Wednesday, September 07, 2011
Immigration ate my husband
I'm so angry at Ian right now I could scream. In fact I have been screaming. Usually the f-word, at the top of my lungs, deep in the woods where no one but the coyotes and barred owls can hear me. Or so I assume.
We don't fight often. We're not fighters, us two. I've tried, but it's really not rewarding, in any way, to pick fights with him. He just won't get emotional or immature, even in the heat of the moment. He just won't stoop to my level. This is what I get for marrying a Brit.
But I don't want to pick a fight with him right now. I just want him to come home. And he can't. He can't because he's not finished with the farm -house project in France. I can live with, and expected, that.
But, as has now come to light, since his recent visit to the American embassy in Paris, he couldn't come home even if he wanted to, because his Green Card has, for lack of a better word, expired. Why is it expired? He didn't follow the rules. He didn't know the rules, and never bothered to find them out before he left America for France. He was supposed to inform someone, Big Brother, that he was leaving the country. And he was not supposed to be away for more than a consecutive year.
It never occurred to me that there were "rules," he needed to follow. I figured as long as we were married, and together, there were no borders.
This is what else I get for marrying a Brit.
I've never been a resident alien in America before. I've only ever been an American. Land of the Free. Home of the brave.
In order to straighten this out, I need to file a petition for an alien relative, put out by the Department of Homeland Security. Homeland security? Alien relative? Holy hell.
That's my husband they're talking about. The guy who has been paying taxes in America, quite a lot when we were all in France and got penalized up the ying yang, for more than 15 years.
He was also told at the embassy that it could take up to six months to resolve.
Excuse me but f-ing hell!
Still, it was not a bright move on his part. Neglecting details is never a good idea. Perhaps even less bright than my recent oops of putting my new digital camera on the top of the motor boat at the lake and seeing it fall in the lake and float to the bottom. He told me, in a very fatherly way, I wasn't very clever for that. Touché. Worse still, we got wind of this potential snafu before I even left France. He assured me he had a handle on it. Argh!
But I have to swallow my anger because he needs me to help him. If I want him to come back to us, I need to help him. I have told him that I will help him, but he is living in the dog house once he finally makes it back here.
The girls want him back. It's beyond time. The other day, while looking at a photo album with one of my older sisters, they got to a picture of Ian holding Isla's hands and helping her walk in the shallow part of the river.
"Who is that?" Nancy said, joking with her.
"That's Betsy's husband," Isla answered, with matter-of -fact precision.
Yea. It's time for him to come home.
I want him back too. We've been apart for four months now. That was the most we had assumed it would be. But that, I realize now, was naive. When builders give estimates, you always tack on two or three months to the date. Right?