When you pair the disregard I pay to all things that verify my legal identity and the Indian consulates somewhat - er - rigid requirements, I'm afraid we are in a pickle indeed. Let's see. From where we left off...
Well, Amanda did not have my birth certificate as it turned out, but thankfully, Mom did. A scan of the very officious document now sits in my inbox. So: birth certificates, check.
I called Joshua yesterday with another concern. While I was filling out the application for the visa, I began to realize that our proof of residence might not actually be as easy as I had initially thought. Although our plans had been to go to the Chicago Travisa Outsourcing office, if I filled out the application with Louisiana as our temporary or permanent residence, the form then led me to the Houston Travisa Outsourcing office for an appointment. This, of course, set off a few warning bells. I tried calling every Travisa Outsourcing office in the country, but they were either disconnected or did not pick up.
Naturally, as soon as Joshua came home, he picked up the phone and was immediately connected to Sally from Travisa Outsourcing in Chicago. Yes, in fact, it does matter. If you are a resident of Louisiana, then you must go through the office in Houston. Residency is determined by one of three documents: a drivers' license, a state ID, or a utility bill with your name and address. Oh, you say that your wife has neither a drivers' license nor a state ID and her name is not on the utility bill because she's never wrote a check for the water and electricity she uses and enjoys every day of her life? Well, I'm afraid that India will reject her application for visa on principle.
Shit. Shit, and more shit. So there's good news and bad news: once upon a time I did have a drivers' license (and yes, I disregard the law every time I sit behind the wheel of a car), and it was a Minnesotan drivers' license. The very nice lady at Travisa Outsourcing in Chicago said that she thinks that the temporary documentation that is given to you when you're replacing a drivers' license will suffice, but she's not sure.
The next day - today - I called Kathy, operator number 64, with the Minnesota Department of Motor Vehicles. She was very helpful, but I think she may have been put off by my melodrama. She put the paperwork I will need to fill out to request a replacement in the mail. I fill out a sheet of paper with a carbon copy. The carbon copy is my temporary license. Kathy, I said, is there any way that we can make this a bit more official? Well, she said, we can fax a document that says you are, in fact, in the database, and you have, in fact, been in the database for quite some time. Yes, I said, but Kathy, I said, does that document have my name and address on it? Well it can if you want it to, she says. I think she's starting to suspect that I've gotten myself into serious trouble. I explain that I need to prove residency in order to secure a visa to India. She seems somewhat skeptical, but nevertheless reassures me that this fax can and will be sent.
Ok. So problem is sort of solved. We're still planning on our sojourn to Chicago. Keep your fingers crossed that my carbon copy and fax are sufficient. For now, my heart rate is permanently elevated.
In other news... Sarah was attacked by a horrid swarm of fire ants and her foot looks like the victim of some strange disease that you should only be able to contract in the depths of the Amazonian Rain Forest. We watched Mad Men while she soaked her foot and fought off the stupor of Benadryl.
I've barely packed. The house, apart from my dresser and the bookshelf, looks completely and totally lived in. We look like we could be staying for years. As I said, my heart rate is permanently elevated.
In the face of these mounting responsibilities, I set aside a good chunk of time to make my very own business cards. They're hand-made, and I think they're quite cute. I found a little art pocket book at a thrift store, and I've been cutting out the images, gluing them to construction paper, and then handwriting the title, name of artist, and my name and the address of this blog on the back. I plan to pass them out while we travel to whomever. It's actually been very nostalgic. The art book was A to Z, and it had only the most epic artists and artworks. It reminded me of all my favorites: Egon Schiele with his twisted, inky lines, Wyeth and his romantic, melancholy countryside, Eva Hesse's ethereal installations, Louise's feet, O'Keefe's flowers, Reubenstein and Cornell's shadow boxes, crazy collages... Diebenkorn, Mondrian, Rosetti, Klimt, Canova, Rodin, Bacon, and Modigliani. I spent hours cutting them out and gluing them to a rusty red construction paper. Friedrich, Toussaint, Ingres, Delacroix, and Munch. Frida, Frankenthaler, and Mucha. I love those artists. I miss sitting in Art History, watching those slides and listening to Professor Williams tell stories about artists and color and composition. I can't think of a better calling card than a little piece of their artwork :)
Went to the gym and sweat through ABT (or, Abs, Butt, and Thighs, but I think that sounds semi-pornographic. To be perfectly honest, I think we all look semi-pornographic while we're doing squat after squat and all those "butt taps."). Joe, the teacher, is positively vindictive, but I love it. I've been going for four months now, but I still can't do the whole thing. For one hour every Monday and Thursday, Joe makes us do tempo jumping jacks for five minutes, over 400 squats, 4 minutes of butt taps (holding a squat while moving your ass ever so elegantly up and down about 4 inches to a beat: pulse, pulse, pulse), hop-hop-squats for 4 minutes, 200 lunges, and then an assortment of either 400 deadlifts with weights or tortuous leg lifts while you're on all fours. For the last five minutes, we burn out on push ups. Most people just lay on their backs moaning at the ceiling. After the first four weeks, I could still barely walk for four days afterwards, but I've gotten to the point where I can now walk normally the next day. I still get sore.
Two more books to add to the list!
Her Fearful Symmetry by Audrey Niffeneger - Strange and interesting. Not fabulous. Not too spooky.
A Year in Provence by Peter Mayle - VERY funny. I especially love the story about Turkish toilets and the discussion of toilet couture. I love this insight into French culture. To be perfectly honest, I hadn't the slightest interest in the French before: they've never seemed all that interested in anyone but themselves before, but for all their self-absorption and xenophobia, I can definitely appreciate a culture that revolves around food, wine, lovely landscape, and community. I'm still far from a Francophile, but I'm a bit more forgiving of their ethnocentrism :) (If you feel the need to chastise me for my shameless cultural generalizations, I ask of you: introduce me to a compassionate and tolerant - no, curious! - frenchman. Show me the error of my ways.)
I was laughing out loud (and cringing occasionally) as I read your post:)
ReplyDeleteI do think that the business card activity may have been primarily sublimation, but that's just one person's opinion. Did you put your blog's URL on it?
What is the Minnesota address that you are using? Let whoever's address it is know, just in case they call. They can call the 651.490.XXXX number; you are still listed as part of the outgoing message (I really do need to change that eventually . . .).
I can empathize with the experience of trying and trying and trying to do something only to have Mandy try once and complete it. When is there a time when we despise our spouses' more?:)