Sangry

In my brief blogging absence, I've been pondering what to write about. Some good ideas have occasionally popped up, though the stumbling block seems to arise when it comes to actually writing. It's a step that is difficult to skip in blogging. As soon as Google finds away around that, I am so signing up for the Beta.

I still have those ideas rolling about my head, waiting for me to have an evening in which I sit down with the laptop and want to do more than haunting gossip websites. However, I was forced out of hiding by BlogHer, who threatens to do my kneecaps if I go two weeks without posting. I need that extra $25/year, so here I am.

As those I interact with on Twitter will know, this past weekend sucked ever so slightly. I had to call an ambulance for The Dude on Saturday night, Sunday morning P woke up vomiting, and yesterday the American Embassy bent me over a table like I wasn't even one of their own. FYI - apparently having funds more than 10 times the poverty guidelines is not sufficient a financial basis to start over in the US. Now you know.

Strangely enough, I'm more scarred by the Embassy experience (which I wasn't even present for) than The Dude being carted off to the hospital with chest pains. That right there is at least 8 kinds of fucked up. In case you're wondering, The Dude is fine and was fortunate enough to experience esophageal spasms rather than a heart attack. It's all good in the hood now.

I'd like to recount my discussion with the 999 dispatcher for interested parties, as you couldn't make this shit up:

Her: Could I have your postcode please?

Me: Yes, it's SE4 0YU (not really, but let's pretend it is)

Her: Hmm. No address is coming up. Are you sure this is the postcode?

Me: Quite. ::spells it again using NATO phonetic alphabet::

Her: Yes, that's what I'm typing luv. It's not coming up. Are you sure dear??

Me: Very. ::provides AND spells full address::

Her: It's not here luv, at all. Is it a new-build?

Me: No, it's an old building. Not much around here is a new-build.

Her: Luv, there is absolutely no record of this building on our system. At all. Don't take this the wrong way dear, but - go and get a bill and repeat to me the address listed exactly as it is on the bill. Can you do that dear?

Me: ::first checking that The Dude was not yet dead after all this nonsense::
Ma'am, I don't mean to be disrespectful, as I appreciate you're doing your job, but I can assure you that as a literate person residing at this residence for 6 years, I am supremely confident that my address is exactly as I have recounted to you.

Her: Ok then luv. I know you're not trying to be difficult. OH! Here it is! It was in the system wrong! Hur hur! Now, about that ambulance...

How is that for a story to tell the grandkids?

When The Dude rang me from the Embassy to tell me of the fuckery surrounding his Visa, I cried and yelled into the phone. No, really. Bear in mind that his Visa has been approved pending the submission of suitable financial sponsorship, but I have spent hours and hours gathering all of this information for them to look at it for 2 minutes and say it's not sufficient. I was so enraged I couldn't even talk to my Cheese Wife last night, as if just by being American it's her fault the Embassy told me my ass was too broke to sponsor my alien husband. Bastards.

I would like a good rest of the week please - I don't know what that entails, but I'd prefer a lack of ambulances, vomit, and bureaucracy if at all possible.