How to Import a Norwegian
[The following story was written in 2001]
As we have passed the first anniversary of the beginning of our non stop honeymoon, I thought it would be nice to share "the rest of the story" with the many people here who saw Webbie and I meet and fall in love. The whole process was rather rigorous but the rewards were more than worth it. I would do it again and even more so in a heart beat.
Here we go.
Webbie and I knew from the time we hooked that we were destined to marry. This worked out well because that was the only way she could get a resident visa to live in the US . So, about a year and a half ago, we began the process of arranging things for her to move over here. The first thing was compiling the paperwork. Oh my gods! She had to have more paperwork than you can imagine. I bet someone seeking a top top secret clearance at the CIA does not have to provide such proof of existence. Not only the standard stuff like birth certificates and passport, she had to go to the Politi (Norwegian police) and get a statement saying that she was NOT a criminal! The US required her to get a physical but not just any doctor would do- only two in all of Norway were qualified and, since Norway has socialized medicine, we had to pay $400 out of our own pockets to prove she was not diseased. This pissed me off because it is not like Norway is some third world pest hole, we are talking a clean ,decent country with a better lifestyle than the US .
She gathered up all of her ancillary paperwork and flew over here so we could get married. Along with it, was a ton of paperwork for ME to fill out. I had to provide W2's, pay check stubs, references, and even sign and notarize a form saying that I would support her for at least two years even if we didn't stay married. We spent half her visit here running to and fro gathering papers and getting things signed and notarized. Oh yeah, she had to get this special kind of picture taken. Passport photos are not good enough. It has to be at this certain angle that shows the right ear (don't ask me) perfectly. We spent an entire day finding a place that would do it. We hit everywhere we knew and it was the same story "Yeah, we used to do those but the government is so damn picky they are never right and we got tired of people coming back here being mad at us so we stopped." We finally ended up at Sear's Portrait Studio to get the picture taken.
With this all done and our marriage license in hand, we were set. We actually had two marriage ceremonies. It was important to both of us that this marriage be special, not just another formality to get the paperwork through. So we had our own magickal bonding ceremony in our favorite sacred place. A few days later, we were married by a judge to make things legal. The day after that, a Saturday, my new wife flew back to Norway to finish up the lose ends of her life and make preparations to start our new one together. Of all the times we had to say good-bye, that was the very hardest. It was a little easier to take knowing that it was the last. We were set! We had everything signed, notarized, and paid for. The embassy had told her that all she had to do was bring that paperwork in and she would have her visa that very same day. Hooray! The hell of immigration was over.We thought.
I got a phone call in Monday from a very upset Norwegian girl. "You have to come here."
"What?"
"The embassy says that you have to come here for me to get my visa or we have to wait a year or more."
I would have thought this was a joke but Norwegians are not given to frivolous humor. "Why? Is there something I didn't do or sign? Can you mail it to me and I can mail it back?"
"No, you have to come here."
I tried to get more information out of her but she was getting more and more upset, so I agreed to check with the INS myself. Now, in order work answering the phones at the INS, they must require you to have hemorrhoids and sit naked on sandpaper. I called and got some nasty hateful mean woman- from New Yawk by the sound of her voice- who was about as helpful as a room full of three year olds and as friendly as a rabid pit bull. She verbally sneered down her nose and told me that, if I wanted the gems at the INS to handle the paperwork, we would wait *at least* a year and probably much longer (I didn't know about the express service for terrorists at that time or I would have said Webbie was one). However the US Embassy has its own authority to grant visas and they could do it the same day. That was that, it was either pay the $1200 bucks in air fare and go to Norway , or wait a year plus to claim my bride.I called the travel agent.
By the time three months had passed, I had gotten over being disgruntled and was actually looking forward to the trip. I had scheduled it to coincide with my MIL's big 50th birthday bash. I love her and the rest of Norwegian family and it was great to have the chance to celebrate this special occasion- except that, three days before I left, the sewer line to their house collapsed and they postponed the party. That's okay, I thought, I still get to see them and spend some time with my wife. Plus I love to travel.
