Blogging has become a much-needed luxury to me. It is a bit (free) therapy, a bit "look ma, I really can write!" and a lot self-indulgent "me" time. It is also coveted time that as a wife, mother and holder of a full time job (and therefore critical component of the household income financial equation) is hard to come by. Period.
The reason I feel the need to explain my passion for writing in my blog vs. the distinct lack of frequent (apparently weekly is not frequent according to blogging best practices...) is that I have received quite a bit of advice (mostly unsolicited) by friends in the last few days suggesting that I should consider posting more often. My friend Brad from California was the first to suggest that I should try to post something daily, if possible (yeah. I laughed too. Maybe I should re-post excerpts from my first post about commitment issues.). My friend Anne let me know that it isn't always necessary to post mini-novels "because they are a bit long" and she would rather that I post a-little-lesser a little more often. Kate suggested, in response to my complaining about the sometimes difficulty of feeling inspired by my own life, that I completely start to make things up in "A Million Little Piece" fashion in an effort to spike my writing genius (Are you there Oprah (God)? It's me, CC...). And, my friend Haley was inspired enough by my blog to start her own as a form of therapeutic creative output and references mine for inspiration from time to time (no pressure Hale!).
At least the millionaire twins, Dolly and Ruby, have an aversion to anything technology other than basic electricity, basic cable and not-so-basic automobiles. They prefer things printed in the good ol' fashioned sort of way. So, they get what I give them when I choose to give it to them.
The problem is that I have a serious, serious problem as a writer (okay, maybe two problems). The first problem, according to people who are nice, call it attention to detail. Anne, who is also nice, but a bit more to the point, has diagnosed it as OCD. I prefer to think of it as "selective perfectionism".
Selective perfectionism is, well, selective. It comes and goes without warning and attacks certain, specific areas of my life. At times Ms. Selective P. focuses her attention on my house and the need to keep it shiny, bleachy peachy clean. Other times she turns her slightly sagging bottom to my exercise routine and my need to run EXACTLY 5.5 miles EVERY DAY, come hell or high-water, monsoonal rain, screaming-child-in-jogging-stroller, plantars fasciatus, blisters, snow, flu or internal hemorrhaging. And, now, she has focused her undivided attention on to my writing (well that and immigration, for what it's worth... but, I digress).
In somewhat rapid fashion, I have gone from lighthearted posts about life to writing, reading, rereading, rewriting, reviewing, rewriting, convincing myself it is crap, leaving it, coming back to it, editing it, rewriting again and then, maybe, finally posting. And, all of that writing and selectively perfectionisted editing needs to occur somewhere in the delicate balance of time between work being done, household chores finished, the child being asleep or otherwise occupied, after a glass of wine to be relaxed and in impressive writing form but before too many glasses of wine rendering me incapable of thinking much less typing a sentence (and, any of you smart asses who want to look at time stamps...I said the writing required wine, not the editing) and all while actually having something remotely interesting to say. Not easy folks. Not easy.
The other serious problem I have as a blogger (I do wish they had come up with a prettier word for DEF: n. a person who writes a blog) is that my ego has become slightly tied up in the whole thing. I admit it. I want to be a brilliant author. I want recognition. I want the gold star for something other than teaching my child to do her business in a toilet. And, sometimes, ego causes head inflation and pride delusions that make me incapable of posting something that doesn't feel (to me) like a well-thought, articulate masterpiece. One might actually think I had a readership in the thousands (actually, I think there are ten of you or so. Thanks for the support! I love you guys!). One might think that I had a book deal riding on every post. I think Ms. Selective P and Mr. Ego now have a love child and it is one Ugly Baby.
Ugly Baby actually told Lola recently that I didn't want to tell her a certain story because I would prefer that she read about it on my blog.
Ugly Baby keeps interjecting "I need to write about this in my blog" in to conversations with unsuspecting participants.
Ugly Baby spent hours combing the Internet trying to learn about "feed" and "tags" and "chicklets" and "HTML" in an effort to increase my reader traffic and blog publicity.
Ugly Baby needs a Valium.
In an effort to make the world right again, appease my dedicated reader base and put Ugly Baby up for adoption, I have decided that it would be a good idea to develop "CC's Code of Conduct for the Blogging Enjoyment of the Readers and the Writer". The CoC is quite simple:
1) Will (try to) post more often in an effort to share my stunning wit and somewhat-original "voice" with my wonderful, adoring readers and, secondarily, with an intimate fellow known as Mr. World Wide Web.
2) Will become one with the idea of parsimonious posting.
3) Will avoid becoming annoying, egotistical, holier-than-thou bloggerfanatical.
4) Will avoid Seinfeldesque blogging about blogging in the future.
5) Will give myself one, 24-hour period from start of writing to actual post.
6) Will aim to add pictures in the future to increase reader's viewing pleasure.
7) Will not lie in order to become brilliant, published author in the James Frey sort of way. Embellish? Maybe. Fictionalize a little? Yes, but only to protect my friends, family and job. Lie? No. Bad, bad Kate!
8) Will do my best to provide insight, entertainment and humor as it relates to the lives of all Bridgets who are now in a married, and possibly with children, state.
So, there you have it. I think the code is going to prove very valuable in providing much needed parameters in my already crazy-enough life. It will help to control Ms. Selective P. It will help to answer the requests of my readership for more postings/less words. It will help focus my direction. And, it will help to keep Mr. Ego in check... along with Vince, who, keeps reminding me that he hopes all this "blog writing business" is not getting in the way of doing my "real job" which actually "pays the bills" (good-bye inner child with big award winning author dreams!!).
Maybe I should show him how much "real therapy" costs...
Posting Recipe
Nothing says decadence and ego like cake, in an Antoinette "let them eat cake" fashion. I recently made these cupcakes (from Bon Appetit) with Airlie and received rave reviews (because, after all, it is all about the reviews). The fact that this is officially "baking" and the fact that these actually turned out, was also a huge boon for me.
Lemon-Raspberry Cupcakes
Preheat oven to 350 degrees
3/4 cup (1 1/2 sticks) unsalted butter, room temperature
3 cups powdered sugar, divided
4 1/2 teaspoons finely grated lemon peel, divided
2 large eggs
1 1/4 cups self-rising flour
1/4 cup buttermilk
4 tablespoons fresh lemon juice, divided
12 teaspoons plus 1 tablespoon seedless raspberry jam
Fresh raspberries (for garnish)
Preheat oven to 350°F. Line 12 muffin cups with paper liners. Using electric mixer, beat butter, 1 1/2 cups powdered sugar, and 3 teaspoons lemon peel in large bowl until blended, then beat until fluffy and pale yellow. Add eggs 1 at a time, beating to blend after each addition. Beat in half of flour. Add buttermilk and 2 tablespoons lemon juice; beat to blend. Beat in remaining flour.
Drop 1 rounded tablespoonful batter into each muffin liner. Spoon 1 teaspoon raspberry jam over. Cover with remaining batter, dividing equally.
Bake cupcakes until tester inserted halfway into centers comes out clean, about 23 minutes. Cool cupcakes in pan on rack. Meanwhile, whisk remaining 1 1/2 cups powdered sugar, 2 tablespoons lemon juice, and 1 1/2 teaspoons lemon peel in small bowl. Spoon half of icing over 6 cupcakes. Whisk 1 tablespoon raspberry jam into remaining icing. Spoon over remaining cupcakes. Let stand until icing sets, about 30 minutes. Garnish with raspberries.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Small Stuff
I have a deep respect for culinary giants.
For selfish reasons (which have more to do with the watching and less to do with the cooking), I particularly appreciate the male and not gay variety. I have a fascination with people like Tom Colicchio and Jamie Oliver the same way that many other woman obsess over George Clooney and Brad Pitt. I have visions of being spoon-fed one glorious meal after another accompanied by perfectly matched glasses of wine.* Yum-O.
*As a footnote, above-mentioned visions are accompanied by the metabolism of an 18 year old and the body of a stripper that I don't have to work-out for (thank you very much).
Apparently my starry-eyes-for-chefs-syndrome is not lost on much of anyone who knows me well. I recently received an email from my friend, Kate, asking "So is it bad that I find Tom Colicchio from Top Chef attractive? Of all of my friends, I thought you’d understand!". And, oh boy, do I understand! Tom Colicchio is ALL man. He is the epitome of the "let me fix your car, mow the lawn, shoot a deer AND make you an AMAZING dinner" kind of guy (at least in my fantasy...and this is my blog and thus, my fantasy). Kate finding him attractive, however, was a bit funny, mostly because Kate doesn't cook. At all. Especially vegetable-anything-food.
Kate is a new friend and fast becoming a member of the Circle of Fabulousness. She was originally introduced to the group by way of my hiring her, and has since managed to charm herself in to the core group of the circle. She is an interesting addition. She's young (early 20s), doesn't drink much (despite our best efforts), has been in one long-term, stable relationship since high school (therefore, no Bridget factor to speak of), and weighs all of 90 pounds without working out (damn her!). But, she is incredibly wise for her years and comfortable in a group of thirty-somethings, is more well "life-planned" the most of the rest of us and is, perhaps, one of the most quick-witted and saucy-tongued people I have ever met. She says the things most people would refrain from saying but somehow gets away with it.
