Let's all do a happy dance.

Thanks, okay. I'll give you a moment to shake what your mamma gave ya.

Done? I always feel better after a little happy dancing.

Yesterday, Jake and I had our INS interview. Which I had envisioned as being much more indepth and extensive. But, in reality, it took all of about five minutes. The immigration officer asked us how we met, where we got married, and wanted to see a copy of our tax returns. Then he stamped Jake's passport and congratulated him on becoming a legal resident.

Not that I'm complaining but this is the heightened immigration control that is suppose to keep out potential terrorists?

Hmmm ... I guess that was complaining. I like to begin phrases with things like "Not that I'm ..." or "Not saying that ..." and then go ahead and do the exact opposite of what I proclaim I wouldn't do.

It keeps you on your toes.

Not that I'm saying I'm a hypocrite :)

Anyway, this INS interview has been hanging over our heads for some time now. Truthfully, I was terrified of what they were going to ask me. I have a notoriously bad memory.

Then to make matters worse, the lawyer, during the fake interview he did with us to prep us for this real interview, ask me what kind of car Jake drove. This is suppose to show that we actually live together because I see his car everyday. Ergo I should know its make and model.

I was completely unprepared.

I said it was grey.

Apparently, that wasn't the answer he was looking for.

What the hell do I know about cars? The only thing I care about is that they have four wheels and I can roll the windows up so my hair doesn't turn all Bride of Frankenstein after a bout on the expressway.

Cars are purely functional for me. Knowing their make and model seems superfluous and is just yet more clutter for my already far too taxed brain cells. I have enough useless information to remember on my own ... I definitely don't need other people to impose their nonsense on me.

Anyway, Jake has a Grand Am. So the entire trip down to Philly, I kept repeating: "Grand Am, Grand Am, Grand Am" to myself so I wouldn't forget.

And he didn't even ask me the damn question.

But that's okay. Because the next time someone asks what kind of car Jake drives (which invariably is a man), I won't say "grey" one and suffer their "you're such a woman" ridicule. I can say "Grand Am". Yeah, sucka. Eat them apples.

And, a little off the topic, but ... why do men think that by calling me a "such a woman" that it insults me? Never quite understood that. In fact, I'm proud to represent my sex. Far better than that time that someone mistook me for Matthew Broderick.

Well, Matthew Broderick with breasts.

It could have been worse. I could look like Danny Devito. So I guess, all things considered, I should count my blessings.

Well, I only popped in for quick hello. I'm actually between classes at school now. And I got a hunkering for some butterscotch Krimpets before my next class.

Mmmm ... butterscotch krimpets. The nectar of the gods.

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