A little less procrastination, a little more whinging.

It is a quiet afternoon at Chez Mommy today.

DH (Dear Husband) has taken DS to see his grandpa, and Mommy has been left with instructions to study her Life in the UK Test booklet, so as to allow myself to stay in this divine country that I am proud to call my home. (No seriously, it's like a real deal and everything.)

I find this test a bit silly on a couple of different levels. That is not to say that I find the UK immigration process silly. Having been through the US side of things for DH's green card (which we subsequently abandoned when it dawned on us that we were surrounded by gun toting, reality denying, head in the sand burying crazies and we had the task of bringing up a child a midst them) - I can attest to the fact that UK immigration is much more "user friendly". Things are written in plain lay terms, sentences make actual sense, and it's rather easy to do without having to employ an immigration attorney at the low low cost of thousands of pounds, on top of the cost of the applications, of course. Naturally.

Getting my spousal visa was pretty straightforward, and now all that stands between me and utter expatriate glory is this dang test. Which, as I was saying before, is silly.

You know why?

Because where I am from is the fifty nifty United States and indeed, one of the 13 original colonies. Most of my ancestry is from Lancashire, UK and or Scotland / Ireland. Basically, until about three centuries ago, I was English (at least most of the dominant and recessive genes of my double helix were), and a lot of the culture and background I come from is very much Anglican. But because it's not the Commonwealth or the EU - I have to take a test to prove I am ready and able to assimilate into English society and know how things work.

Like everyone else here does.

I'll give you a minute to stop laughing before I continue.

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It's a trip, isn't it?

Oh well. My test is scheduled for two weeks time and I will hit the books today and cram the day before and I will pass the test and then I will mail out the forms with a check for like a grand, and THEN I will be done and dusted and ready to put the whole immigration business behind me.

Until I have to pay another grand to get a British passport.

Then I'll be done and I will give no more cash to the UKBA.

Promise.

It's a small price to pay to feel at home, though folks. Strangely enough, I never felt quite right growing up. Now, that is for a lot of different reasons, but mostly I think it was a case of being born in the wrong place.

 I used to think it was especially being born in the wrong time period - and sometimes I'll watch/read an Austen/Bronte novel and I think, "Oh look at how fun it was to live in that Country House and look at how dashing all the men were!" and I'm like I WANT TO GO TO THERE.

But then I have a little think, and I realize not being property and having rights is like, way cooler than having to stuff myself into a whalebone corset and dying in childbirth. That would really cramp my style.

And of course, I couldn't write a blog.

Which would be a great loss to society.

No, the world.

Right?

I'll aim to have something obnoxious to say at least once a week - so until the next little tidbit gets stuck in my ever widening craw - tata.

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Dun dun dun.

When I was a teenager, I used to spend hours drawing and painting and making collages from cut out bits of Rolling Stone and thought it was oh so important to be fulfilling my artistic needs. It is in that spirit that I say:

Let me paint you a picture! 

My dining room table is piled high with clothes (but they are neatly folded), my sink is piled with last night's dishes (but I went round my mother in law's and did all hers), and I am piled all into my office chair, sitting in the dark, in my own room, ruining my eyes with the light of my laptop because if I turn on the actual lights, then it might wake the dragon (AKA my two year old son).

He is sleeping comfortably in our large bed, as is his custom, and I respect that. I mean, he's a person and he likes to be amongst other people. I have a really hard time sleeping on my own, and I'm (nearly) an adult. So I leave him there, and I live around him, because it's the only time in his life he's going to want me this much.

So it's cool. Right?

Yes. It is. I am sure of it.

There are a lot of things I should be getting on with. There are always things to be getting on with. My laundry hamper possesses a fertility unknown to mankind - I mean, I certainly don't change my food stained, torn, stretched from the incessant toddler manhandling, and very much comfort-over-style wardrobe more than once a day, and yet - the hamper -  it waits there in the corner, always full, always beckoning, always mocking me in my attempts at making it EMPTY.


Mainly, I suppose I would start by folding away the buggy, but not before emptying it of the shopping. I would have done that straight away, but I thought about it, and there wasn't anything for the freezer in there, so, after checking with me, I was okay with just leaving it in the hallway.

Then, I guess I could wash the dishes, but it's 8:34 PM on the night of the day where DS (Dear Son, as I will refer to him hence forwards) did NOT nap, in spite of my thrilling miles long walking tour of our village. I guess he just doesn't appreciate the significance of a high street that's so well preserved and loaded with listed properties, yet.

 It's funny, really, how I started it to make him knacker out and sleep, so I might like, sit, still, without whimpering - and what really happened was he stayed awake and I wore out my back and didn't get to sit still, and there was so much whimpering. From me. On second thought, that's not terribly funny.

What I really wanted to say in this whole entry was WELCOME! I will be entertaining you with my tales of love and woe and WHOA what does that scale say, and so much other yay.

I hope you enjoy reading.

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