The glue that holds Kate and I together beyond our job descriptions, in my opinion, is a mutual unspoken agreement that life is kinda hard...and harder on some of us than others. We both have moms with cancer, we both have dad's with their own major illnesses, we both have watched our parents lose everything because of crappy health insurance and in return, be unable to help either of us with things like schooling, weddings, first homes etc... Both of us, at times, seem to be parents to our parents, and we both have the ability to shrug things off with the utmost sarcasm that prevents us from actually feeling. We laugh at ourselves. We laugh at others. We deflect attention from ourselves on to others so that no one sees the cracks.
And, we both, apparently, think Tom Colicchio is all that.
Cooking (enter Tom Colicchio) is an escape for me. I pour over cooking magazines the way that some people read the bible. I subscribe to them all; Gourmet, Bon Appetite, Cook's Illustrated, Cooking Light, Food and Wine etc... etc... I covet time to read them. I tag pages of interest, create binders of recipes to try and daydream about the perfect dinner party I might throw. I also watch Food Network; Rachael Ray, Paula Deen, Bobby Flay and Emeril. I hang out online and stalk their recipes after a particularly inspiring show and I daydream about owning my own cafe or cheese shop or high-end gourmet grocery. I fantasize about being a guest judge on Top Chef (even though I am not sure what the angle would be besides "freaky, hopelessly addicted fan who likes to eat things") and winning a foodie getaway somewhere amazing.
The reality is that I am not that great of a cook. Above average? Perhaps. Head chef at Restaurant Guy Savoy? Not a chance. And, baking? Forget it! Anything with exact measurements and waiting time for things to rise in dark, draft-free corners is just entirely too stressful and specific for me. But, above average is good enough for me because it is good enough to keep me occupied and in constant pursuit of "improving my game". It keeps my mind full, ideas flowing and my hands busy during that doldrum time of night when empty air leaves too much time for thinking uncontrolled, unworkrelated "oh-my-god-what-the-fuck?" thoughts.
I have come to the conclusion that I do sweat the small stuff. I sweat the small stuff as a means of diversion from the big stuff. I am great at compartmentalizing and great at developing solution-oriented OCD, one hermetically-sealed "issue" at a time. Once the seal is cracked, I have a tendency to beat the hell out of it (and, figuratively, anyone associated with it) until I have a solution. I tend to ignore "no" and not believe in "impossible". I will for things to come together; to be solved and to work out according to plan.
Belief in eventual positive outcomes is why I tend to struggle much more with issues like Huntington's Disease. Despite my best problem-solving, don't take "no" for an answer and will for happy-endings efforts, HD is one thing I have absolutely 100% no control over. I can't change it. I can't fix it. I can't plan my way out of it. And, that is fundamentally opposed to my life ideology. These seemingly unfixable issues are the ones that are repeatedly categorized in to the Ignore File.
Compartmentalization works. It is what allows me to focus on each step of immigration one piece at a time. It is why I can spend an entire day figuring out quarantine procedures for my dogs or what the better plan of action is for shipping household contents (extra baggage on the airline or pallet by sea?). I know dogs and baggage don't play any immediate importance in our planning. I know they are things to be figured out at the end-stages of all this. But, if I stop and open up Pandora's Box of immigration BS, then I become completely overwhelmed with issues such as: the need to sell our house in a recession, our lack of financial where-with-all to afford plane tickets, shipping of belongings, and shipping of dogs and the fact that we will need find jobs, find a place to live, acquire vehicles, lose 10 pounds (at least) so that all of our friends over there who last saw me 30 pounds ago won't die from shock (and yes, that is a bona fide immigration concern, thank you) and, oh, actually get approved for the damn visa which allows me to worry about ALL these other things!
When I think of the big picture, I want to throw up. So, I go back to my comfort zone of sweating the small stuff. And, in my world sweating the small stuff is best done while sweating over a hot stove. Or sweating while running. But, I prefer cooking because I find the ability to breathe conducive to productive sweat-producing, small-problem-solving.
Cooking is a breeding ground for small problem solving (and what the cooking part can't solve, the glass of wine that accompanies surely can help). Chopping is therapeutic. Invention of a recipe is self-empowerment in a "I have mastered this" sort of way. And, all the while, one can hammer away on all the facets of the current small problems that need addressing. In between the delicate timing balance of steaming the rice, sauteing the asparagus and grilling the tenderloin, masterful coping strategies can be internally articulated (along with how much rice, asparagus and tenderloin I can actually eat without blowing the diet). And while the small problems may cause anxiety or stress, the activity of cooking calms and sedates; a perfect yin and yang, if you will. By the time dinner is on the table I have both satiated both spirit and stomach alike in a nirvana-esqe sort of way.
That is, unless I mess something up. Then I am just kind of pissed in a failed-artist sort of way.
And the end of the day, life is big. It is a balancing act of where you are, where you have been and where you are going. It is part timing, part strategy and a bit of happenstance. It is peppered with some strokes of luck and some twists of fate. One is not in control of all the outcomes because no one exists in a vacuum. But, if one can improve the game of life through strategic management of the small stuff (which eventually equals the big stuff) while also mastering the five mother sauces, I am convinced that one can then at least cope with the heat.
Eat your heart out Tom Colicchio.
Posting Recipe:
This posting calls for a recipe of that is a bit dreamy and succulent. And, the fact that it has a little alcohol in it can't hurt!
Grilled Herb Sea Scallops with Lemon Vodka Sauce
20 medium sized sea scallops
4 wooden skewers
2 tbsp olive oil
3 tbsp Herbs de Provence
2 cloves garlic, minced
salt and pepper to taste
1/2 c. lemon juice, fresh squeezed
3/4 c. vodka
1/2 c. cream
1 stick butter, cold
Soak the skewers in water for at least two hours before assembly. Pat scallops dry and skewer 5 scallops on to each skewer. Brush lightly with olive oil. Sprinkle with herbs, garlic, salt and pepper.
For sauce, heat the lemon juice in a sauce pan. When reduced by half, remove pan from stove and add vodka. Return the pan to stove and reduce by half again. Add the cream and reduce by half. Slowly add pieces of cold butter to the simmering liquid, whisking the entire time. Sauce should take about 15 minutes to complete.
Heat the grill to medium-high (350 degrees). Make sure the grill grid is clean and well oiled (this is important or you will leave a good portion of your scallop on the grill and they are not cheap...). Place scallops on grill for 4 minutes and then turn. Be sure to turn only once. Grill 4 minutes on second side. Make sure grill lid is closed while grilling. Cooking time may vary based on grill and scallop size.
Note: This recipe is pretty intensely lemon. Be sure to not over-reduce the lemon juice, which will make it more lemony. If you prefer a more subtle lemon taste, use a bit less juice.
For selfish reasons (which have more to do with the watching and less to do with the cooking), I particularly appreciate the male and not gay variety. I have a fascination with people like Tom Colicchio and Jamie Oliver the same way that many other woman obsess over George Clooney and Brad Pitt. I have visions of being spoon-fed one glorious meal after another accompanied by perfectly matched glasses of wine.* Yum-O.
*As a footnote, above-mentioned visions are accompanied by the metabolism of an 18 year old and the body of a stripper that I don't have to work-out for (thank you very much).
Apparently my starry-eyes-for-chefs-syndrome is not lost on much of anyone who knows me well. I recently received an email from my friend, Kate, asking "So is it bad that I find Tom Colicchio from Top Chef attractive? Of all of my friends, I thought you’d understand!". And, oh boy, do I understand! Tom Colicchio is ALL man. He is the epitome of the "let me fix your car, mow the lawn, shoot a deer AND make you an AMAZING dinner" kind of guy (at least in my fantasy...and this is my blog and thus, my fantasy). Kate finding him attractive, however, was a bit funny, mostly because Kate doesn't cook. At all. Especially vegetable-anything-food.
Kate is a new friend and fast becoming a member of the Circle of Fabulousness. She was originally introduced to the group by way of my hiring her, and has since managed to charm herself in to the core group of the circle. She is an interesting addition. She's young (early 20s), doesn't drink much (despite our best efforts), has been in one long-term, stable relationship since high school (therefore, no Bridget factor to speak of), and weighs all of 90 pounds without working out (damn her!). But, she is incredibly wise for her years and comfortable in a group of thirty-somethings, is more well "life-planned" the most of the rest of us and is, perhaps, one of the most quick-witted and saucy-tongued people I have ever met. She says the things most people would refrain from saying but somehow gets away with it.
The glue that holds Kate and I together beyond our job descriptions, in my opinion, is a mutual unspoken agreement that life is kinda hard...and harder on some of us than others. We both have moms with cancer, we both have dad's with their own major illnesses, we both have watched our parents lose everything because of crappy health insurance and in return, be unable to help either of us with things like schooling, weddings, first homes etc... Both of us, at times, seem to be parents to our parents, and we both have the ability to shrug things off with the utmost sarcasm that prevents us from actually feeling. We laugh at ourselves. We laugh at others. We deflect attention from ourselves on to others so that no one sees the cracks.
And, we both, apparently, think Tom Colicchio is all that.
Cooking (enter Tom Colicchio) is an escape for me. I pour over cooking magazines the way that some people read the bible. I subscribe to them all; Gourmet, Bon Appetite, Cook's Illustrated, Cooking Light, Food and Wine etc... etc... I covet time to read them. I tag pages of interest, create binders of recipes to try and daydream about the perfect dinner party I might throw. I also watch Food Network; Rachael Ray, Paula Deen, Bobby Flay and Emeril. I hang out online and stalk their recipes after a particularly inspiring show and I daydream about owning my own cafe or cheese shop or high-end gourmet grocery. I fantasize about being a guest judge on Top Chef (even though I am not sure what the angle would be besides "freaky, hopelessly addicted fan who likes to eat things") and winning a foodie getaway somewhere amazing.
