Uncle Sam's Christmas Gift

It has taken nearly five months - the national average for K-1 fiance visas - for USCIS to finally approve J's visa.  When I tell everyone this, they smile and congratulate me because, to them, it seems like the end.  However, as J says, it's more like the end of the beginning.  Forms must still be filled out and submitted, criminal history checks completed, money paid, and an interview conducted in the UK.  However, it is at least an initial Yes.  It is an Approved.  It is Uncle Sam finally giving his (almost) blessing.

The hardest part was not just the waiting, but not knowing how long we might wait.  During that wait, we decided that J should come back in December. Perhaps for a visit.  Perhaps, if all had been wrapped up by then, for good.  Due to the painfully slow processing of everything involved in this visa venture, it seems that it will have to be a visit and he will return to the UK after a few weeks. However, we will spend the holidays together and Lucy will finally have someone to spoil her again.  I worry that he might be as happy to see the cat again as he is to see me!

Anyone who knows me would agree that patience is not one of my virtues.  I work at it more than anyone would probably be willing to believe.  I wish I could say this process has taught me patience.  Instead, I would have to say that it's mostly taught me how insidious loneliness can be.  And that's from someone who is pretty good at keeping myself occupied, being an only child.  It's taught me that it takes two (at least) to make a house (or, in our case an apartment) feel like a home. And, most importantly, it's taught me the value of commitment to purpose.  J has called it a soul destroying process and we both said, on more than one occasion, that we could see how mixed nationality couples (particularly those where one member is a US citizen and attempting to bring their intended to the US) would just say 'heck with this' and bow out.  However, we both persevered, despite distance, despite loneliness, despite the difficulties of living two lives in limbo, and are now looking forward to the payoff - stability, home-making, and togetherness.

For most of Sunday afternoon, I kept saying...

Peyton, WTF?

When you are in love with someone they can make you happier than anyone else on earth.  They can also cause you the most despair. I've come to realize that having a football team of your heart is a paler version of that emotional entanglement.

I have put my heart behind the Colts this season and early on that seemed like a really great idea. Peyton Manning is widely regarded as the best quarterback in the NFL.  He is great - statistics prove that. But, lately, his most glaring statistic relates to his propensity to throw passes that are intercepted and, even more painful, often returned for a touchdown.

Yet, you don't stop loving someone simply because they mess up or don't live up to your perhaps too high expectations. Love is an investment and they say you should invest for the long-term and look at performance over time. As a whole, there is no doubt that the Colts are a fearsome team. Is their O line rather crappy at the moment? Yes. Can they be successful without players like Joseph Addai being healthy and giving their all on the field? I think so.

Whatever the combination of factors that have put their playoff fate in question (I'm still watching their game with the Cowboys and am not ready to assume they will lose), they have become the team of my heart. So, if this isn't the year, then I will believe in their ability to do it next season. Though that doesn't mean every loss  and interception won't hurt between now and then. Still, I guess the benefit is that the lows make each touchdown that much sweeter.

Later, after the game:  Okay, it really hurts.  Another pick!  Another "Peyton, WTF??" out my mouth and another loss for the Colts putting them behind the, gulp, Jacksonville Jaguars in the AFC South.  Good grief.

The good news (potentially)?  They play the Titans next.  They are a team that is currently not doing so well, to say the least.  They have scored a total of six points in the last two weeks and, no, they weren't on a bye week during that time.

The bad news?  The Colts need to effect a speedy mental and physical recovery for that game which starts on Thursday night.

The spirit

It happens to me every year.  As much as I may want to be dismissive about the enormous commercialization of Christmas and roll my eyes at the fact that Christmas decorations and candy and gifts are already on the shelves before Thanksgiving, at some point I always get sucked in; possessed with the Christmas spirit.  It's a matter of the senses: the smell of pine and cinnamon, the sound of beloved Christmas carols, the feel of fluffy red Christmas stockings, a glimpse of the first cleansing dust of snow.

Today was the first time that I seriously considered getting a tree.  I realized that it was enormously important to me to have a tree this year.  I didn't like the notion of getting it by myself, but when I ventured to Fred Meyer today I found a tree I couldn't leave behind.  It was a Noble, one of the most desired of Christmas tree options in the Pacific Northwest.  It was small and I wanted something diminutive for the apartment.  Finally, it was on sale, and I have very little resistance against a bargain.  