I was sitting at KCI and I am all revved up and ready to go. I was so excited that I had arrived there extra early (this was last August so it was not mandatory). Soon United Airlines would be winging me to Chicago where I would connect to a flight to Frankfurt and, then, on to Oslo and the loving arms of my wife. The lounge was filling up and the flight was just about ready to board when the desk agent came on and told us that the flight would be delayed. I only had like an hour layover at O' Hare and this kind of made me nervous. I went to the desk and asked what was up. Of course, as usual for O Hare, there was a severe storm that had grounded everything. Well this was sort of good news because it meant my outbound flight was also grounded. Just in case, I utilized my extensive traveling background and reserved a seat on the next plane out- which they told was at 2:00 PM the next day, just in case. So we waited and waited and waited some more. Finally it was getting to be almost ten o'clock . I had been sitting in the airport for like six hours so I decided to go get something to eat. As I was standing in line at the snack bar someone came in and yelled that they were boarding the flight to Chicago . I went running back to the gate.
I live maybe ten minutes from the airport. If I was going to miss my connecting flight, I was willing to go home, get some Z's, and take an early flight to Chicago the next morning. So I asked the lady at the gate, again, if I was going to miss my flight. She assured me that all of the flights out were delayed and that I would probably make mine. So I boarded the airplane. After everyone else had too, the plane left the gate, taxied out to the runway, and shut its engines down.
Now, what? I stopped the flight attendant and asked him what was going on. "Well," he explained, " Chicago is not really open yet but it will be soon so we taxied out here to make sure we were not delayed in departing."
Was he kidding? This was KCI at 10:00 PM . There was not even another airplane moving in the whole airport! Now I was trapped. There was no way I had the option of going home. I was going to Chicago tonight. Seeking some reassurance I asked him if I was going to make my flight out. "I doubt it," he said, "They never hold up the international flights for connecting passengers." I immediately revised my mental list of “If you could legally kill one person, who would it be?” An hour later, we finally took off.
The busiest airport in the world is a scary place at midnight , especially when it is almost empty. The only people about were those who, like me, had been delayed in arriving. I ran to the departure board and, of course, my flight was long gone. So I joined the pack of disappointed zombies shuffling to the ticket counter to be told what I was to do next. I had a flight out but I stood in the long line to find out what was up with my luggage since it had missed my connection as well and my new flight was not due out until the next day.
Presently, a snippy little man worked has way down the line handing out pink pieces of paper. "Here," he snapped, "This is a list of area motels that have shuttle services that have made special arrangements with the airlines. Call the number on they will give you a confirmation number." Someone asked him a question that I did not hear and he responded in his nasty, gay manner, "Well this counter is going to close soon." When someone else asked why, he actually stamped his foot and snapped back,” Well, it's after midnight and these people have to go home!" It was only the thought of what a jail in Chicago must be like that kept from punching the little dweeb out. It looked like my underwear was going to have to fend for itself.
So I looked at my pink piece of paper and whipped out my mobile phone (NEVER travel without one). While everyone near the end of the line stampeded for the pay phones, I called the number, got my reservation, and went to catch the shuttle. My flight was not due out til 2:00 so I might as well sleep in a bed instead of hanging at the airport. Being somewhat thrifty, I called the cheapest place listed. $50 was a not too bad considering the options.
Of course the Motel Mafioso at the desk wanted $75. I wondered how much of a kickback United got from those "special arrangements." I mentioned that the airline had promised a lower rate. "Those prices are old" he said in his heavy Arab accent. The place was just this side of seedy- sort of in the EconoLodge class- and it was evident from its location that it existed only to screw over people who were in my predicament. I had heard them turn away a several people who did not have a magic number from the airline and there was a long line behind me. Everyplace else would be full and it would probably cost me $50 to take a cab back to the airport as I am sure they were in on the scam too. I plopped down the plastic, grabbed my key, went to my room, and spent a few minutes on the phone sobbing with my wife over the precious day together we had lost. Days, even seconds, are important when you only see each other once every six months. As I feel asleep it was 2:00 AM and I noted that my plane would have been landing in Oslo.