The reality is that I am not that great of a cook. Above average? Perhaps. Head chef at Restaurant Guy Savoy? Not a chance. And, baking? Forget it! Anything with exact measurements and waiting time for things to rise in dark, draft-free corners is just entirely too stressful and specific for me. But, above average is good enough for me because it is good enough to keep me occupied and in constant pursuit of "improving my game". It keeps my mind full, ideas flowing and my hands busy during that doldrum time of night when empty air leaves too much time for thinking uncontrolled, unworkrelated "oh-my-god-what-the-fuck?" thoughts.
I have come to the conclusion that I do sweat the small stuff. I sweat the small stuff as a means of diversion from the big stuff. I am great at compartmentalizing and great at developing solution-oriented OCD, one hermetically-sealed "issue" at a time. Once the seal is cracked, I have a tendency to beat the hell out of it (and, figuratively, anyone associated with it) until I have a solution. I tend to ignore "no" and not believe in "impossible". I will for things to come together; to be solved and to work out according to plan.
Belief in eventual positive outcomes is why I tend to struggle much more with issues like Huntington's Disease. Despite my best problem-solving, don't take "no" for an answer and will for happy-endings efforts, HD is one thing I have absolutely 100% no control over. I can't change it. I can't fix it. I can't plan my way out of it. And, that is fundamentally opposed to my life ideology. These seemingly unfixable issues are the ones that are repeatedly categorized in to the Ignore File.
Compartmentalization works. It is what allows me to focus on each step of immigration one piece at a time. It is why I can spend an entire day figuring out quarantine procedures for my dogs or what the better plan of action is for shipping household contents (extra baggage on the airline or pallet by sea?). I know dogs and baggage don't play any immediate importance in our planning. I know they are things to be figured out at the end-stages of all this. But, if I stop and open up Pandora's Box of immigration BS, then I become completely overwhelmed with issues such as: the need to sell our house in a recession, our lack of financial where-with-all to afford plane tickets, shipping of belongings, and shipping of dogs and the fact that we will need find jobs, find a place to live, acquire vehicles, lose 10 pounds (at least) so that all of our friends over there who last saw me 30 pounds ago won't die from shock (and yes, that is a bona fide immigration concern, thank you) and, oh, actually get approved for the damn visa which allows me to worry about ALL these other things!
When I think of the big picture, I want to throw up. So, I go back to my comfort zone of sweating the small stuff. And, in my world sweating the small stuff is best done while sweating over a hot stove. Or sweating while running. But, I prefer cooking because I find the ability to breathe conducive to productive sweat-producing, small-problem-solving.
Cooking is a breeding ground for small problem solving (and what the cooking part can't solve, the glass of wine that accompanies surely can help). Chopping is therapeutic. Invention of a recipe is self-empowerment in a "I have mastered this" sort of way. And, all the while, one can hammer away on all the facets of the current small problems that need addressing. In between the delicate timing balance of steaming the rice, sauteing the asparagus and grilling the tenderloin, masterful coping strategies can be internally articulated (along with how much rice, asparagus and tenderloin I can actually eat without blowing the diet). And while the small problems may cause anxiety or stress, the activity of cooking calms and sedates; a perfect yin and yang, if you will. By the time dinner is on the table I have both satiated both spirit and stomach alike in a nirvana-esqe sort of way.
That is, unless I mess something up. Then I am just kind of pissed in a failed-artist sort of way.
And the end of the day, life is big. It is a balancing act of where you are, where you have been and where you are going. It is part timing, part strategy and a bit of happenstance. It is peppered with some strokes of luck and some twists of fate. One is not in control of all the outcomes because no one exists in a vacuum. But, if one can improve the game of life through strategic management of the small stuff (which eventually equals the big stuff) while also mastering the five mother sauces, I am convinced that one can then at least cope with the heat.
Eat your heart out Tom Colicchio.
Posting Recipe:
This posting calls for a recipe of that is a bit dreamy and succulent. And, the fact that it has a little alcohol in it can't hurt!
Grilled Herb Sea Scallops with Lemon Vodka Sauce
20 medium sized sea scallops
4 wooden skewers
2 tbsp olive oil
3 tbsp Herbs de Provence
2 cloves garlic, minced
salt and pepper to taste
1/2 c. lemon juice, fresh squeezed
3/4 c. vodka
1/2 c. cream
1 stick butter, cold
Soak the skewers in water for at least two hours before assembly. Pat scallops dry and skewer 5 scallops on to each skewer. Brush lightly with olive oil. Sprinkle with herbs, garlic, salt and pepper.
For sauce, heat the lemon juice in a sauce pan. When reduced by half, remove pan from stove and add vodka. Return the pan to stove and reduce by half again. Add the cream and reduce by half. Slowly add pieces of cold butter to the simmering liquid, whisking the entire time. Sauce should take about 15 minutes to complete.
Heat the grill to medium-high (350 degrees). Make sure the grill grid is clean and well oiled (this is important or you will leave a good portion of your scallop on the grill and they are not cheap...). Place scallops on grill for 4 minutes and then turn. Be sure to turn only once. Grill 4 minutes on second side. Make sure grill lid is closed while grilling. Cooking time may vary based on grill and scallop size.
Note: This recipe is pretty intensely lemon. Be sure to not over-reduce the lemon juice, which will make it more lemony. If you prefer a more subtle lemon taste, use a bit less juice.
Friday, March 14, 2008
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.
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.
Monday, March 10, 2008
List Master
It is a funny experience trying to write a blog that is being viewed (hopefully) by the general public. One tends to self-edit more than one would imagine (well, at least I do. I have read some blogs that seemingly have no concerns). One also learns a fair bit about one's self. I am learning that I am not as politically correct as I thought I was, not as sensitive as I probably should be, am able to navigate fear and pain with sarcasm and embellishment and am convincingly good at getting distracted from the original point I set out to make.
And, sometimes through this elaborate self-editing process, I just flat-out lie in order to protect myself and other's feelings. I don't fictionalize the big stuff. I skew the truth as it relates to minor details. My husband's name is not really Vince. I do not have twin friends named Dolly and Ruby (mostly because I am not 80) and I might have had one or two more meaningless flings than previously divulged. I am sure the average reader isn't shocked. I mean, all of Bridget Jones' life is a giant embellishment (being that she is fictional) and yet she still manages to be literary bosom buddies with a good share of the female population. Readers expect a little fictional liberty unless they are reading a dissertation, right?
The truth, however, is that I am rather uninspired today. The truth is I am having trouble finding a way to make the banal world of a Midwestern woman seem interesting. The truth is that I can't seem to find a way to cover up reality with a little delusional trip to humor-land.
One might suggest that today is perhaps not the best time to write.
I might agree.
But, here is a truth about me. I am one of those people who cannot let things go. I have a self-diagnosed form of OCD that prevents me from "moving on" when something on my list needs crossing out. It can be big things. It can be little things. It can be earth-shattering things and it can be seemingly "nothings". But, regardless of the categorization others would put on them, I am unable to filter levels of importance once something is on my list.
I drive people crazy if they are somehow associated with something on my list.
I am a natural when it comes to list making. Robert Redford (I can't remember his character's name...) had baseball and I have lists. I make lists for work, lists of recipes I want to try, lists of movies I need to see, lists of wine I want to drink, lists of home repairs I need to "discuss" with my husband, lists of places I want to visit, etc... etc... etc... I also have a tendency to apply the "listing" concept to the emotional investments required in my life. These lists are more like levels of distinction; something akin to the way our government categorizes the national threat level. They start with the an "okay, ha, ha" kind of emotional commitment and escalate up to the "seriously, fuck off" level.
Emotional investment categorization has been a life-saver for me because I am convinced it has kept me on the "Prozac level" of life as opposed to the "electro-shock therapy" level. The formula for my categorization is a simple one:
(certain life occurrence+associated emotional response) + (heightened sarcasm - time for sinking in) /coping experience gained from similar life experiences = necessary emotional response level
Now, if you are a math person, just stop. I am not. I never will be. And yes, I made it up with no real formulaic grounding beyond making it look like basic algebra. Sorry.
The formula allows me to laugh off the fact that my new found "nickel allergy" means I am literally allergic to my wedding ring and that my daughter decided to give mommy's expensive make-up a "swim". It somewhat allows me to pass through the continual expansion of my ass (now with non-stop, uninterrupted service from shoulder blades to saddle bags!). The formula also leads me through processing my mom having cancer for the third time, owning a home with negative equity, my father being terminally ill with HD and dealing with a recent miscarriage. The formula saves me (for the most part) from melting down when I think too much about potentially having Huntington's Disease and the fear that is then associated with my daughter being ashamed of me, my family and friends giving up on me and dying alone in a crappy nursing home in spite of my husband's efforts to visit me regularly.
The formula works too because it contains an inherent action plan that one may more familiarly term "coping mechanism". Life may try to strangle my inner child, but, when the inner child starts to stress, the outer adult jumps in to action. Like Pavlov's dog, I have been conditioned. I have learned through experience that I don't like bad or sad stuff and I will do my utmost to avoid it. Or, I will just plain ignore it and forge forward as if there is no doubt that following my action plan, despite all apparent obstacles, will overcome.
