Today, we were efficient, though.

After the lights above my desk burnt out, my health and safety officer recommended I put in a requisition for fresh ones.  However, I cannot go through the proper channels of asking my building manager (this brings us to three people at this point).  I instead put an order through with property services directly, after, of course, clearing it with my supervisor (traditionally up to five people).

A few hours later, after paperwork and stamping, I get a call from reception, asking me to escort two electricians to come and gaze upon my burnt out bulbs, confer over the state of the light fixture, determine the bulbs are burnt out, and replace said bulbs.

Life is so much brighter today.

No, really.  I’m leaving.  And, I need to update more often.  I am going to New Zealand next week, in 252 hours, to be precise, to interview for jobs.  Ben and I have been discussing emigrating for years, since wanderlust courses through our veins like, well, blood.  And, we decided to do it! 

How does one move to New Zealand, you ask?  Well, first you try to find out what other people did, then discover there isn’t much out there giving you clear-cut advice on immigration.  So, you start scouring message boards and immigration.govt.nz and calling up the consulate to find out more information.  After a lot of research, we found out the best path for our situation:  I have two MAs, Ben has no degree, but years of experience in IT, and we have a small child.  Our best path was to get interviews from overseas, then apply for work permits and submit our EOI for permanent residency as Skilled Migrant Workers. 

If you are thinking of emigrating to any country or living abroad for any length of time, you MUST contact the FBI and get your police record (or lack thereof).  This process takes anywhere from four to five months, but the report is valid with immigration offices for six months from date of issue. 

Our checklist for moving is this:

1.  Decide to move

2.  Check passports and get them, if you need a new one

3.  Get copies of birth certificates, marriage licenses, name change documents, transcripts, letters of recommendation, and notarized letters allowing your kid to travel with one parent

4.  FBI paperwork

5.  Apply for jobs

6.  Get interviews

7.  Get tickets

8.  Sell everything

9.  Fly out, interview, get job

10.  Apply for work visa. 

11.  Submit EOI

See?  Easy peasy. 

See you all in Wellington. 

After three days of labor, I finally agree to a shot of GLORIOUS STADOL!  Oh, Stadol, how I love thee.  You did not take away the pain, no.  However, you did let me rest in between the HOLYMOTHERWOWOMGYOWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW contractions from the pitocin that the sadistic nurse decided to mainline into me at a dosage for was a long overdue elephant needing to expel a set of full-grown elephant triplets that have taken residence in her uterus.  Now, I know I was pretty fat at the end of my pregnancy, but that amount of pitocin was just uncalled-for.  Ohh, back on track.  Where was I?  Yes.  Stadol.  Oh, Stadol.  You are even better when you come with a second dose. 

In the later afternoon, my doctor came in and told me I was going to have to face a major fear of mine:  c-section.  I was so scared, I thought I was going to vomit.  Oh.  Wait.  That nausea was from the pain and the cursed pitocin.  After telling me I was due for a c-section, I waited for my epidural to be placed.  In the interim, a completely incompetent nurse, who I am convinced wasn’t even old enough to drive at the time, managed to dislodge Elliot’s monitors, so it looked like he was dying in childbirth.  No, it was a misplaced monitor.  Attached to his head.  Misplaced monitor.  Attached.  To.  His.  Head.  I tried firing her, but with two doses of Stadol in me at that point, I think my words came out to sound like “Youuuuuuuboop?” while my head lolled around back and forth.  The epidural was placed, thankfully not by Idiot Nurse, and then Idiot Nurse came back with a catheter.  I had enough control over my mouth to say “Give me an experienced nurse,” right before Idiot Nurse was going to cram an unlubed catheter up my pee hole.  Happily, Older, Experienced Nurse took over and gave my ticket to not leave bed for a couple of days a good coating, to keep me from having to go back for another surgery. 

At this point, I was completely drugged up to the point of only being able to communicate in gutteral sobs and moans as I drifted in and out of consciousness.  I tried so hard to maintain a firm grasp on this side of consciousness, but I failed miserably at a few points.  I was whisked away to an operating room, with Ben at my side.  I was able to see my brother and friend on the way into my surgery, scared out of my wits, only to have a few minutes later (I think), a screaming, pissed-off, one-month-old, overbaked newborn wailing nearby. 

He was perfect.  He still is.

In the past six months, Elliot has spit up on me seven times, leaked poo through his diaper on my clothes five times.  Leaked pee through his diaper onto the bed nineteen times, and has kept me up through the night for 184 days.  There was one night that he slept through the night.  One.

In that time, though, he has learned to smile.  He has developed the Best.  Laugh.  Ever.  For serious.  It sounds like a hawk screeching, followed up by giggles.  I love it.  He has started crawling and pulling himself up to a standing position.  He has me completely wrapped around his pinky.   Every day, I am amazed he’s in this world and have to check myself that his actual birth day wasn’t yesterday–time has gone that fast.  And, still, it’s been a lifetime.  His lifetime.  I cannot imagine how life was without him.  He’s amazing and wonderful.  Except when he poops through his diaper and onto me.

However, it was not enough.

My marriage license, which informs the DMV that my name is legally allowed to be my married name (whee, freebie name change!), is considered legal, oh, everywhere. Except at the Van Nuys DMV. You see, the certified copy of my marriage license, complete with embossed seals and everything is not considered valid at this particular government office. While an ordinary person might find this to be frustrating in the quest for a new driver’s license, I see opportunity, instead.

Any eligible bachelors may feel free to court me at the Van Nuys DMV. I like flowers and pie. I can also be easily wooed with epic verse. I prefer iambic pentameter. Now, this offer is not valid outside the Van Nuys DMV, for outside those walls, my marriage to Ben is quite valid. So, let’s make this count.

UPDATE:  19 February 2007:  Um.  I still haven’t gotten my license, due to the Van Nuys DMV.  Does it really matter anymore? 

I truly wanted to weep for his soul.

But, she has been defiled.

This morning, on my way to work, I noticed someone wrote in my rear window “I eat popsicle.” I have a feeling it was Andy, but I doubt I can prove that big jerk did anything. The attack was completely unprovoked.

Assface.