthy) despite being the birthplace of the Republican Party (I know... sorry). And, we are seemingly best known for polka music, cannibalistic and furniture-making serial killers (at least they were frugal...) and being the "heaviest" state in the nation (in terms of ass mass not land mass).

In Wisconsin you are prized for your beer drinking (prost!) capabilities. A well executed keg stand is the equivalent of an Olympic gymnastics routine. We like our food, especially bratwurst (ja!). We LOVE anything fried (especially in fish form) and we prefer it on a stick (guten appetit!). Wisconsin is not the type of place where you meet celebrities in coffee shops; you meet fat men in flannel who smell like manure. We are silly with excitement when our one month of summer finally arrives, we feel a sense of pride when Al Roker uses one of our metropolitan areas as his "pick city" on the Today Show and we thank every lucky star in the universe that what ever divine being created life as we know it, took some divine pity on us and made Green Bay (Mecca).

Miss Wisconsin is homegrown with an inferiority complex. She is taught early on that she is no where near as cool, classy and chic as her neighbor, Miss Chicago. Miss Chicago shines with her bright, big-city lights, her repertoire of culinary delights and her seductive hummmm of city-style hustle and bustle. Miss Chicago is the haute couture wearing city girl and Miss Wisconsin is her country bumpkin, tractor-driving, cousin.

Miss Chicago also happens to be the nucleus of all-things immigration for the entire central region of the United States. If you are from Wisconsin and you would like to no longer be from Wisconsin, then you had better be prepared to kiss Miss Chicago's royal arse.

The realization that our life was going to revolve around Chicago for the next stage of immigration came in the form of an email from Ms. JH informing me that it was time to schedule my "official" immigration medical examination. Ooooooo! She also provided a link to the aptly named, "Department of Immigration and Citizenship for the Australian Government" where I would find a list of Panel Doctors (predators) who were officially approved for conducting medical examinations of hopeful immigrants (prey). With the anticipation of a Wisconsinite going to a fill-in-your-favorite-dumb-Wisconsinite-stereotype (Ha. Ha. You are SO original), I clicked on the link to find out which of the doctors in the area I could go "talk Australian" with.

The answer was none.

Apparently, in terms of proximity, the only panel worthy doctors were awarded to Miss Chicago. The next closest went to Miss Minneapolis. Apparently Miss Wisconsin, with her redneck kinda way, could not be trusted to have doctors of immigration caliber. For reasons beyond my understanding, Miss North Dakota also had one. She must have put out or something!

So, Chicago it was. There were two doctors in the whole city of Chicago who had won the "Very Special Panel Doctor" award. The first was Dr. From Russia with Love (RWL) and the second Dr. Don't Cry for Me Argentina (DCMA). Dr. RWL did not start out on the right foot with us. His main (identifiable) flaw was that I don't think he actually existed. I had his name, number, fax and address. But, no one answered the phone. Ever. So, for obvious reasons he was not a viable option.

Dr. DCMA was slightly better. His staff answered the phone sometimes. I found that if I called back regularly, eventually someone would answer the phone. So, when eventually eventuated, I made my appointment and downloaded the appropriate Form 26 or "So, You Think You Shouldn't be Worried About Your Medical History?" and Form 160, the "You Had Better Hope to God Your Years of Smoking Did Not Cause Permanent Damage" x-ray documentation. I filled out the combined total of 18 pages of red tape, went for another set of passport photos and prepared myself for the trip to the big city.

The trip to visit Miss Chicago ended up being quite the eventful one. Vince, myself and our two year old (Airlie) loaded up the car early in the morning and made our way across the WI-IL Line of Demarcation. I had Mapquested our directions and was confident on how to get to Dr. DCMA's office by my 10:15 appointment. No problem!

The next course of events happened as such:

1) Airlie threw up all over herself, her carseat and all contents of the backseat around the WI-IL border.

2) With minutes to spare, we arrived to what we thought to be the address of the clinic only to find that no clinic existed.

3) I called the clinic and asked for help. They told me to look for the store front on the corner of "Ha Ha" street and "Your Lost" avenue. They also added that there was a playground in front of the office. But, problematically, I was standing on the corner of "Ha Ha" and "Your Lost". There was a daycare with a playground on the corner. There just was not a doctor's office.

4) I tried to explain to the receptionist that I was on the specified corner but could not find them.
5) She put me on "hold" (i.e. "ignore").

6) I was on "ignore" for 15 minutes.

7) I started to cry.

8) I hung up and called back and talked to a new receptionist. She informed me that I was a half an hour past my appointment time and they could no longer see me.

9) I lost my temper.

10) The receptionist put Dr. DCMA on the phone, who agreed to still see me despite my tardiness. He also guided Vince a few miles down the road to the office, which was on the corner of "Ha Ha" and "Your Lost" (how strange!). They just happened to be on "Ha Ha" north instead of "Ha Ha" south. Who would have ever guessed? Clearly not the helpful receptionist! And, yes, there was a playground by their office as well.

11) Oh. And, we were now in "the hood".

We managed to find a parking spot and ran in to the office holding our vomit-covered child. The receptionist, who was behind bullet-proof glass (comforting), checked me in and buzzed Vince through the locked clinic doors to the bathroom to clean and change Airlie. I waited in the reception area populated with women on cell phones talking about "cleaning the shit out of their cribs". From what I gathered however, they weren't talking about diapers and they weren't talking about the place a baby sleeps. I willed for my name to be called.