List makers also tend to be action takers. Action takers tend to get things done. People who tend to get things done tend to achieve desired results (for the most part anyway. I am still working on my diet "action plan").
Sometimes I think half of my success in life is because I refuse to believe that it won't work out the way I want it to. Sometimes I think I survive on sheer will for things to be different; for life to fall in line with my master plan. That is where HD clouds the picture. I may be able to convince myself that serendipity smiling on me and hard work play a large role in effecting outcomes, but, I am not convinced that it can override genetics. Maybe that is why immigration has become such an important milestone in achieving my personal "famousness". Maybe my inability to control the "threat level red" in my life has forced me in to overdrive on trying to manage all second tier issues in an effort to exercise some semblance of control.
Immigration is larger than life on the stress scale. It is mammoth and overwhelming. It is carefully orchestrated yet offers the average applicant as much control as a person herding cats; it can be done if you are willing bet high stakes on your sanity in the process. It is a challenge. It requires lists. It requires carefully contrived lists. It requires lists of lists. It requires list makers and task masters. Immigration was designed for someone like me. I was born to be famous for immigration capability.
I just can't seem to find the natural "aha" synergy that is supposed to exist between me and immigration.
Ms. Jekyll-Hyde is also a list master. Our first interaction of immigration initiation consisted of six page word document list. The six page list was nothing obnoxious or over-the-top. It wasn't rude. It was simply a list of exactly what to do and exactly how to do it. But, here is the weird thing...my list "juju" only exists if it is my list. Trying to deliver according to someone else's list, especially one that is six pages, it just an invitation for pain.
But, pain or no pain, it needed to be done. It was six pages waiting to be mastered. Mastery was not going to be easy or remotely enjoyable. It was going to be hell. Period.
CC's list of immigration fun:
Aquire and assemble the following:
Form 888: This form revolves around people who know you and your spouse and are willing to swear that you are really, honestly married, and not in a mail-order-bride-sort-of-way. You need at least two of these people. They need to live in Australia. And, they need to happen to know your life story, all about your romantic courtship, your cup size and which way he hangs. And, they need to swear to it. They need to swear to it in front of a notary, their Queen, their country and God. No pressure.
Form 40SP: This form is for the Australian card carrying member of the marriage who is responsible for supporting the bastard part of the equation spouse. The proper title for this form is "So you think you know your spouse? We beg to differ..." form. It could also be called the "If you don't remember every little bloody detail of your entire married life, you may not pass this immigration examination" form.
Form 47SP: See 40SP. This form is for the bastard spouse and asks exactly the same questions in reverse. The trick? One had better have exactly the same answers as the "divine right" spouse or one is clearly not a legitimate, loving and wholesome "Australia-worthy" spouse.
Form 118: This is the "So, you wanna bring your kid too?" form. It requires the paper equivalent to a sperm sample and afterbirth.
Form 80: The title of this form is "Personal Particulars for Character Assessment". That should be enough said. Suffice it to say they will know you better than you know yourself upon completion of the form.
Statutory Declarations: These declarations must be made by both the bastard and the divine right spouse. They are a "for immigration officials" version of your love story that must include how you first met, when you first started living together, any milestones such as children and what you do as hobbies and leisure. They must also match each other (clearly) and be paper first blood relatives to form 47sp and 40sp. Statutory declarations must be signed in front of a notary. Nothing oozes romance like love story, government form and notary.
Laundry List: In addition to all above mentioned paperwork, one must also provide passport photos of applicant spouses and children, passports, proof of joint ownership of real estate or major assets (notarized please), evidence of joint liabilities (notarized, please), evidence of sharing a household (notarized) and evidence of a social life together with friends or relatives (just get the stamp already) including copies of every Hallmark moment (literally, they want your cards), and photos and copies of things you have done together, like airline tickets. Finally they want evidence of the nature of your commitment to each other as husband and wife or, marriage certificates, wedding photos and proof that you have listed each other in places where it really counts, like, life insurance policies. Nothing says "I love you" more than your name on the beneficiary line.
_____
In the end, I mastered my first immigration "pit stop". It wasn't fun. It wasn't easy. It took months. But, I haven't been eliminated. I am blessed to be touched with a little OCD and an affinity for lists. The journey for immigration famousness continues.
And, interestingly, I have found inspiration in my non-inspiration. I got to cross "posting a new blog entry" off my list.
Posting Recipe
This posting calls for a recipe that requires a fair amount of attention to a fair list of ingredients that are manageable. A list is only as good as it is achievable. This recipe is both achievable and delicious with ingredients mostly found in your pantry.
Cold Sesame Peanut Noodle Salad
6 tbsp soy sauce
4 tbsp rice wine vinegar
2 tsp dried red pepper flakes (more or less pending spiciness desired)
4 tbsp packed dark brown sugar
1 c. peanut butter (I have used both smooth and chunky...it just depends on desired texture)
2 tbsp sesame oil
4 tbsp fresh ginger, finely chopped or grated
1 c. chicken or vegetable broth
Couple shakes of sesame seeds
A package Barilla (yes, I am a Barilla disciple) angel hair or thin spaghetti pasta.
4 to 6 scallions sliced, including green parts
Optional: Diced cucumber and carrot (as much as you want). Chopped fresh cilantro is also very good.
Combine soy sauce through sesame seeds on a saucepan. Allow to simmer, stirring frequently, until is becomes think and smooth, about 15 minutes. Allow to cool.
Meanwhile, cook the noodles al dente. Drain and rise thoroughly with cold water. Wait for the noodles to drain and dry so that the water does not dilute the sauce. Once sauce is cooled enough, fold/toss noodles and scallions together with sauce in a large bowl. You may need to use your hands to evenly distribute the sauce. For best flavor, make one day ahead and store in fridge. Serve cold or at room temperature. Left overs can be saved for several days.
And, kids seem to LOVE this recipe.
And, sometimes through this elaborate self-editing process, I just flat-out lie in order to protect myself and other's feelings. I don't fictionalize the big stuff. I skew the truth as it relates to minor details. My husband's name is not really Vince. I do not have twin friends named Dolly and Ruby (mostly because I am not 80) and I might have had one or two more meaningless flings than previously divulged. I am sure the average reader isn't shocked. I mean, all of Bridget Jones' life is a giant embellishment (being that she is fictional) and yet she still manages to be literary bosom buddies with a good share of the female population. Readers expect a little fictional liberty unless they are reading a dissertation, right?
The truth, however, is that I am rather uninspired today. The truth is I am having trouble finding a way to make the banal world of a Midwestern woman seem interesting. The truth is that I can't seem to find a way to cover up reality with a little delusional trip to humor-land.
One might suggest that today is perhaps not the best time to write.
I might agree.
But, here is a truth about me. I am one of those people who cannot let things go. I have a self-diagnosed form of OCD that prevents me from "moving on" when something on my list needs crossing out. It can be big things. It can be little things. It can be earth-shattering things and it can be seemingly "nothings". But, regardless of the categorization others would put on them, I am unable to filter levels of importance once something is on my list.
I drive people crazy if they are somehow associated with something on my list.
I am a natural when it comes to list making. Robert Redford (I can't remember his character's name...) had baseball and I have lists. I make lists for work, lists of recipes I want to try, lists of movies I need to see, lists of wine I want to drink, lists of home repairs I need to "discuss" with my husband, lists of places I want to visit, etc... etc... etc... I also have a tendency to apply the "listing" concept to the emotional investments required in my life. These lists are more like levels of distinction; something akin to the way our government categorizes the national threat level. They start with the an "okay, ha, ha" kind of emotional commitment and escalate up to the "seriously, fuck off" level.
Emotional investment categorization has been a life-saver for me because I am convinced it has kept me on the "Prozac level" of life as opposed to the "electro-shock therapy" level. The formula for my categorization is a simple one:
(certain life occurrence+associated emotional response) + (heightened sarcasm - time for sinking in) /coping experience gained from similar life experiences = necessary emotional response level
Now, if you are a math person, just stop. I am not. I never will be. And yes, I made it up with no real formulaic grounding beyond making it look like basic algebra. Sorry.
The formula allows me to laugh off the fact that my new found "nickel allergy" means I am literally allergic to my wedding ring and that my daughter decided to give mommy's expensive make-up a "swim". It somewhat allows me to pass through the continual expansion of my ass (now with non-stop, uninterrupted service from shoulder blades to saddle bags!). The formula also leads me through processing my mom having cancer for the third time, owning a home with negative equity, my father being terminally ill with HD and dealing with a recent miscarriage. The formula saves me (for the most part) from melting down when I think too much about potentially having Huntington's Disease and the fear that is then associated with my daughter being ashamed of me, my family and friends giving up on me and dying alone in a crappy nursing home in spite of my husband's efforts to visit me regularly.
The formula works too because it contains an inherent action plan that one may more familiarly term "coping mechanism". Life may try to strangle my inner child, but, when the inner child starts to stress, the outer adult jumps in to action. Like Pavlov's dog, I have been conditioned. I have learned through experience that I don't like bad or sad stuff and I will do my utmost to avoid it. Or, I will just plain ignore it and forge forward as if there is no doubt that following my action plan, despite all apparent obstacles, will overcome.