So, I bought it, carried it up the three flights to the apartment and pulled my small box of Christmas decorations out of the storage closet.  I used to have lots of Christmas decorations, but somewhere among all of my many moves in the last few years, they were lost - given away inadvertently, most likely, in a box sent to Goodwill.  The loss I most regret is a little angel that used to sit on my Grandma and Grandpa's tree top every year.  She wasn't very elaborate, but she had a rhinestone on her eyelash and I thought that made her magical somehow.  My consolation is that my current tree topper lights up.

I think the little tree looks good in the little living room, between the plant stand I found at Goodwill and the crackly cat tube that the cats use to hide from each other, despite the rather revealing 'window' on the side.  Stockings for over the fireplace are next on my list!

Thanksgiving alone?

Thanksgiving a la Norman Rockwell

I honestly thought I was going to end up spending this Thanksgiving alone.  The prospect bothered me immensely, and I realized that Thanksgiving is, perhaps, my favorite holiday.  It’s more laid back than Christmas.  It involves cooking for others, which I always enjoy.  And it doesn’t require loads of decorations and presents, just a turkey and side dishes, and loved ones with whom to share a meal.

My childhood Thanksgivings are happy memories.  They usually took place at Grandma's house, where she did most of the cooking and other family members contributed various desserts or a jello salad side dish.  The meal involved passing lots of Grandma’s best china around her long dining room table, eating delicious food, and laughing with family.  I suppose it is that sense of family that I am trying to recapture when I make my own Thanksgivings now.

The first Thanksgiving meal I ever cooked was, perhaps appropriately, after I had moved to Oregon in 2000.  I did the whole thing myself – turkey, gravy, two kinds of potatoes, stuffing, green bean casserole, scalloped corn (a family tradition), and dessert.  I made the meal for myself, my then beau, and his friend, another voluntarily displaced Hoosier.  For that meal, we became a little family unit and it was excellent.

Until a few days ago, the last Thanksgiving meal I cooked was two years ago.  I, again, did the whole thing myself.  That has become a personal tradition that I actually enjoy.  It is absolutely rewarding to prepare food for someone you love.  I did that two years ago, and he was appreciative and helpful and we were a loving family of two and I was content.  His only request was that we finish the meal in the living room rather than at the dining room table so that we could watch football. 

This year I found myself approaching a Thanksgiving alone as my adopted Oregon family had made other plans.  They tried to include me in those plans, but I was wary of inserting myself.  I considered just making a small meal for myself and sharing turkey with the cats.  It only took me a moment to deem that prospect pathetic.  Then my adopted Oregon family emailed to say they had spent so much money at the grocery store that they had been given a free turkey.  My friend had to work, but if I wanted to come over and cook the meal, we could have Thanksgiving on the Saturday before the actual holiday.  I gladly agreed and so found myself, two days ago, making a Thanksgiving meal in the home of my friends.  We sat down later and enjoyed a good meal, had an excellent conversation, and expressed gratitude for the good things in our lives. 

Intimate Entertainment

A scene from the NW Classical Theater's
production of Dracula

That title sounds awfully provocative!  But perhaps provocative isn't a bad way to describe a recent entertainment experience that I enjoyed at a small, local theater here in Portland.  The Northwest Classical Theater is located in the industrial area of downtown Portland, across the river from the city center.  It's not an area that I usually frequent, unless I venture down to see a film at the Ominmax theater at OMSI (the Oregon Museum of Science and Industry).  I had actually had tickets to a Sherlock Holmes play at this theater years ago, but I never made it to that performance.  Thus, I had no experience of the theater and few expectations when I recently bought tickets to their production of Dracula.

Yes, some of us actually enjoyed reading about vampires before the advent of Twilight.  Bram Stoker's novel is a classic of Victorian fiction, and I still enjoy reading it.  I find new layers in the story each time I read it or see a film adaptation.  Coppola's visually lush Bram Stoker's Dracula does hold a permanent and influential place in my mind, however, I was eager to see a live production of the play.  I was curious to see what modern actors would do with the story.

