Meal ticket

So the immigration interview was so much less dramatic than I had hoped it would be. I had visions of Gerard Depardieu and Andie MacDowell dancing in my head, and, as we sat in the waiting room for our interviewer to call us, I thought suspiciously that those sprinkler heads might be cameras. R gets super nervous when anything official is involved. He tends to forget things like numbers.

Me: Maybe we should be smooching or something. You know, to prove our “ongoing marital relationship”.

R: I am not kissing in front of all these people. Did you see that guy with the turban? I think he’s Osama’s cousin.

Me: He’s not Osama’s cousin. Calm down.

Interviewer: Tran? Van Phuong Tran?

(Nervous-looking Vietnamese scuttle over from the corner)

R: This place makes me nervous.

Me: YOU make me nervous.

R: What’s your favorite color again?

Interviewer: R? R MiddlenameLastname? Lastname? Lastname???

Me: That’s us.

R, whispering: What’s your favorite color???

Interviewer leads us into the office, where two large stamps are prominently placed on the spotless desk, in front of a computer. One is red, and says APPROVED. One is black, and says DENIED. I stare at the stamps while she asks us to sit.

Interviewer: So I’m just going to ask you some questions about the paperwork and then we’ll talk about The Marriage.

Us: OK.

Interviewer: Sir, what is your wife’s birthday?

R: July 18th, 1976. (Not even close to any date that’s remotely related to our family.)

Silence.

Interviewer: Umm….Julyyyyyyy????

R (completely lost at this point): Um, yeah. July. No. June. No. July. JULY!

Me: Wha—

Interviewer: Sorry, ma’am. You can’t help him.

Me: Sorry. (Bowing head, praying to GOD that he remembers. Wondering how many answers you can get wrong before they deport your butt home. Wondering how I can telepathically send the answers to his head- and what? Like he didn’t KNOW?? How is he forgetting my birthday?? How is he forgetting the MONTH?? This is the FIRST QUESTION!!! We’re DOOOOOOMED)

R: OH. Sorry. I mean RealDate.

Interviewer: Right. OK. And sir, where was she born?

R: Um….here?

Interviewer: Um. Yeah. The city?

R: New York.

Interviewer: Right. That’s the staaaaaate (like to a 4-year old). I need the ciiiiityyyy.

R: New York.

Interviewer: Ma’am?

Me: SmalltowninNYthatnobodysheardof.

Interviewer: Right. (Sighs)

Yeah. At least I know where I was born. I can see the cogs turning in the Interviewer’s head. She is mentally reaching for the black stamp. I know it. Must…take…drastic measures.

R: Have you seen the pictures of our kids?

BAM!

Red stamp.

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7 Responses to Meal ticket

  1. antropologa says:

    I’m glad it worked out. 🙂

  2. Emily says:

    I totally thought of *Greencard* too when you wrote about this before.

    I would imagine that forgetting your birthday is a true sign of the authenticity of your marriage.

  3. faemom says:

    lol
    How nerve wracking! I’m with Emily on forgetting your birthday. Could he have forgotten your anniversary too?

  4. ck says:

    nice save!

    (I’m the information forgetter in our family. I’d be doomed in an interview like that…)

  5. So glad it worked out so smoothly! Congrats!

    We got some funny questions…how many floors are in your apartment building? I think what did it was seeing pictures of me dressed up in a saree with his parents.

  6. Pingback: On one hand… « Evenshine’s Weblog

  7. I’m with Emily…the stuff he forgot just proves even more that you’re really and ongoingly married, judging by many of the hubbies I know! 😉

    (Love the ending…kid’s pictures and BAM!)

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