Maintaining Ties

In a time of ancient gods...or perhaps just ancient customers, it is in my best interests to maintain links to the UK. The US doesn't fully want me yet, or at least they don't know they do. They panic when I get a little too close, and demand "space."

Not to fret; I can be...persuasive *pops on little black number and a tango mix-tape*.

So I maintain these ties, through keeping a house over there, bank accounts, and of course a driving license. Said driving license expires on the 24th of this month. I don't have to do anything special to renew it, just mail back a form and a pretty picture of yours truly. No retaking test, or fancy jumping through hoops or anything like that, right. Right?

Wrong.

Well, half wrong. I don't have to retake the test. Which is a good thing, because I'm certain I'd get all confuzzled and forget which side of the road to drive on. I had a panic tonight as I realized I'd forgotten the British way of writing the date. Bah.

As it turns out, the Brits and Americans are once more two countries divided by a common language when it comes to passport photos. British dimensions are not quite as simple as their old 2 by 2 American counterpart. Not one, not two, but four stores I went to on my lunch hour today refused to accommodate such an unruly request. Finally, I sweet-talked my way into a JC Penney clerk's knickers. I mean, photography studio. *cough* I think I have a date on Friday.

Knowing that I don't have much time in which to organize all this (as a typical Greening, I have known the license was expiring for months, but am as usual late to the party), I race home and start filling out the forms. Second panic of the day: The D1 or the D798? Which one am I supposed to complete? Bah! Typical British, you wait months for a form, and two come along at once. So I narrow it down to the D1 (mostly because I had previously started to complete the D798 in blue ink, and that simply won't do), and start scribbling furiously. Finished, I read the checklist of items.

Check for £20
Green counterpart license
Photocard licence

Panic number three. £20? What's that in dollars? Does it matter anyway? The DVLA won't take an American check. Crap. Do I still have a British checkbook? By this point, Alice has flown into the bedroom and is hiding under the bed from her crazy Mum who is ransacking the study. Victory! Oh me oh my, I still have the good old HSBC checkbook. Can I remember how to complete an English check? Sod it, I'll fudge it.

Green counterpart license. OK, I've seen that somewhere. Recently. Ish. Like, within the last...four years? Balls. *ransack ransack* Huzzah! There it is in the filing cabinet, neatly filed under "Stuff." How accurate and quaint.

Photocard license. I've got this, no problem. Wait. Oh, that's just bloody marvelous. I simply had to go and get myself a new wallet a couple of months ago. A slimmer model. One that doesn't contain all the unnecessary "STUFF" that I don't use on a daily basis. Like my UK photocard license. Now...if you were an insane, famished British gal, where would you have put your old wallet? In a flash of godknowswhat, I remember that I think I heard it fall down the back of the dresser about a month ago. Why yes, there it is!

OK, it's 6:30pm. Into the car I run, off to locate the only post office within a fifty mile radius to stay open past 5pm on a weekday. Small aside: What the hell, USPS? People don't work? C'mon already. I arrive at the wee place, and...c'mon, if you had to guess people. You've been following this story. You know how it ends.

Ha, they weren't closed. Those who guessed 'closed,' go directly to jail and do not collect £200. Or $200. Or anything. Sorry, not feeling particularly generous today. BUT, they did have a new system in place.

"Damned computers," the woman behind the register mutters. "Don't know why we need them in the first place. So much simpler without." Right, yes dear, you're 100% correct, now hand over the keyboard and mouse and nobody gets hurt. What? Not supposed to utter those words in a federal building? Whoops.

Together, we fuddle our way through the new system, trying to figure out how to express mail something internationally, when she reaches the Province question. "Which province is it, dear?"

Wales, I think. What? Wales isn't in there? OK...try South Glamorgan. Now look for Swansea. It's not there? Hmmmm...that's strange. OK, maybe it's Mid Glamorgan. Not there either? Hmmm... *pulls out Blackberry and starts typing furiously* West Glamorgan. Well now, that doesn't seem familiar at all, but whatever, it works. Did I mention I lived in Swansea for 2 years? Finally, my package is in the mail, my wallet is $27.95 lighter, and it will arrive on Wednesday. The day before the deadline.