I drove to SE Lincoln and 6th Avenue expecting to walk into a theater and take my place in a row of seats next to a hundred or more theater goers.  I expected to be looking down onto a stage and merely hoped I would get a seat with a good view. What I walked into was a small brownstone building with a large rectangular main room.  A jovial man in jeans took my e-ticket and directed me through a doorway draped in lack.  Apropos, I thought.  When I walked through that doorway, I entered a room the shape of a breadbox and nearly as small.  This was the theater.  A rectangular box with black walls and a concrete floor that was painted black.  Along each long side wall, red bucket seats were arranged in a neat, tight row.  I counted twenty seats along each wall.  The only stage setting included a bed at one end of the room, a 'coffin' at the other end and a small, slightly raised wooden platform in the center of the room.  I took a seat near the bed, my knees just a foot or so away from the silky purple bedspread draping off the edge.

That platform in the center of the room was occupied by a man who seemed completely at ease, as the forty of us filed in and found a seat.  He was young, thin, and wore a tuxedo.  He lounged in a wooden chair that looked much less comfortable than he looked.  Two other young men sat at the edge of the room, both dressed in black slacks, boots, and white smocks that looked a bit like chef's uniforms.  They leisurely read what appeared to be old fashioned newspapers.  After I was seated, I noticed that the man in the tuxedo wasn't wearing any socks.  I thought, "What kind of a theater is this that their actors aren't even provided with socks as part of their costume."  Every once in a while, the young man would turn and look at one of us, the audience, and grin.  He did it to me twice and I was totally disconcerted.  I looked away as if I was very taken with a spot on the black wall across from me.  Soon, the doorway's curtain was pulled down and we were enclosed in that tiny rectangle together: the two white clad men, the grinner in his tuxedo, and forty playgoers eager to see Dracula come alive.

The young tuxedoed man soon revealed himself to be Renfield, Dracula's pet, whose mind the count controlled and destroyed.  He wasn't wearing any socks because he was in an asylum and having one of his delusions.  The play had started and the actors were just a few feet away from me!

It was the most real, intimate, and visceral entertainment experience I have ever had in my life.  When the scenes would change, the lights would go completely down, the room bathed in darkness.  I couldn't see a thing, but I could hear the actors moving around, taking their places, right in front of me.  At times, I could feel the long gowns of the female actors brushing my leg or across my feet as they walked by in the darkness.

Best of all, the actors were fantastic.  They were compelling and believable.  They never even glanced at us or broke the spell of the play, yet they pulled us in with their vivid, emotional portrayals of the characters.  They screamed, they ran, they fought and cried.  Dracula bit Mina and Lucy and fake blood spilled from his mouth.
And, in that, I did see one of those new layers of the story.  I had personally never seen the story as particularly titillating or erotic, though it was quite controversial in the Victorian era and its sensual undertones have been much examined in literary criticism circles today.  Yet, it was only at this play that I saw it, that I understood how intimate and sensual the story is.  When the actor who played Dracula was kneeling on the bed in front of me and the actress who played Mina was sucking fake blood from a supposed cut on his chest, I recognized the implicit carnality of the scene.

I have been telling everyone about my experience, and I can't wait to go back to the theater for another performance.  Their next production is of Two Gentlemen of Verona and I'm already looking forward to it.

NaNoWriMo

The first time I signed up for NaNoWriMo several years ago, I blew it off without much real effort.  Now, this year, I've committed to trying to take my writing seriously.  Thus, committing to National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) seemed a logical move.  However, now that I've signed up, the fear and anxiety has set in.  I suspect it's somehow akin to how one would feel after signing up for a marathon.  Although, marathoners actually get time to condition their bodies and their minds for their great feat of endurance.  What can writers do?  Practice their typing skills?  Sharpen a few pencils?  Plot like crazy?

One wins this race by writing 50,000 words during the month of November.  It doesn't have to be a great 50,000 words, just as those people who stumble across the finish line can still say they have completed a marathon.  I think most who join NaNo, however, do want to use the time to write something worthwhile. My goal is not only to finish, but to learn something - to solidify the habit of writing regularly and push up my own expectations for a daily word count.