List makers also tend to be action takers. Action takers tend to get things done. People who tend to get things done tend to achieve desired results (for the most part anyway. I am still working on my diet "action plan").
Sometimes I think half of my success in life is because I refuse to believe that it won't work out the way I want it to. Sometimes I think I survive on sheer will for things to be different; for life to fall in line with my master plan. That is where HD clouds the picture. I may be able to convince myself that serendipity smiling on me and hard work play a large role in effecting outcomes, but, I am not convinced that it can override genetics. Maybe that is why immigration has become such an important milestone in achieving my personal "famousness". Maybe my inability to control the "threat level red" in my life has forced me in to overdrive on trying to manage all second tier issues in an effort to exercise some semblance of control.
Immigration is larger than life on the stress scale. It is mammoth and overwhelming. It is carefully orchestrated yet offers the average applicant as much control as a person herding cats; it can be done if you are willing bet high stakes on your sanity in the process. It is a challenge. It requires lists. It requires carefully contrived lists. It requires lists of lists. It requires list makers and task masters. Immigration was designed for someone like me. I was born to be famous for immigration capability.
I just can't seem to find the natural "aha" synergy that is supposed to exist between me and immigration.
Ms. Jekyll-Hyde is also a list master. Our first interaction of immigration initiation consisted of six page word document list. The six page list was nothing obnoxious or over-the-top. It wasn't rude. It was simply a list of exactly what to do and exactly how to do it. But, here is the weird thing...my list "juju" only exists if it is my list. Trying to deliver according to someone else's list, especially one that is six pages, it just an invitation for pain.
But, pain or no pain, it needed to be done. It was six pages waiting to be mastered. Mastery was not going to be easy or remotely enjoyable. It was going to be hell. Period.
CC's list of immigration fun:
Aquire and assemble the following:
Form 888: This form revolves around people who know you and your spouse and are willing to swear that you are really, honestly married, and not in a mail-order-bride-sort-of-way. You need at least two of these people. They need to live in Australia. And, they need to happen to know your life story, all about your romantic courtship, your cup size and which way he hangs. And, they need to swear to it. They need to swear to it in front of a notary, their Queen, their country and God. No pressure.
Form 40SP: This form is for the Australian card carrying member of the marriage who is responsible for supporting the bastard part of the equation spouse. The proper title for this form is "So you think you know your spouse? We beg to differ..." form. It could also be called the "If you don't remember every little bloody detail of your entire married life, you may not pass this immigration examination" form.
Form 47SP: See 40SP. This form is for the bastard spouse and asks exactly the same questions in reverse. The trick? One had better have exactly the same answers as the "divine right" spouse or one is clearly not a legitimate, loving and wholesome "Australia-worthy" spouse.
Form 118: This is the "So, you wanna bring your kid too?" form. It requires the paper equivalent to a sperm sample and afterbirth.
Form 80: The title of this form is "Personal Particulars for Character Assessment". That should be enough said. Suffice it to say they will know you better than you know yourself upon completion of the form.
Statutory Declarations: These declarations must be made by both the bastard and the divine right spouse. They are a "for immigration officials" version of your love story that must include how you first met, when you first started living together, any milestones such as children and what you do as hobbies and leisure. They must also match each other (clearly) and be paper first blood relatives to form 47sp and 40sp. Statutory declarations must be signed in front of a notary. Nothing oozes romance like love story, government form and notary.
Laundry List: In addition to all above mentioned paperwork, one must also provide passport photos of applicant spouses and children, passports, proof of joint ownership of real estate or major assets (notarized please), evidence of joint liabilities (notarized, please), evidence of sharing a household (notarized) and evidence of a social life together with friends or relatives (just get the stamp already) including copies of every Hallmark moment (literally, they want your cards), and photos and copies of things you have done together, like airline tickets. Finally they want evidence of the nature of your commitment to each other as husband and wife or, marriage certificates, wedding photos and proof that you have listed each other in places where it really counts, like, life insurance policies. Nothing says "I love you" more than your name on the beneficiary line.
_____
In the end, I mastered my first immigration "pit stop". It wasn't fun. It wasn't easy. It took months. But, I haven't been eliminated. I am blessed to be touched with a little OCD and an affinity for lists. The journey for immigration famousness continues.
And, interestingly, I have found inspiration in my non-inspiration. I got to cross "posting a new blog entry" off my list.
Posting Recipe
This posting calls for a recipe that requires a fair amount of attention to a fair list of ingredients that are manageable. A list is only as good as it is achievable. This recipe is both achievable and delicious with ingredients mostly found in your pantry.
Cold Sesame Peanut Noodle Salad
6 tbsp soy sauce
4 tbsp rice wine vinegar
2 tsp dried red pepper flakes (more or less pending spiciness desired)
4 tbsp packed dark brown sugar
1 c. peanut butter (I have used both smooth and chunky...it just depends on desired texture)
2 tbsp sesame oil
4 tbsp fresh ginger, finely chopped or grated
1 c. chicken or vegetable broth
Couple shakes of sesame seeds
A package Barilla (yes, I am a Barilla disciple) angel hair or thin spaghetti pasta.
4 to 6 scallions sliced, including green parts
Optional: Diced cucumber and carrot (as much as you want). Chopped fresh cilantro is also very good.
Combine soy sauce through sesame seeds on a saucepan. Allow to simmer, stirring frequently, until is becomes think and smooth, about 15 minutes. Allow to cool.
Meanwhile, cook the noodles al dente. Drain and rise thoroughly with cold water. Wait for the noodles to drain and dry so that the water does not dilute the sauce. Once sauce is cooled enough, fold/toss noodles and scallions together with sauce in a large bowl. You may need to use your hands to evenly distribute the sauce. For best flavor, make one day ahead and store in fridge. Serve cold or at room temperature. Left overs can be saved for several days.
And, kids seem to LOVE this recipe.
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
Famousness
Sometimes I feel extreme jealousy of Helen Fielding. She definitely takes the cake for creating a plain Jane character that one can't help but love. And she managed to take that cake all the way to the bank (or probably a few banks!). What better way to write a book than in a diary style where the first part of every entry revolves around calories, alcohol and tobacco and where the main theme revolves around men being fuckwits? Every woman alive can relate to Bridget Jones in some capacity. We all either weigh more than we want to, drink more than we should, smoke one of a variety of things that we probably shouldn't or have been hopelessly addicted to someone with high scores in the asshole factor. If a woman does exist who cannot identify with one of the above, I imagine they are either hopelessly boring or a Stepford Wife (and in that case, hopelessly freaky).
I mention Helen because she is one of the lucky few who (I imagine) made it big and made it famous by doing something she loved, being writing. I always had these visions of making something out of my life and being something big. I suppose everyone has visions of grandeur beyond their current status. I can't imagine that anyone is okay with barely making ends meet or wondering how on earth they are going to afford retirement. I can' t imagine that someone would choose to drink Asti Spumante instead of Cristal or drive a used Oldsmobile instead of an environmentally friendly hybrid something-or-other. I can't imagine anyone would pass over a fill-in-the blank plastic surgery procedure and liposuction (one can always improve somewhere!!!) if they could afford it. And, I can't image that not everyone wishes, if only from time to time, to be a little more famous than they are doing something they are good at. I bet every golfer has dreams of being Tiger Woods, every designer Vera Wang, every chef Tom Keller and every actress Renee Zellweger (yes, she is acting royalty for playing Bridget).
I am not sure what famousness means for me. I am not sure what will be enough to qualify me to feel successful in my own right. A few too many nights of drunken karaoke to "I Will Survive" (sorry Gloria) have made it clear that it will not be singing. Failure at viola, piano, percussion and clarinet have ruled "band member" out as well. A few "b-list" characters in school plays during college and high school lit a glimmer of hope for acting until I came to grips with the fact that I actually wasn't very good and was probably being humored by faculty for educational purposes. Chef? No schooling. Big business? No desire to work that many hours. Entrepreneur? Not enough money to get started and no venture capital angel on my shoulder. Famous wine maker? Yeah, right. I wish. Doing what I currently do? God help me because I would rather staple my face than do what I currently do for the rest of my life. Writing? Jury's out. Crusader for Huntington's Disease? Maybe. Living happily ever after in the land down under sporting a great-tan-for-a-pale-white-girl, drinking fabulous wine, eating Vegemite sandwiches and celebrating the Queen while holding a domesticated Koala? Game ON. I'll put my money on that one.
Maven of Australian immigration it is then. I am aware that it sounds small. I know it is quite niche, but, don't judge until you too have to move yourself, your family, your dogs, your parents and your select household items half a rotation around the world. Easier said than done. And, if one can make the logical presumption that famousness equals happiness to some degree (yes, I know Britney, Lindsay, Paris etc... all cry about how hard it is) or at least give way to the argument that famousness equals being at the top of one's game in achieving desired life results, then, yes, I am happy to achieve some personal famousness for actually orchestrating our migration. So, there.
Being famous (in my world) for masterful orchestration of migration happenings is more complicated that one might imagine. My first brilliant decision was to determine that I needed help from someone who actually knew what they were doing. I needed someone "officially" famous and "certified" and "accredited"; someone who had earned the title of being an Australian Migration Agent according to the very official Migration Agents Registration Authority (MARA). MARA is the official "don't screw with us, we are the government and we are the absolute authority on who is officially of the famousness level for immigration" type of organization. They are the B-I-B-L-E of "So You Wanna Move Far, Far, Far Away and Actually Get There (Legally and Still Sane)".
