V is for Visa, Valium & Vodka

Friday morning, right in the middle of my "Tom Cruise drunkenly groping 2 girls on a couch while I quickly search for my cell phone to call Katie Holmes" dream, I was woken up by my fiance.

Why?

Because it was V-day.

Visa day.

The big day.

The special day where I get to sit in front of a British government official and beg for sweet mercy that he (or she) will for the love of jesus let me in the fucking country, please, I beg thee, pleaaaase.

I have been sweating, and fretting, and shitting myself since February over this visa business.

So you can imagine what I was like Friday morning. Especially after having Tom Cruise haunt my subconscious...

I was bitchy. I was at a level 24.56 when I should have been at a level 6. I was raging. So what does that add up to?

OH. Early AM diarrhea, that's what.

That and a horrible, bile churning, hive inducing panic that had taken my coping abilities hostage.

I just kept thinking, "The rest of your life depends on this day" and, "Oh my god oh my god oh my fucking god oh my god I think I'm going to kill myself or someone -no!- everyone if I don't get that fucking visa."

I tend to get a tad bit irrational when I'm stressed.

For example, the entire week before hand I slept in my Union Jack camisole, and decided on wearing my Union Jack socks to my appointment.

Ya know, because the government is so easily influenced by cheesy souvenir attire.

I even considered serenading the consulate official with the National Anthem. Ya know. For brownie points.

I also thought that perhaps if I just dropped in conversation that I, "just freakin' adore Tony Blair" or wrote "God save our gracious Queen" on the "Other Comments" section of my visa application that that would perhaps help.

Maybe. Just maybe, baby.

So. I managed to dress myself, get packed up, check out of the hotel, and get in the car.

I had been OH SO SMART and Google Mapped -cuz that's a verb- where the consulate was. Yeah.

I was so prepared, it fucking hurt.

I took the address I put through Google and plugged it in to our Tom Tom satellite navigation doodad. We had 45 minutes to drive the 13 miles. Piece of cake.

(As all of the LA natives laugh so hard they cry all over their keyboards and electrocute themselves.)

And here's a sample of my internal and actual dialog during our drive:

Oh look! We're on the freeway! No traffic. God, I can't believe this. It's a sign. Every thing's going to be fine, we'll be early, everything is calm.

Oh my god. Oh my god. Traffic. Traffic everywhere. I'm going to pass out from the panic.

It's fine! It's fine. According to the satellite navigation, we'll arrive there in plenty of time.

HOLY FUCK. We only have 15 minutes to get there.

WHY ARE WE GOING DOWNTOWN? I didn't know this fucking thing was fucking down town. WE ARE NEVER GOING TO GET THERE!

Iain: "OH look baby! The Hollywood sign!!!!!!!"

Me: "BITE ME!! We're late! It's over! I'm going to have to kill myself."

Okay. Okay. We're downtown. We're almost there...

Satellite Navigation: "You have reached your destination."

Iain: "Where is it?"

Me: "I don't see it. OH my god. Where is it? Why are we at Good Samaritan Hospital? Where are all the Union Jacks and government officials???"

Satellite Navigation: "You have reached your destination."

Me: "Fuck!!! It's 9:22. We need to get there NOW. Baby!??! Where IS IT???"

Iain: "Hold on, just double check the address........"

Me: "Okay. It says we're at 1176 Wilshire Boule-"

Iain: "1176? We're supposed to be at 11766!!! You missed a 6!! Oh my god.We're at the wrong fucking place!!!"

Me: "OH MY GOD. That's 15 miles away from here!?!?!!?!!??! OH MY GAAAAWWWWDDDD!!!!"

We were going to miss out appointment. We had 8 minutes to go 15 miles, on a crowded, traffic ridden Los Angeles freeway at 9:24 in the morning.

Yeah. Fucking. Right.

Nothing would get us there on time.

Not driving at 86 miles per hour.

Not weaving in and out of traffic.

Not even flipping off and cursing the Japanese tourist in front of me that's driving 46mph in the fast lane so her passenger can take pictures of the LA freeway. (Although it felt so good.)

 "We're fucked."

And considering there's a note at the bottom of our appointment confirmation warning that if you're late, you will NOT be seen...We were fucked. Royally, Englishlly, officially F-U-C-K-E-D.

It took 35 minutes before we even got near the consulate.

We had missed our appointment. MISSED OUR APPOINTMENT.

HOW COULD THAT HAPPEN???!?!?

Out of all of my psychotically pessimistic scenarios of why I would not get my visa, this certainly was not one of them.

Iain tried calling the consulate, but just got recordings, and got transferred to automated voices that couldn't exactly understand our distress.

I was a hot mess.

Would we have to go to Vegas? ? Spend thousands of pounds travelling back and forward because without this visa I won't be allowed entry? Will I have to go back to making cappuccinos? Would we have to get married this week?? Was Iain going to have to smuggle me back in the country in a dog carrier??

I was trying to process the nasty cocktail of hysteria, panic, and fury that my mind had conjured up.

I couldn't cry or scream or pass out. I just had to drive. I just had to get there.

10:05 we arrive at the consulate.

We run to the front door. Security checks us in and escorts us to the elevator.

Just to add to the fun we thought it would be good to get off at the 11th floor instead of the 12th.

Then the little elevator got all sassy and decided to take us up to the 14th floor, and then all the way back down to the 1st floor before taking us to the 12th.

By the time the elevator doors open, I was pretty sure I had had an accident in my pants.

We were prepared to beg. Steal. Lie. Camp out in front of the consulate until Monday morning where we would then offer sexual favors or "much American dollars" in exchange for that little, embossed sticker for my passport. ...

We followed the hallway around to this little room with a massive Union Jack mural painted on the wall.

They check our bags, coats, and pockets for weapons of mass destruction, and we were told to sit down and they'd call us.

No begging. No explanations or apologies for being late needed. There were only 3 other people waiting to be seen.

I couldn't believe that we would still get interviewed.

Apparently the 10:30 and 10:45 appointments didn't show up...

We were seen at 11, by a bald little British man with a lazy eye.

Every question he asked, we had an answer for. Every piece of paper work he needed, we provided.

Add in our endearing charm and extremely good looks and, my god, how could he possibly refuse us?

He kept my passport and told me us to come back at 2.

Come back we did, prepared to do some more begging and charming...

However, all I had to do is stand in line, and they handed me my passport,

"Okay, just check and see if the information on your visa is correct, and then you're free to go."

Check to see if the information on MY VISA is correct???

I got my visa.

I didn't have to kill anyone, give sexual favors to government officials, or beg.

I can legally go back to the UK and legally stay.

I can come and go as I please.

But most importantly, Iain and I can legally get married.

I can be a BRITISH WIFEY.

All of the ups and downs and hives and constipation and diarrhea and tears and unemployment that the waiting period for this visa has induced were finally validated.

I have more faith than ever. I have even more faith in us, and that everything WILL BE OK, and will work out.

But most importantly, I have faith in the Epsom Thai restaurant that gave me the psychic fortune cookie:

"Your patience will soon be rewarded"

Who knew that eating duck could lead to such comfort and reassurance?

I should have known to just listen to the cookie.