For any of you who may have joined NaNo as well, my username is ccarlyle (from my pen name Christy Carlyle).  I would say 'wish me luck' but I'd rather have wishes for perseverance, self-discipline, and lots of productive writing time.  I wish the same for all you NaNo writers out there!

Birthday gratitude

Thank you, everyone, particularly Facebook friends, for all the birthday well wishes! Thanks to Facebook, I now get birthday wishes from cousins, sixth grade classmates, old friends and new.  It was a surprisingly good birthday, considering the circumstances of being away from J.  He did, however, give me an awesome and much desired gift: a Kindle!

Anyone who knows me even a little knows that I love books.  I was one of those 'I prefer paper books' holdouts until just recently discovering the pleasure of e-books. Don't get me wrong, I still love books in any format, but e-books are just another way to enjoy them.  My Kindle, so thin and light and fast, is not only a fun gadget, but it allows me to carry hundreds of books around with me wherever I go.  For any book lover who has moved and carried box after box of heavy books up flights of stairs, you can appreciate the pleasure of carrying around multiple weightless volumes.

While I've loaded many of the no cost classics on my e-reader, just last night I bought a new novel for my Kindle.  It's a romance (not surprisingly), but with a twist.  This one falls into the currently hot sub-genre of Steampunk. It's a genre that melds historical settings (usually the Victorian era) with retro-futuristic technological innovations.  The author, Meljean Brook, is a member of my local writing group and I interviewed her recently for my Romance Novel Examiner page.  You can link to that article here.

Psychologically, this birthday has been daunting. There is something unnerving about having the big 4 0 staring you in the face.  However, the driven side of me just insists that I have much to accomplish in the next year so that I will feel satisfied rather than regretful when the next October 28 rolls around.

I'm grateful for friends (particularly the one who met me for dinner and writing collaboration tonight so that I wouldn't be alone on my birthday - thanks, Jon) and family.  Thank you for making it an excellent 39th birthday.

Fantasy football honeymoon

Peyton Manning conducts the Colts orchestra.

My fiancé is currently living in Scotland, awaiting a fiance visa so that he can return to the U.S.  It's a difficult way to live, for both of us.  Life in limbo, waiting for normality and stability, and most of all togetherness, to return.  There was a time when couples had to obtain parental approval before being allowed to wed. This is an extreme version of that, but in our case it's an uncle overburdened with bureaucracy and his name is Sam.


We spend a lot of time talking about the things we plan to do when we're together again.  I believe making plans together is eminently healthy, as is fantasizing about adventures that might never happen except in a shared daydream.  During one such recent conversation, we let ourselves imagine a wonderful, if nontraditional honeymoon.  

As a preface, I should explain that my fiancé is a devout Oakland Raiders fan.  For a long time I thought it might just be a British thing - rooting for the underdog and all that.  Then I thought it could just be a symptom of the taciturn sort of stubbornness that he sometimes displays.  Everyone else hates them, so he will love them with a fierceness that defies explanation or common sense.  However, I did discover an explanation, of a sort.  He claims that when he was a wee boy in Scotland, a lad came to his primary school and announced that the L.A. (at that time) Raiders were the best NFL team and all the other kids should like them.  I've come to believe that we often inherit our loyalty to certain sports teams from others, so that explanation made sense to me.  Though, one does wonder why, at 37 years old and with mature discernment, he never thought to choose another, better team to love.  Still, I respect his right to support the Raiders, even if it does mean that I apologize to him a lot on Mondays: "Sorry about the Raiders."

I love the Indianapolis Colts.  I like several NFL teams, to be honest, and that doesn't mean I'm easy or spread my affections around.  I inherited a love for the Steelers and Colts, and I tenaciously want to love the Philadelphia Eagles.  The Colts, however, have something that no other team has: Peyton Manning.  If the NFL were a pantheon, he'd be one of the fiercest and most revered gods.  His statistics are irrefutable proof of his greatness.  He is simply one of the best quarterbacks in the NFL.  However, there is more: a sense that he is an honorable man, an apparent humility and ability to poke fun at his own public image, and the skill to turn a football game around seemingly by the force of his own enormous will.


