Double Whew!

We did it. Tina got her Green Card, first try, no problems. Everyone we dealt with at the San Antonio office, including Officer 27, was extremely friendly and helpful. The interview was a bit weird but not difficult at all. I wasn’t expecting to have to summarize my life’s story from the time I graduated from college, for example. Tina had to do the same, of course, and then we told the story of how we met and started dating and decided to get married. It was a bit like what you’d expect to discuss at one of those marriage-class things if you’re Catholic or something.

Officer 27 just chatted away with us, even supplying anecdotes from the previous couple he’d interviewed (one of whom was a professor at Texas State)! He never even looked in the bag of tricks we’d so meticulously put together — copies of birth certificates, tax forms, wedding photos and the like. The only thing he was interested in were documents that proved we live together and share financial-type stuff, which we had. I knew we were in the clear when he suddenly switched from informal, conversational mode to a businesslike demeanor, and began checking little boxes in Tina’s file. But I noticed that he did pause for a longish moment on the note explaining my yearly income, which I had to provide as evidence that I can support Tina (ha ha ha).

Suddenly it was done and he was stamping her passport and explaining that we were approved. Just have to go back (to some office, wherever we are) in two years to have the “conditional” removed from T’s status. We walked out with dear 027, past the poor souls still waiting in the main lobby for their chance. I asked how many of these he does per day, and he said 12; 6 in the morning and 6 in the afternoon. I’m sure they’re not all marriage-related, though. I just feel sorry for all those who can’t speak English too well, are poor, or have to go through the shadier process currently being debated in Washington. It was hellish enough for us. And expensive. But obviously it could have been a lot worse, and I’m thankful we got through it so quickly.

* * *

Back to the sports: After the Red Wings play their Dead Man Walking game tonight (I’m predicting a 4-1 score), the Pistons get set to continue their series with the Cavs. (Seriously, my Dad mentioned the Wings while I was on the phone with him just now, and I couldn’t even discuss it. I just had to mumble till he changed the subject. I can’t think rationally about what happened, even two days later. I’ll never get over it.)

So I have to focus on basketball, even though I’d much rather see Detroit bring home another Cup or World Series win than an NBA title. Why? I dunno. I played hockey growing up and I always loved baseball. Of course I was a big fan of the Bad Boys (boo… hiss…), and I couldn’t have been more delighted to see the Pistons single-handedly demolish the evil Lakers dynasty in 2004. But I feel like this team has chronically underachieved since then.

Actually, I shouldn’t say that. They played their hearts out against the Spurs in 2005 and came up just short. But the whole organization’s taken its foot off the gas too many times. It’s maddening. I’m still disgruntled about the indefensible Darko draft — and yes, we really could have had Melo, Bosh, or Wade –; the Larry Brown affair; the 64-win season followed by a lackadaisical playoffs last year; even the two hiccup games against the Bulls last round.

And last night they apparently did it again. Not that I saw the game, but by all accounts it was their worst of the postseason. This team does that too often. I’m sorry, but you just don’t see the Spurs turning in efforts like that. Obviously, James needs to score more than 10 a game for the Cavs to have any chance at all, but I’m imagining David Stern chewing out whoever’s gonna ref the next game already, guaranteeing Lebron much more than the zero free-throws he had last night. In fact, how does 15 sound as an over-under? The Pistons ought to win this series, but with games like this, I don’t see them offering much resistance to the Spurs.