Surprisingly (or maybe not so much?) there were less than 10 registered, official migration agents currently residing the United States. For reasons that are not entirely clear to me, I felt it very necessary to have an agent state-side rather than Aussie-side. It could be that the 18 hour time change doesn't really agree with me or that I feel less control (yes, I do have control issues) over folks employed by me on another continent. But, regardless of the reason, I stuck with what I knew...American-English Speaking People Who Know About Australian Migration as opposed to Australian-English Speaking People Who Know About Australian Migration, if you can argue that I knew much of anything about either niche-niche group.
The result, at least thus far, is one of mixed review. I say that because we (and I say "we" in an effort to remove complete responsibility from myself) ended up hiring Ms. Jekyll-Hyde (Ms. JH). After sending requests and emails to a handful of the Austra-Ocean's 10, talking live to a few on the phone and shortly-thereafter feeling like all hope was lost for keeping my sanity, Ms. JH appeared on my radar like a rainbow after a tornado.
You see, initially for most people we spoke to, the difficulty lay around a few, seemingly complicated, issues. First there was the parent issue. My mom was too old for a government sponsored worker's visa and my step-dad was almost too old. My mom had cancer a few too many times, which was not at all helpful from a "marketing of oneself" perspective. My step-dad had very limited skills that the Aussie's were actually interested in. They also couldn't qualify on a parent's visa because I was not currently living there to sponsor them. They, surprisingly, didn't have $500,000 to put forth as an "investment visa" and they were too bloody young for a retirement visa (not to mention they take impossibly long to receive. Most folks are truly retired by the time they are actually up for getting one!). Talk about a conundrum. Talk about not wanting to be touched with a 10 foot pole. Talk about feeling utterly and completely screwed. Ms. JH, however, made us believe that she knew things that the others had failed to recognize about conceivable options for my parents.
Then there were the dogs. Australia is really hard on dogs. They are almost harder on Mutt and Jeff than they are on Mommy and Daddy. The lucky people down under have no rabies incidences to speak of and, they prefer to keep it that way, mate. So, you better love your mutts, because taking them with you will be a significant line-item on the relocation general ledger. Ms. JH assured us that she would handle the pooches as part of the big picture. She made us believe that we would be able to sponsor our furry family members without drama or concern.
Finally, Ms. JH was willing to take on the child migration issue for free (good golly gumdrop)! Again, although our daughter was a citizen by decent, the theory meant nothing until the paperwork was signed, sealed and delivered by the Australian Consulate and a passport had been issued in her name. Alleluia.
Ms. JH was different from the rest. She was (seemingly) energetic, (seemingly) helpful, (seemingly) optimistic and full of ideas and (seemingly) able to promise that we had options a-plenty for addressing all the aforementioned issues like my parents, our dogs, our daughter and all of my (spouse to a bonafide citizen) necessary dotting of "i's". Yay! Finally, someone who knows what they are doing!
And she knew what she was doing. She was Australian, living in the US. She had degrees in accounting, teaching, law and English. She owned her own company. She was registered with MARA for God's sake. It seemed perfect. Perfectly perfect.
I mention Helen because she is one of the lucky few who (I imagine) made it big and made it famous by doing something she loved, being writing. I always had these visions of making something out of my life and being something big. I suppose everyone has visions of grandeur beyond their current status. I can't imagine that anyone is okay with barely making ends meet or wondering how on earth they are going to afford retirement. I can' t imagine that someone would choose to drink Asti Spumante instead of Cristal or drive a used Oldsmobile instead of an environmentally friendly hybrid something-or-other. I can't imagine anyone would pass over a fill-in-the blank plastic surgery procedure and liposuction (one can always improve somewhere!!!) if they could afford it. And, I can't image that not everyone wishes, if only from time to time, to be a little more famous than they are doing something they are good at. I bet every golfer has dreams of being Tiger Woods, every designer Vera Wang, every chef Tom Keller and every actress Renee Zellweger (yes, she is acting royalty for playing Bridget).
I am not sure what famousness means for me. I am not sure what will be enough to qualify me to feel successful in my own right. A few too many nights of drunken karaoke to "I Will Survive" (sorry Gloria) have made it clear that it will not be singing. Failure at viola, piano, percussion and clarinet have ruled "band member" out as well. A few "b-list" characters in school plays during college and high school lit a glimmer of hope for acting until I came to grips with the fact that I actually wasn't very good and was probably being humored by faculty for educational purposes. Chef? No schooling. Big business? No desire to work that many hours. Entrepreneur? Not enough money to get started and no venture capital angel on my shoulder. Famous wine maker? Yeah, right. I wish. Doing what I currently do? God help me because I would rather staple my face than do what I currently do for the rest of my life. Writing? Jury's out. Crusader for Huntington's Disease? Maybe. Living happily ever after in the land down under sporting a great-tan-for-a-pale-white-girl, drinking fabulous wine, eating Vegemite sandwiches and celebrating the Queen while holding a domesticated Koala? Game ON. I'll put my money on that one.
Maven of Australian immigration it is then. I am aware that it sounds small. I know it is quite niche, but, don't judge until you too have to move yourself, your family, your dogs, your parents and your select household items half a rotation around the world. Easier said than done. And, if one can make the logical presumption that famousness equals happiness to some degree (yes, I know Britney, Lindsay, Paris etc... all cry about how hard it is) or at least give way to the argument that famousness equals being at the top of one's game in achieving desired life results, then, yes, I am happy to achieve some personal famousness for actually orchestrating our migration. So, there.
Being famous (in my world) for masterful orchestration of migration happenings is more complicated that one might imagine. My first brilliant decision was to determine that I needed help from someone who actually knew what they were doing. I needed someone "officially" famous and "certified" and "accredited"; someone who had earned the title of being an Australian Migration Agent according to the very official Migration Agents Registration Authority (MARA). MARA is the official "don't screw with us, we are the government and we are the absolute authority on who is officially of the famousness level for immigration" type of organization. They are the B-I-B-L-E of "So You Wanna Move Far, Far, Far Away and Actually Get There (Legally and Still Sane)".
Surprisingly (or maybe not so much?) there were less than 10 registered, official migration agents currently residing the United States. For reasons that are not entirely clear to me, I felt it very necessary to have an agent state-side rather than Aussie-side. It could be that the 18 hour time change doesn't really agree with me or that I feel less control (yes, I do have control issues) over folks employed by me on another continent. But, regardless of the reason, I stuck with what I knew...American-English Speaking People Who Know About Australian Migration as opposed to Australian-English Speaking People Who Know About Australian Migration, if you can argue that I knew much of anything about either niche-niche group.
The result, at least thus far, is one of mixed review. I say that because we (and I say "we" in an effort to remove complete responsibility from myself) ended up hiring Ms. Jekyll-Hyde (Ms. JH). After sending requests and emails to a handful of the Austra-Ocean's 10, talking live to a few on the phone and shortly-thereafter feeling like all hope was lost for keeping my sanity, Ms. JH appeared on my radar like a rainbow after a tornado.
You see, initially for most people we spoke to, the difficulty lay around a few, seemingly complicated, issues. First there was the parent issue. My mom was too old for a government sponsored worker's visa and my step-dad was almost too old. My mom had cancer a few too many times, which was not at all helpful from a "marketing of oneself" perspective. My step-dad had very limited skills that the Aussie's were actually interested in. They also couldn't qualify on a parent's visa because I was not currently living there to sponsor them. They, surprisingly, didn't have $500,000 to put forth as an "investment visa" and they were too bloody young for a retirement visa (not to mention they take impossibly long to receive. Most folks are truly retired by the time they are actually up for getting one!). Talk about a conundrum. Talk about not wanting to be touched with a 10 foot pole. Talk about feeling utterly and completely screwed. Ms. JH, however, made us believe that she knew things that the others had failed to recognize about conceivable options for my parents.
Then there were the dogs. Australia is really hard on dogs. They are almost harder on Mutt and Jeff than they are on Mommy and Daddy. The lucky people down under have no rabies incidences to speak of and, they prefer to keep it that way, mate. So, you better love your mutts, because taking them with you will be a significant line-item on the relocation general ledger. Ms. JH assured us that she would handle the pooches as part of the big picture. She made us believe that we would be able to sponsor our furry family members without drama or concern.
Finally, Ms. JH was willing to take on the child migration issue for free (good golly gumdrop)! Again, although our daughter was a citizen by decent, the theory meant nothing until the paperwork was signed, sealed and delivered by the Australian Consulate and a passport had been issued in her name. Alleluia.
Ms. JH was different from the rest. She was (seemingly) energetic, (seemingly) helpful, (seemingly) optimistic and full of ideas and (seemingly) able to promise that we had options a-plenty for addressing all the aforementioned issues like my parents, our dogs, our daughter and all of my (spouse to a bonafide citizen) necessary dotting of "i's". Yay! Finally, someone who knows what they are doing!
And she knew what she was doing. She was Australian, living in the US. She had degrees in accounting, teaching, law and English. She owned her own company. She was registered with MARA for God's sake. It seemed perfect. Perfectly perfect.
The only catch became clear after her paycheck was in hand and the contract was signed that she was a particularly unpleasant person in a "I totally did not see that one coming" sort of way. Hyde emerged. Let the fun begin.