A few weekends ago, during one of those bouts of shared daydreaming, my fiancé mentioned that the Raiders and Colts are playing each other at Christmas. More specifically, they are matched on December 26, Boxing Day.  The week 16 game will be played in Oakland, California and that city is a mere 10 hours drive south of Portland.  With uncharacteristic spontaneity, my fiancé suggested that we could go to the game.  Then his practical accountant side kicked in and he started on about how we needed to save money for wedding rings and a honeymoon.  But I'm not always one for practicality and insisted, "That can be our honeymoon!"  Oakland is not far from San Francisco and a honeymoon in the shadow of the Golden Gate Bridge doesn't sound bad at all.  Then, of course, there is the exhilaration of seeing an NFL game and breathing the same air as Peyton Manning for a day.

How many Pittsburgh Steelers
does it take to sack Peyton Manning?

We are still trying to figure out if we can afford it.  The best tickets currently available are in the visitor's section of the stadium, so I don't know if he'd be safe wearing his Raiders cap.  We have wondered and worried about what the weather will be like driving down I-5 in late December.  There are lots of variables to consider, but just the notion of such an adventure is invigorating and exciting, something to keep us focused on a common goal.  With the distance between us, that mutual fantasy, in and of itself, is priceless.

I said, "Tea"

I work for a college of acupuncture and Oriental medicine, so I am exposed, however peripherally, to Chinese culture often.  A colleague of mine recently went on a trip to China for the college, working as a student advisor during a three week period.  Upon her return, she walked into our office and, without preamble, asked me, "Tea or stone?"  Ever eloquent, I responded with something like "Huh?" or "What?"  Thankfully, she was unperturbed and simply repeated her mysterious query.

I love tea, so it was an easy choice.  Upon making my selection, she presented me with a mini canister of tiny green pebbles - precious Oolong tea from the Yellow Mountain in China.  I thanked her profusely and later opened the little canister to smell the tightly wound and dried tea leaves.  The scent was extraordinary.  They smelled like earth, verdant and rich.  I couldn't wait to soak them in some hot water and sample the tea.

They unfurl when they soak in hot water and give away some their green tint to delicately color the water in which they are immersed.  What is surprising is that one little pebble, one tightly wound leaf, can produce such a strong, significant tea flavor.  Oolong is a fascinating tea, somehow delicate and strong simultaneously.  At one time, tea was traded with the same precious values that characterized tulipomania in the 17th century. I count myself lucky that my oolong cost me nothing more than making the right choice when asked 'tea or stone?'.

A true friend brings you a pen

I started a new job a few months ago and was lucky enough to find myself working in an office with a woman that I adore.  She's funny, she's smart, and she likes the Beastie Boys. What more could I ask for?   Recently, she was away from the office for two days to attend a conference in Vancouver, Canada.  After sharing an office for a few months, she quickly noticed that pen acquisition is one of my fetishes.  She says I'm pen rich, which is a very generous way of acknowledging that I've already acquired more pens in my desk top pen cup than two people could use up in a year.

When she left me in an empty office for a couple of days, she reassured me that she'd bring back a Canada something or other as recompense.  She clearly knew that the most apropos souvenir for me would be a pen.  So, upon her return, I was presented with an adorable black ink ball point with a red barrel and a teddy bear and Canadian flag printed on the side.  It has a laser fine point and a nice heft to its translucent barrel.  Best of all, it is an offering from a friend who knows my predilections and brought a piece of her Canadian adventure back for me.

I'm always happy to acquire a new pen, but it's even better to find a new friend who likes me despite my quirks.

What's in a name? Or, a boy called Finn

It was embarrassing the first time I had to admit to someone that I'd named my boy kitten after a cute young man in a funny TV series.  It was a simple truth, but the person I confessed it to still laughed.  I added hastily that Ice-T's character on Law and Order: SVU is also named Fin, though I knew that my little black and white scruff of a kitten had little to do with that quietly cool tough guy.

The character of Finn Hudson on Glee, one of the only TV shows I bother watching with any regularity, is a young man who is full of energy and free of guile. As a kitten, my Finn embodied both of those characteristics. Now that he's a bigger kitten - I still struggle to think of him as a cat - he still retains all of that silly sweetness and oblivious boyishness that Calgary cutie Cory Monteith manages to exude every week as Finn.

Incidentally, my Finn has a propensity for watching TV.  Hmmm...  I wonder if he knows.