And now, I'm off to stare at the ceiling for many hours. Because my life cannot handle this much excitement. DO YOU HEAR ME UNIVERSE? STOP IT!

On Irrational Adoption Fears

Sometimes, I don't know how Barbara puts up with me. Last night was one of those times.

For some reason, I have been desperately craving a baby recently, and not in that edible way. More in the Elvira hug-them-and-squeeze-them-and-love-them way. What with it not being something we're able to do soon for many reasons - some legalities, some financial - the question of "To Carry or to Adopt" has arisen. Last night, driving home, I was contemplating adoption. I was clearly low on medicinal dosage because my train of thought decided that, because I'm a little messed up, physically and mentally, it would be best to adopt. Besides, there are < insert huge large number here > of children who need love, and we have plenty of that to offer. With just a small side of insanity. And beetroot.

But - and here's where I flew off the rocker - I have a fear. I am irrationally afraid that I will have stupid expectations for our child, and when he or she falls short of those expectations, I will decide that we picked the wrong child. And want to take that one back and get the 'right' one.

I know, it's ridiculous. I even asked my girl last night what we would do if we got the name wrong. Like, 3 years down the line, we adopted another and decided that actually, this one fit the first one's name better. Thankfully, she only laughed until one side split, so the sutures were minimal.

So tonight, I'll be laying off the cheese/caffeine/crazy pills and trying not to think. I think that'd be best for everyone.

Look What the Gays are Doing to the Soil

I am not coherent or rational enough today to be able to properly express myself with the elegance and lucidity that my love did, so I'm just going to leave you with a picture. I think it pretty much sums up my feelings right now.

How long until we realize just how socially unequal we are behaving? What will it take? Perhaps it's time for The Gays to get tax breaks since they don't enjoy equal protection or the same rights as others. That seems fair, right? Not enough of a person to marry who I choose? Screw your taxes, then.

ohmygodcanwejuststopandthink?

I know I'm opening myself up for attacks left and right (ok, mostly right) but today has been one of those days that opens my eyes to a lot of similar things, and I need to make a comment.

I'm not particularly doing cartwheels over either choice in this election. I'm not going to pretend that I think one party is all roses while the other sows dresses for Satan's prom. I am going to say that I am paying very close attention (ie: not just listening to CNN, FOX, or other soundbites considered "news") to all things going on and all the things being said (and not said). While I think both choices present reasons they suck the wind from my ass, I know that one choice would set us back (us being any liberally minded person who wishes to hold onto any rights separate from the Catholic church) a million gazillion years, and it terrifies me.

I try to have some sense of trust in the general sway of reason over the people who are voting in two weeks, but I am beginning to see by the comments and postings all over the intertubes and on television that this is not to be. There are a huge number of "you" (you know who you all are) who just will NOT peel apart the layers of what you believe in, what you deem is "a right way to live" versus the reality and idea that there are so many millions of people who share the same country but NOT the same ideas, and they deserve to live as freely as you do.

Whew. That needed to be said. If I ruled the world, I can assure you, hem lines would legally required to be higher - but everyone would have the right to wear pants instead. Do you catch my drift? Are you picking up what I'm putting down?

Think for yourselves. Do not bleat and baaah. Do not confuse rights that are due to you equally as a person of this nation with the ideals of the religion you wish to follow. More importantly, do not confuse mine.

A Done Deal

Last night I signed the contracts for the house renovations. Many, multiple, many mucho thousands of dollahs in a tiny check I signed with a hand shakier than when I signed the mortgage contract. This exact signature was why I started my second job at CoffeeLand in the first place. This loop o' the pen is why I can't sleep at night.

It's done now. I hope I've done the right thing, and I won't regret it down the road. As of next Thursday, let the demo begin!

*gnaws at fingers*