Famousness for immigration was clearly going to prove a challenge. If I was going to be successful in winning this challenge, it would definitely require channeling my inner Bridget:
weight: 138 pounds (dreadful, as I was 110 before child), alcohol units: approximately 3 glasses of wine (or maybe a martini mixed in) a night, cigarettes: thankfully have quit unless intoxicated, calories: clearly to many (reference above weight).
Posting Recipe:
This recipe is not a recipe at all, but, rather, a suggestion to experience the very best chocolate that I know of. Bridget had her Milk Tray and I have my new found budget-breaking addiction to Vosges Haut Chocolat. They do AMAZING things with chocolate and caramel. AMAZINGLY, wonderful things. Visit their website at http://www.vosgeschocolate.com/. And, experiment. You will not be sorry.
Personally, I recommend: The Barcelona Bar, The Black Pearl Bar, The Red Fire Bar, Mo's Bacon Bar, The Naga Bar, The Woolloomooloo Bar (of course, its Australian inspired!), the truffle collections, the marshmallows, the caramels, the Red Fire pecans and the Red Fire tortilla chips. And, it isn't that I wouldn't recommend everything else, I just haven't had a chance to try it all!
My very, very favorite is a toss up between The Barcelona Bar and the Red Fire Bar pending my desire for milk chocolate vs. dark chocolate.
Happy sampling.
Saturday, March 1, 2008
Circle of Fabulousness
I have an incredible fear of flying. It is actually more of a phobia. I never used to be like this. I have never loved flying, but, when driving no longer made sense, I could fly (for the right price of course, because nothing burns my ass more than paying for airfare... paying to be frightened, cramped and believing that God and peanuts are roughly on the same level). Post development of my friendly little phobia, I now have to know there is really no other realistic way for me to get somewhere other than a plane. And, I have a really high threshold...about a 20 hour threshold.
I now require drugs to get on a plane. I cry when they take off (and I am on it). I dig my fingernails in to the person next to me at the slightest bit of turbulence. I have dreams about crashing. I have visions of holding my daugher while going down. It is bad.
I mention my "fear of the friendly sky's" because we are moving to Australia. There will be no driving to Australia.
I begin my immigration chronicles with the obvious mention of where we are migrating to. Australia is the land down under. It is a place not many Americans know much about (no, the capital is not Sydney. No, it really is not accurately depicted in Crocodile Dundee). It is a wonderful, amazing place. It is a place of warm weather (up north), beaches, wineries (yay!), romanticized fuzzy creatures like kangaroos and koalas, rugby, soccer, universal health care, gun control, affordable education and Vegemite. I have to mention Vegemite. Men at Work found Vegemite worthy enough to be mentioned in their hit song (their one real hit song) "Down Under". There is a whole lot of national pride wrapped up in Vegemite for Australians. One had better love the stuff if one is planning on moving to the country that reveres it as much as caviar.
Because Vince is British, he is a citizen of the "Commonwealth" (God Save the Queen! And, God bless that woman for having a birthday that half the modernized world gets a vacation day for!). Commonwealth citizens have the luxury of being able to migrate between the countries that are part of their commonwealth club more easily than anyone else can migrate anywhere else. However, even card carrying members of the commonwealth club don't have it easy anymore thanks to 9-11. We get to squeak through because Vince's mother is Australian which qualifies Vince for "citizenship by descent".
It's a lucky thing that Tilda (mom/mum) never completely converted to Britishness. Lucky for us anyway. I can't imagine being as enthused to move to a small island where is seems to rain a lot, has abundant cold weather, appears overcrowded and lacks all the accoutrements I find endearing about Australia (they prefer Marmite for God's sake!), even if they do lay claim to Jamie Oliver. And, after all, one can't trust a country that once upon a time shipped out a good amount of Tilda's family to a country that was, for all practical purposes, a complete crapshoot (who cares if they were criminals, right?).
The main lesson that I am beginning to become painfully aware of is that immigration is hard. Really hard. I am not sure that I thought it would be easy, but I didn't imagine it would be as it is. Never mind the insane amount of paperwork, crabby bureaucrats, unfortunate choices of migration agents and the bloodletting of money required. Those are all stories in themselves to be covered in other posts. The really hard part of immigration, at least mentally, is stopping what you have started and downsizing your life, while at the same time having no guarantee that you will actually get your visa approved (contrary to popular belief, marriage does not automatically equal a visa). It is a lengthy process. It is a fluid process. You cannot wait for one answer to be given or one problem to be solved before attacking another. If that were the case, no one would ever make it. Immigration is truly about living in flux. Part of flux is downsizing your life.
Downsizing the material things in life is not as bad as one may think. It is actually exhilarating to a certain degree. It forces one to come to grips with how much total shit we surround ourselves with. Throwing things away has become therapeutic. Organizing things for the rummage sale of a lifetime is also exciting (in helping to address the aforementioned bloodletting). Thinking before buying something about whether "it is going with you" and therefore, "is it worth it" helps to put a framework to life.
I have also become attached (very, very attached) to odd things that "will be going with me come hell or high water". I understand the obvious to attachment to things like my photos and my portfolio of "look how good I am at this" to show to future employers. But, I find it interesting that I cannot part with my glassybabys, my leopard print martini glasses, my KICK ASS wine bottle opener, my J.A. Henckles knives, my Penzey's spices or certain Christmas ornaments. Perhaps that is because those are items truly grounded in good memories (sadly, a good portion of them revolve around booze...) and memories are the only real tangible things one has in life if you take away all the "stuff".
The other rough part of downsizing is the people. I can't take them with me. I wish I could. I have a core group of girlfriends who are my rock. They keep my insanity at bay. They convince me that I am normal and pretty and intelligent even when they should probably be telling me otherwise. They downplay my forays in to drunken faux pas, laugh with me to the point of tears at the funny stuff and offer a hand with the sad stuff. They are one of the very good things in life that I shall refer to as "the circle of fabulousness".
The circle of fabulousness has 6 distinct members.
The first is Anne. Anne is my soulmate. There is nothing off limits for discussion and we share the same sarcastic sense of humor. She is one of the original "Bridgets" and may be the only person who would fly half way across the country to accompany my (at the time) sorry ass to the premier of Bridget Jones 2. She is also a transplant to the US and therefore understands my immigration pain like no one else. Additionally she shares my deep phobia of all things related to bodily expansion and flabiness (particularly the belly region). She is the one I can count on for motivation to run one more mile and do one more set of lunges in an effort to create caloric space for the evening's imbibement. And, I am the beneficiary on her life insurance policy which I think sums things up quite nicely.
Next are the "Millionaire Twins". I call them this because I once had a boyfriend who was obsessed with them and their good fortune. He would let anyone who cared to listed that his girlfriend (me) was very close friends with millionaires (oh boy!). The twins, Ruby and Dolly, have been my friends since college. They are exciting, extraordinarily giving, sweet and wholesome. They make you remember that life does not have to be so complicated and that a good nap and glass of wine can do you wonders. Dolly, who lives down the street from me now, is truly my confidant about all things (short of what you can buy at an adult toy store). She has listened to me carry on about certain things more than I care to admit, been with my while in labor and is the only person who will actually share a dirty martini with me. She is also the person most likely to verbally kick the ass of anyone who crosses the line with any of her friends.
Lola is the fourth. Lola is a recent addition to the circle. Lola hates the same people I hate which made her a fast friend. She is exceedingly beautiful, exceedingly nice and exceedingly intelligent (triple threat). She also shares my deep fear of fat grams while at the same time has a great respect and mastery of the kitchen. I should add that her brother graduated from the Culinary Institute of America, which in my mind means she's related to royalty.
Next is Patricia. Patricia also went to college with me. She also lives down the street from me, interestingly, on a street that shares the same name as my surname. Patricia is that friend who is so loyal that you sometimes wonder if you deserve it. She is the one who will listen to you drone on after way too many glasses (bottles) of wine. She is the one who will support you in whatever harebrained idea you come up with (as long as it doesn't involve bingo), watch your kids when you are in a pinch, walk your dogs when you are out of town and cook you soup when it's cold. She also sets things straight in the service world for all of us. Thanks to her intense travel schedule, she has become a maven of all things restaurant and hotel related and she is not about to take shit. From anyone. She is also the reason that I am sure that I will eat a spit burger at some point in my life (if I have not done so already).
Finally there is Taylor. Taylor is also at risk for Huntington's Disease. She understands me on a deeper level than most. She knows the dragon that I am running from because she is running right next to me. She knows what it is like to lay awake at night terrified. She understand that me dropping my keys is a WAY bigger deal than just dropping my keys. She knows what I need to hear exactly when I need to hear it in order to avoid a complete melt-down. She also happens to be one of the goofiest, fun loving people I know. She is the only 30ish year old I know who giggles at the use of words like penis. She also has a body to die for which secretly makes me hate her a little bit (ha!).
That is the circle. There are many other people associated with and linked to the circle of fabulousness, but the core are those mentioned above. They are the undownsizable portion of my life that are holding my feet on the ground. Bless them (and the Queen) for giving me the memories I will take with me. They are what make immigration really awful. Well, them and the inevitable damned airplane.
Posting Recipe...
Because this post is about fabulous people, it calls for a fabulous recipe. The recipe below is a fail-safe recipe that has continued to "wow" time after time.
