Yesterday was the green card interview at the Department of Homeland Security in Kansas City for Mohamed and me.  The green card, which is once again actually green(ish) after three decades of being other colors, is the informal name for Permanent Residence.  As a permanent resident, one has most of the rights of a citizen: the ability to stay in the country without further restrictions, to work, to travel abroad, but not to vote.  In most cases, including Mohamed's, the initial green card is granted on a conditional basis with all old and new information reviewed after two years to continue the validity of the card.  The results of yesterday's interview were good: my supporting material was accepted and Mohamed was granted the green card.  But the interview itself was extremely unpleasant and soured--more so for me than for Mohamed--the experience.

Saturday had been in the mid-80s, and the a/c had run full blast Saturday night.  But temperatures had fallen, the a/c had changed to heat, and by the time we drove to KC yesterday, there was snow the entire way.  Luckily, the roads were warm enough so that none of the snow stuck.  We arrived a little after 9 a.m. for a 9:40 appointment.  The waiting room was fairly empty when we got there, but quickly filled up.  Finally, about 10, we were called.  The interviewer was the worst kind of bureaucrat: he made it clear that he was in charge, he wanted no small talk or humor, and he wanted to stay on his script, letting us know that our fate was in his hands.  He said "you was" at least half a dozen times and seemed to resent the fact that I had been a college professor.  When at one point, I asked whether he didn't get frustrated with all the paper work (he had a huge file and was constantly stapling and punching papers), he said it was no different from being a college professor.  Later, trying to make a point that eluded me entirely, he said, "If I was a college English professor and gave someone an F..."  I wanted to say, "If you was a college English professor, your students should change to a different section."

He asked no personal questions about how we met or how long we'd been together.  He asked only whether we knew each other's birth dates (no sweat there) and whether we knew the other's parents' first names.  I knew Mohamed's only because I filled out so many forms; Mohamed didn't know mine, though I did manage to insert that they died in the early 1980s.  When I talk about them, I say my mom or my dad, not Ruth or Howard, so why would Mohamed know their names?  He did go through all the questions that seemed so silly on the written form (and that were already answered): was Mohamed now or had he ever been a member of the Communist party?  did he advocate the violent overthrow of the US government? did he plan on practicing polygamy? 

As he thumbed through all the papers, he said that none of our letters of support had been notarized.  "Yes, they are--all of them," I said.  He looked disgruntled and said "Well, the one from this Carol Miller hasn't been."   "Yes, it has," I said, so he moved on.  He did like the joint bank statements, but didn't seem to understand the concept of electronic bill paying and going paperless.

There had been a long list of documents that we should bring to the interview, but he wasn't interested in any of them.  When I said I had this year's tax returns, which were the first where we filed jointly and which hadn't been available when we made the green card application, he waved them away saying they were "just data" even though the last three years of tax returns were one of the specific requirements of the application.  What I needed to do, he said, was to write the IRS and get a statement attesting to my tax returns. 

The last ten minutes of the interview consisted of his saying that he would consider the application over his lunch hour and either ask for more information or grant the request.  The focus was on all that we had done wrong with this application and how to do it right the next time--either immediately if he demanded more information or in two years.  And then he showed us out.  There hadn't been one moment of any sort of real interest in us or our situation. 

The USCIS website has been very good in updating the status of the application.  Although we didn't really expect any information until today, we kept the site open and kept refreshing the page on the status of our application.  Suddenly at about 3:30, both pages changed.  Mohamed's skipped the two sections on 'decision' and 'post-decision activity' and went right to 'production of documents,' indicating that the production of the green card had begun.  (This morning it went backwards to 'decision,' saying that the application had been granted.)  Mine changed a rather cryptic message, but this morning it changed again to say that my application of support had been approved.

So the news is good, and we can breathe a huge sigh of relief.  Mine, I'm afraid, is still tinged with irritation at how arbitrary bureaucratic processes are and how easily one person could have changed our lives.

For the fourth time in the nearly three years I've taken Votrient, I gave myself a week off.  By ten days ago, my stomach was in such turmoil that I couldn't continue with the routine.  Although stopping the chemo doesn't do anything for the waves of fatigue, the effect on my G-I tract is immediate.  The first day after quitting, I had a rueben panini with pork belly, sauerkraut, and swiss cheese with no consequences whatsoever.  Two days ago, however, I went back on the chemo; we'll see how long it takes for the meds to kick in.

The switch to e-cigarettes is going well.  Mohamed hasn't broken down once--not one real Camel for over two weeks now.  I cheat three times a day, but eventually the stash of real cigarettes will run out.  Going from, say, 25 cigs a day to three hasn't been too difficult.  And when I do break down, the Camels aren't satisfying.  Still, I have those occasional urges to puff away non-electronically.

Topeka continues without Fred Phelps.  There was no funeral, since he'd been excommunicated from his church.  What must he have thought during the last few months of his life--driven from his church and from his home?  Did he still think of himself as the righteous one with all his former church members now among the reprobates?  His was a life that truly ended not with a bang but a whimper.

We have a leased Toyota Venza, and the lease is up on August 1.  It's almost impossible to believe that it's been three years since we chose the car.  I had just had my abduction cast removed and movement was painful.  The temps were in the triple digits, and I had no motivation to go car shopping--no motivation except that the lease was up in a few days.  When we finally chose the Venza, I said to myself that this was the last time I'd ever go car shopping.  We got an insurance policy to cover the lease after my death.  Three years later and I'm still kicking.  We've spent a couple of weeks looking at cars (crossovers mostly) on the road and the last two days visiting dealerships.  So far the Honda Crosstour seems to be leading the pack, but we've got three more months to decide.

We've had six consecutive months of below normal temperatures.  And April has begun on the same note.  I'm ready for spring.

The Supreme Court in McCutcheon continues politically rewarding the rich.  C. J. Roberts argued that unless there's a direct and clear quid pro quo, political contributions didn't lead to corruption--or even the appearance of corruption.  Meanwhile, potential Republican 2016 candidates and tuches leckers extraordinaire made the pilgrimage to Las Vegas to kowtow to Sheldon Adelson.  The most humorous moment was when the supposed bully Chris Christie had to return to grovel before Adelson because Christie had had the nerve to call the occupied territories 'the occupied territories.'