Archive for June, 2010

They say opposites attract, but I’d be inclined to argue that opposites don’t stay together, not for the long hall at least.  As far as things go to be opposites on, gaming tends to be pretty clear cut: you are either for it, engaging in it as a hobby and a passion or you’re against it, regarding it as childish and a waste of time.  Stereotypically, the example always tends to be a less-than-attentive husband and a nagging wife.  But what about couples who are both into gaming?  What about the couple who can both scream a blood curdling war cry and slaughter the enemy and spend tender moments curled on the couch together? Mark and I are this couple, and we’ve learned alot from gaming.

Teamwork- One person takes the hits, the other heals them without running away (not that I’ve ever ran mind you… no seriously).

Trust – Learning to rely on your healer, aka the wife, who has assured you she isn’t going to run away and leave you to die this time.

Respect – You want the acheivement and by God, everyone in the room is staying until you get it.

Communication – “FOR THE LOVE OF CHRIST WHAT THE F IS THAT A-HOLE DOING? NEED HEALS NOW PLEASE!”

Compromise – I got the last piece of loot, you can have this one.

Acceptance - You’re far more elite than I will ever be.

Committment- You mean to say we’ve been on this raid for 5 hours?

If you have any to add, share in the comment section!

Happy Father’s Day to my great dad!

And to one daddy-to-be:

Today marks 37 weeks, and now Maddie is full term.  It could literally be any day now.

This is a thought I have had the last couple of days, and I believe it to be born out of the knowledge that our Little Doodle was found to be a girl.  Whilst having a healthy, happy baby was far more important to me than having a preference on gender I did have a number of fears related to raising a girl, primarily those surrounding the unobtainable standard of beauty fed to us by our western culture at every turn, or the early sexualization of girls through the ever-increasing demand for adult clothing in children’s sizes.   And I started thinking.

The problem as I see it is we place too much emphasis on looks, clothing, and other superficial means of relating to one another.  Every way you turn there is another clothing store opening up offering the latest fashions sure to make you look fantastic and attractive.  Next to these clothing stores you have beauty shops, filled to the brim with every lotion and potion and pill you could imagine, from those that will clear your skin up to those that will help make you appear ten years younger.  There are salons for your hair, feet, and hands with people working inside who have made a career out of making these very specific parts of your body look as great as possible.  And for the all over makeover, the gym and health industry is a multi-billion dollar a year juggernaut.

And all for what?  To attract other people.  I would say to attract a mate but we know that such personal grooming doesn’t stop at the nuptials.  In fact, looking good is so important in our society that it is the first thing we judge a person on, we have made an industry out of idolizing the most gorgeous among us as celebrities, and to think how many hours of our lives go into dwelling on worrying about how we look, physically, to others.  How much of our own self worth is attached to this obsession for being attractive, thin, pretty, and therefore, worthy.

Could you imagine what the world would look like if we were just as obsessed with intelligence, instead of physical appearance?  Instead of those endless malls filled with clothing stores you would have book stores and libraries, learning centers and lecture halls.  The beauty stores would be replaced with stores pushing ways of being smarter, such as the newest technology in sleep memorization… and the audio CDs for any subject you could desire.  And, for the price and time of that mani-pedi, why … you could pop into an entirely different kind of spa and perhaps be given a 30 minute course in the works of Edgar Allan Poe, because a little knowledge in gothic literature would make you all the more attractive.

It would be a world where poetry and prose were discussed in circles of friends instead of the latest dirt on some vapid celebrity.  A place where red carpet events would be held for the greatest minds of this century for math and science, with the paparazzi close to hand to snap photos of these new kind of stars as they walked into the building. Where instead of a party celebrating the latest in mediocre films there would be a celebration of the latest breakthroughs in science.  Sports would be replaced by matches of intellectual prowess and the money of those past sports figures, oh God the amount of money that used to go into inflating the salaries and egos of  drug-fueled sports figures would go towards funding research for diseases, and these bright minds behind the research would be printed on posters that hang in a child’s bedroom, reminding the budding young enthusiast of what he could one day grow up to become.

But sadly this type of world would never exist.  It simply isn’t encoded in our genetics to value intelligence over looks.  After all, the pea hen does not inquire as to what the peacock thought of the morning sunrise, instead her determination to mate with him is based solely upon the intensity of his plumage and the manner by which he waves it around.  It’s the case in selecting a mate species to species, and hasn’t left our own primal ambitions simply because we’ve evolved into sentient beings. We will never live in a society like the one I’ve described because we are nothing more than, as the band Incubus put it, “apes with ego trips.”