Firecracker Salmon
1 lb. Salmon (any type)
1/2 c. peanut oil
1/2 c. soy sauce
1/4 c. balsamic vinegar
4 green onions, sliced
1/4 of a medium red onion chopped
1/4 c. packed brown sugar
4 cloves garlic, minced
3 tbsp. ground ginger
2 tbsp. sesame oil
1 tbsp. savory
1 tbsp. ground mustard
1 tbsp. molasses
2 tsp. crushed red pepper flakes
1 tsp. seasoned pepper
1/2 tsp. salt
Combine all ingredients for marinade and whisk together well. Pour over fish, with skin side up but making sure lots of marinade is under fish. Cover and marinate in fridge for 4 to 6 hours. You can grill the fish on the BBQ grill or broil it in the oven at 375 degrees. I have also made, and highly suggest, putting the fish on a cedar plank for additional flavor.
And...being the highly versatile person I pretend to be, this marinade also works great with pork and chicken.
I now require drugs to get on a plane. I cry when they take off (and I am on it). I dig my fingernails in to the person next to me at the slightest bit of turbulence. I have dreams about crashing. I have visions of holding my daugher while going down. It is bad.
I mention my "fear of the friendly sky's" because we are moving to Australia. There will be no driving to Australia.
I begin my immigration chronicles with the obvious mention of where we are migrating to. Australia is the land down under. It is a place not many Americans know much about (no, the capital is not Sydney. No, it really is not accurately depicted in Crocodile Dundee). It is a wonderful, amazing place. It is a place of warm weather (up north), beaches, wineries (yay!), romanticized fuzzy creatures like kangaroos and koalas, rugby, soccer, universal health care, gun control, affordable education and Vegemite. I have to mention Vegemite. Men at Work found Vegemite worthy enough to be mentioned in their hit song (their one real hit song) "Down Under". There is a whole lot of national pride wrapped up in Vegemite for Australians. One had better love the stuff if one is planning on moving to the country that reveres it as much as caviar.
Because Vince is British, he is a citizen of the "Commonwealth" (God Save the Queen! And, God bless that woman for having a birthday that half the modernized world gets a vacation day for!). Commonwealth citizens have the luxury of being able to migrate between the countries that are part of their commonwealth club more easily than anyone else can migrate anywhere else. However, even card carrying members of the commonwealth club don't have it easy anymore thanks to 9-11. We get to squeak through because Vince's mother is Australian which qualifies Vince for "citizenship by descent".
It's a lucky thing that Tilda (mom/mum) never completely converted to Britishness. Lucky for us anyway. I can't imagine being as enthused to move to a small island where is seems to rain a lot, has abundant cold weather, appears overcrowded and lacks all the accoutrements I find endearing about Australia (they prefer Marmite for God's sake!), even if they do lay claim to Jamie Oliver. And, after all, one can't trust a country that once upon a time shipped out a good amount of Tilda's family to a country that was, for all practical purposes, a complete crapshoot (who cares if they were criminals, right?).
The main lesson that I am beginning to become painfully aware of is that immigration is hard. Really hard. I am not sure that I thought it would be easy, but I didn't imagine it would be as it is. Never mind the insane amount of paperwork, crabby bureaucrats, unfortunate choices of migration agents and the bloodletting of money required. Those are all stories in themselves to be covered in other posts. The really hard part of immigration, at least mentally, is stopping what you have started and downsizing your life, while at the same time having no guarantee that you will actually get your visa approved (contrary to popular belief, marriage does not automatically equal a visa). It is a lengthy process. It is a fluid process. You cannot wait for one answer to be given or one problem to be solved before attacking another. If that were the case, no one would ever make it. Immigration is truly about living in flux. Part of flux is downsizing your life.
Downsizing the material things in life is not as bad as one may think. It is actually exhilarating to a certain degree. It forces one to come to grips with how much total shit we surround ourselves with. Throwing things away has become therapeutic. Organizing things for the rummage sale of a lifetime is also exciting (in helping to address the aforementioned bloodletting). Thinking before buying something about whether "it is going with you" and therefore, "is it worth it" helps to put a framework to life.
I have also become attached (very, very attached) to odd things that "will be going with me come hell or high water". I understand the obvious to attachment to things like my photos and my portfolio of "look how good I am at this" to show to future employers. But, I find it interesting that I cannot part with my glassybabys, my leopard print martini glasses, my KICK ASS wine bottle opener, my J.A. Henckles knives, my Penzey's spices or certain Christmas ornaments. Perhaps that is because those are items truly grounded in good memories (sadly, a good portion of them revolve around booze...) and memories are the only real tangible things one has in life if you take away all the "stuff".
The other rough part of downsizing is the people. I can't take them with me. I wish I could. I have a core group of girlfriends who are my rock. They keep my insanity at bay. They convince me that I am normal and pretty and intelligent even when they should probably be telling me otherwise. They downplay my forays in to drunken faux pas, laugh with me to the point of tears at the funny stuff and offer a hand with the sad stuff. They are one of the very good things in life that I shall refer to as "the circle of fabulousness".
The circle of fabulousness has 6 distinct members.
The first is Anne. Anne is my soulmate. There is nothing off limits for discussion and we share the same sarcastic sense of humor. She is one of the original "Bridgets" and may be the only person who would fly half way across the country to accompany my (at the time) sorry ass to the premier of Bridget Jones 2. She is also a transplant to the US and therefore understands my immigration pain like no one else. Additionally she shares my deep phobia of all things related to bodily expansion and flabiness (particularly the belly region). She is the one I can count on for motivation to run one more mile and do one more set of lunges in an effort to create caloric space for the evening's imbibement. And, I am the beneficiary on her life insurance policy which I think sums things up quite nicely.
Next are the "Millionaire Twins". I call them this because I once had a boyfriend who was obsessed with them and their good fortune. He would let anyone who cared to listed that his girlfriend (me) was very close friends with millionaires (oh boy!). The twins, Ruby and Dolly, have been my friends since college. They are exciting, extraordinarily giving, sweet and wholesome. They make you remember that life does not have to be so complicated and that a good nap and glass of wine can do you wonders. Dolly, who lives down the street from me now, is truly my confidant about all things (short of what you can buy at an adult toy store). She has listened to me carry on about certain things more than I care to admit, been with my while in labor and is the only person who will actually share a dirty martini with me. She is also the person most likely to verbally kick the ass of anyone who crosses the line with any of her friends.
Lola is the fourth. Lola is a recent addition to the circle. Lola hates the same people I hate which made her a fast friend. She is exceedingly beautiful, exceedingly nice and exceedingly intelligent (triple threat). She also shares my deep fear of fat grams while at the same time has a great respect and mastery of the kitchen. I should add that her brother graduated from the Culinary Institute of America, which in my mind means she's related to royalty.
Next is Patricia. Patricia also went to college with me. She also lives down the street from me, interestingly, on a street that shares the same name as my surname. Patricia is that friend who is so loyal that you sometimes wonder if you deserve it. She is the one who will listen to you drone on after way too many glasses (bottles) of wine. She is the one who will support you in whatever harebrained idea you come up with (as long as it doesn't involve bingo), watch your kids when you are in a pinch, walk your dogs when you are out of town and cook you soup when it's cold. She also sets things straight in the service world for all of us. Thanks to her intense travel schedule, she has become a maven of all things restaurant and hotel related and she is not about to take shit. From anyone. She is also the reason that I am sure that I will eat a spit burger at some point in my life (if I have not done so already).
Finally there is Taylor. Taylor is also at risk for Huntington's Disease. She understands me on a deeper level than most. She knows the dragon that I am running from because she is running right next to me. She knows what it is like to lay awake at night terrified. She understand that me dropping my keys is a WAY bigger deal than just dropping my keys. She knows what I need to hear exactly when I need to hear it in order to avoid a complete melt-down. She also happens to be one of the goofiest, fun loving people I know. She is the only 30ish year old I know who giggles at the use of words like penis. She also has a body to die for which secretly makes me hate her a little bit (ha!).
That is the circle. There are many other people associated with and linked to the circle of fabulousness, but the core are those mentioned above. They are the undownsizable portion of my life that are holding my feet on the ground. Bless them (and the Queen) for giving me the memories I will take with me. They are what make immigration really awful. Well, them and the inevitable damned airplane.
Posting Recipe...
Because this post is about fabulous people, it calls for a fabulous recipe. The recipe below is a fail-safe recipe that has continued to "wow" time after time.
Firecracker Salmon
1 lb. Salmon (any type)
1/2 c. peanut oil
1/2 c. soy sauce
1/4 c. balsamic vinegar
4 green onions, sliced
1/4 of a medium red onion chopped
1/4 c. packed brown sugar
4 cloves garlic, minced
3 tbsp. ground ginger
2 tbsp. sesame oil
1 tbsp. savory
1 tbsp. ground mustard
1 tbsp. molasses
2 tsp. crushed red pepper flakes
1 tsp. seasoned pepper
1/2 tsp. salt
Combine all ingredients for marinade and whisk together well. Pour over fish, with skin side up but making sure lots of marinade is under fish. Cover and marinate in fridge for 4 to 6 hours. You can grill the fish on the BBQ grill or broil it in the oven at 375 degrees. I have also made, and highly suggest, putting the fish on a cedar plank for additional flavor.
And...being the highly versatile person I pretend to be, this marinade also works great with pork and chicken.
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