And, it was. Finally. The nurse, who was the spitting image of Tammy Faye Baker in her 20s, guided me through the locked door and in to the clinic area. My long awaited, highly anticipated medical examination was about to begin!

The exam proceeded as follows:

1) We were put in to a very, very (too) tiny (if you were pregnant) exam room.

2) I became aware instantly that Dr. DCMA had bad breath. Very, very bad breath. And a mono-brow.

3) I had to pee in a cup to demonstrate that I was not hemorrhaging internally. I say hemorrhage because apparently a certain level of blood in your urine, according to Tammy Faye, was okay by their standards. Who knew that there was an acceptable threshold of blood in one's urine?

4) They drew my blood to check for HIV. Apparently any other communicable disease would have been just fine, thanks matey.

5) Dr. DCMA conducted the physical part of the exam which was composed of listening to my heart, me touching my toes, and a foot exam, which he decided not to do because I had boots on and he didn't want to wait for me to take them off (damn those zippers!).

6) He then informed me that I needed a chest x-ray, but, hmmmm... well... they didn't actually have an x-ray machine at this office. We would need to drive 20 minutes to another clinic that closed at 1pm (it was 12:30) to finish the exam.

7) For some reason they decided to do my blood pressure after telling me the x-ray bit. It was 145/96. I am normally 110/65. I was convinced I was going to fail my medical because I was about to have a stroke.

Once given the all clear to leave Dr. DCMA's office, we returned to our vomit-essenced vehicle post-haste and raced multiple neighborhoods to our next pit stop, a place that would come to be known as "Lippy Lupita's X-Ray Cafe".

We arrived at the x-ray clinic at 1:00 on the dot. We had made it! I checked in, paid (cash only please!) and became acutely aware that the entire clinic spoke Spanish almost exclusively. Shit. Double shit. In spite of years of high school and college Spanish, my Spanish speaking skills revolved directly around being able to order a beer and find a bathroom on spring break. However, my concerns about my lack of spanish eloquency were quickly trumped by a little girl in the waiting room named Lupita.

Lupita quickly took interest in us newcomers to the waiting room. She became obsessed with me and my Black Berry and I entertained her mindless chatter. I started to feel comfortable. And, I started to feel like we were blending in thanks to the help of friendly little Lupita. But, then Lupita started to take interest in Airlie. And apparently that interest stemmed from the fact that Airlie smelled funny. And apparently her smelling like BARF (her words, not mine) needed to be shared with each and every person in the waiting room. A deep sense of parental shame started to creep in. My face took on a cherry hue. I started to sweat. My antiperspirant stopped working.

I have never tried so hard to pretend that I was deeply interested in Telemundo.

After an hour of Lupita announcing Airlie smelled, I asked (begged) the receptionist to determine whether I would be seen any time in the near future. It turned out that the x-ray technician was now ready to see me. Alleluia.

I followed the technician, who was approximately 80 years old and interestingly weighed about 80 pounds, down a long corridor to a room that housed what had to be the oldest, still operating, x-ray machine. It was mammoth. It was antiquated. It belonged in the Smithsonian. I had no faith it was actually going to work. It felt seedy and wrong, like a back alley kind of procedure. But, one paper hospital gown, lead sheet and breath-holding-for-an-eternity episode later, my insides were successfully captured for an immigration Kodak moment.

I was done. I was free to leave Lippy Lupita's X-Ray Cafe with my smelly child and my stressed-out husband. I wasn't entirely sure that my file was going to make it to the Consulate, nor was I sure that there was anything remotely legitimate about the people who were in control of my future as it related to the medical examination, but, I was damn glad to be done.

And, as we made our way home, I was happy to see Miss Wisconsin because I had determined that Miss Chicago keeps some shady company.

Posting Recipe

For the record, I drink wine not beer and I don't eat brats. But, being a good Wisconsin girl, I thought a meat-centric recipe that could nicely compliment beer or wine would serve nicely for this post.

Beef (or Veal) and Sage Meatballs with Gorgonzola-Walnut Dipping Sauce

Preheat the over to 425 degrees.

Meatballs
1 pound ground beef (or veal)
1 egg
2 cloves garlic, finely chopped
6 to 8 sage leaves, finely chopped
1/2 cup bread crumbs
1/3 cup grated parmigiana
1/4 teaspoon grated nutmeg (I strongly encourage using fresh nutmeg...much better flavor)
ground black pepper
olive oil for drizzling

Dipping Sauce
3/4 cup chopped walnuts
2 tbsp butter
2 tbsp all-purpose flour
1/2 cup dry white wine
1 cup chicken stock
1 cup cream
1 cup Gorgonzola, crumbled

Place ground meat in a mixing bowl and add to it the egg, garlic, sage, bread crumbs, cheese, nutmeg, and salt and pepper, to taste. Drizzle a little olive oil into the bowl, mix and roll small 1-inch balls. Arrange balls in a single layer on a nonstick cookie sheet and bake 8 to 10 minutes in a hot oven until meat is golden and firm.

Toast the walnuts and place them in a food processor. Grind walnuts and reserve.

In a deep skillet over medium heat, melt butter. Whisk flour in to butter and cook a minute. Then whisk in wine and reduce by half. Whisk in stock, when it bubbles and begins to reduce, stir in cream and reduce heat to medium low. Simmer to thicken the sauce a bit, about 2 to 3 minutes. Melt in Gorgonzola and stir in ground walnuts and then season with salt and pepper to taste.

Put toothpicks through meatballs and put on a tray with the sauce in a decorative bowl in the middle.

This recipe is a mild adaptation to one provided by Rachael Ray on Food Network.