So, to go full circle, I worry about raising a daughter in the world in which we DO live: the beauty obsessed, celebrity worshiping culture that has formed.  I worry that any influence I try to instill in the importance of intelligence will be equally countered by her peer group’s desire to discuss wastes of space like Kate “Jordan” Price, or that a good book in the park will not be as valued as time spent shopping for short skirts and lipstick.  And I worry, more than anything, that she will end up as I did: developing early, looking and feeling awkward among her peers, and being cast aside or even picked on for things that really shouldn’t matter in life.  Because really, what is the importance of intelligence to a child when they are made to feel bad about themselves at school?  I assure you, none of my peers cared I had read Gone with the Wind at age 9, or that at age 11 my reading level tested equal to that of a 2nd year university student.  They cared only that I was a little heavy and looked different.  And that’s such a shame.

We are faced with the challenges ahead in raising a girl, and I can only hope that we can give her enough confidence to hold her head high and be who SHE wants to be, and not what society tells her she should aspire to.

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In my purse I carry with me a piece of paper.  The paper is ragged, worn, and dog-eared at the edges.   I received the letter on the 28th of November, 2009 from the UK Border Agency, confirming they have received my Indefinite Leave to Remain visa application, and the letter told me my reference number.  I’ve had this letter with me every day since then, every day for the last seven months.

Numerous times I called to check the status of my application, and the paper would be wrought in my hands, or scribbled upon as I anxiously waded through the options on the telephone, hoping to get through to the right people… hoping to have an answer.

The nerves came from a payment issue.  By February my application still had not been processed.  At this time, a fraudster took it upon himself to withdraw hundreds of pounds of my money from my bank account via paypal, and my bank instinctively canceled my debit card… the same debit card whose details were in the unprocessed application.

I called to give them new details, only to my horror they stated they would not be able to amend anything on my application.  So I was left to ask the only question which mattered:  What will happen when you try to process the payment?  The answer?  The application would be failed.

It was at this point I had to hand the phone over to my husband, as I could no longer breathe.  Image after image ran through my mind, scenarios of what my life would look like if I was suddenly not allowed to stay in the country legally.  I thought about losing my job and with it, my right to maternity leave. I thought about having to leave the country in order to apply again, and spending time away from my husband.  I thought about what it would look like to lose the flat in which we lived, because we would no longer be able to afford the rent if I lost my job.

The stress was unlike any I had ever felt before.  I cried on the couch, shaking with fear over what this meant for my future, and the future of our budding little family.  At the same time, I felt the overwhelming guilt that the stress I was feeling wasn’t healthy for the baby, at the time 4 months along.  But I couldn’t stop.  I couldn’t compose myself long enough to answer any of the questions Mark was trying to ask, I couldn’t even hear them being asked.  It felt as though this little life I had managed to built for myself and Mark over the last two years was going to be taken away from me.

Once I was able to, I messaged an immigration advisor I knew through an immigration board.  She gave me her number and I called, crying, that this was the worst case scenario.  But it wasn’t, as she told me.  She told me what I needed to do, that it would be sent back and I would appeal it, that it happens all the time.  I don’t honestly know what I would’ve done that day had I not had that conversation, for someone who knew the ropes to tell me it would be okay, that I wouldn’t lose my job or have to reapply.  The thank yous I have given do not adequately describe the gratitude I feel for having someone out there say it was all going to be okay.

I sent a letter.  I sent a letter to the Border Agency with a money order for the fee amount, explaining the situation and begging them to attach the money order to my application.  I then waited.  I waited several months, calling them to try to get some kind of update, any indication my money order letter was a success.  And in my hands was the original letter they sent me months ago.  Names and call dates written on it, the paper thinned at the creases where it had been folded time and time again, my application number standing off the page, a number I practically knew by heart.

May rolled around and I had still not heard anything.  My husband and I contacted the local Member of Parliament, who agreed to contact the Agency on our behalf.  We wrote two letters of formal complaint, and I sent half a dozen emails.  May turned to June, and still nothing.

Then today, as I went to the door to open it for a friend, I noticed I had a package.  I brought it inside and sat it down as we talked.  Glancing at it, I saw it was postmarked from Croydon, and suddenly I knew what it was.  I ripped it open, and inside was the binder containing everything I had worked so hard to collect and assemble over the last two years.  It was a record of my life, my marriage certificate, proof of where I lived and mail throughout the two year period proving it. It was a declaration: I exist, I live here, I have made a life for myself.

I opened the binder and found my passport beneath a letter from the Border Agency stating the application’s approval.  Nervously, I found the large stamp they placed in the back: Residence Permit.  I was granted the ability to remain in the country for an indefinite period of time.  The song and dance was over, the music stopped playing, and we could all finally go home.

Now I’ve removed the original letter from the Border Agency, dated the 28th of November, 2009, from my purse.  I no longer need to carry it, no longer need my application number close to hand, no longer need to stress the already worn fibers of the page between my fingers in yet another blood pressure raising phone call.  I finally have the visa.

I finally have it.