The next dawned bright and beautiful. One thing you learn when you travel long distances is that you eat when you can. I had noticed that this lovely establishment offered its guests a free Continental breakfast and that it ended at 9:00 . Realizing that I was stuck until I went to the airport, I had arranged my schedule to make sure I had time for breakfast. However the first item on my agenda was morning ablutions. As I got up to shower, I realized that I had no clean clothes- not even a change of underwear- neither did I have a razor or toothpaste. Unfortunately I had been spoiled. In all of my travels I had never missed a flight nor had my luggage lost. So I was totally unprepared for this. I have since learned to pack my shaving kit and minimum essentials in my carry-on. Technically would be arriving in Oslo the next morning, so I would be greeting my wife in clothing I had been wearing for two days. Oh well, she had been camping with me at Heartland 2000 when the showers at the camp were inoperable. Still, it was a yucky feeling to put the same clothing back on after you shower.
The cuisine arranged for the Continental breakfast turned out to be a couple of boxes of store-bought donuts and something that was impersonating orange juice. I decided to forego these delicacies and simply took a cup of the brackish liquid that was vaguely similar to coffee. Although my flight did not leave for three hours and I was only 15 minutes from the airport, I decided to hop the next shuttle. I like airports. I like to watch all of the people rushing around and look at the airplanes coming in from and winging off to the distant corners of the world. It beats midmorning daytime TV (what doesn’t?) plus they have Starbuck’s there and I was in desperate need of a cappuccino.
I got to the airport and joined the queue for check in. I still did not know where my luggage was. There was a very nice lady there checking to make sure people were where they should be, answering questions, and being really helpful. She checked my ticket and told me I was in the wrong line. She took me to the right place and, as we walked there, I gave her the digest version of my adventure so far and told her of my concern for my luggage. She said she would look into it for me and rushed off on her mission. A bit later she came back and said that she had found me a flight to Frankfurt (my next connection point) that left at 12:00 , would I like to take it? That would increase my layover there to six hours but hey, if it was a choice of waiting here or there I would take there, plus my son wanted me to bring him “something German.” Cool! Let’s go. She lead me to a ticket agent who had opened early just for me, stayed there while I described and the agent located my luggage, and wished me a great trip.
With the knowledge that my underwear was safe and a cup of cappuccino and a sandwich in my belly, I was once again facing my voyage with relish. Sitting there in the departure lounge watching the miniature world of the airport spinning around me, I was actually happy. They called my flight and I went aboard the huge 747. As luck would have it, the flight was not full so the seat next to me was empty. I could sleep on the plane. The plane was boarded, the doors were sealed, and we sat there waiting for departure.
And sat there.
And sat there.
The captain came on the intercom and told us that there was a problem with an icing sensor in one of engines. He said it was a minor thing but that he did not want to take off until everything was perfect. He was sure it would not be long. Hey, I can hang with that. If the pilot ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy. Let’s get that thing fixed before we go. Besides, I had six hours, almost time for a whole second flight. Safety first, dude.
The wait went on. The flight attendants served drinks, then they showed a movie (“Sweet November”- yuck! Just stick pins in my eyes next time). I realized that my original, later flight, had just taken off. Then they started another movie. What the hell was taking so long? Why didn’t they just get us another engine- or another airplane?Six and one half hours later, we left for Frankfurt Main.
I was so tired, so stressed, and so worn out that I have never slept so well on an airplane. After dinner I blanked out. The captain actually managed to make up an hour’s flying time and I arrived in Frankfurt with thirty minutes before my next flight left. So much for getting “something German,” I would have just enough time to make it to the gate.
I finally got off the plane and made my patented “mad dash through a foreign airport.” Frankfurt Main has to be the most stark and most confusing airport in the world. Twisting, turning, running up and down stairs and through corridors, I was bound and determined that I was going to make my flight and not be delayed one more minute from seeing my beloved. Finally, I found my gate- behind a wall of glass. Damn the new EU rules! I had to go through passport control. I followed the arrows and arrived at three queues leading to three identical boxes occupied by three identical stern-looking Germans with brush haircuts and Nazi-esque uniforms complete with epaulets. I picked one at random, got to the front, and handed the officer my passport.
“Are you an European citizen?” he barked at me.
“No, I am an American.”
“ZEN YOU ARE IN ZE WRONK LINE!” He flung my passport back at me.
Considering everything that had happened so far, I full expected to end up in Airport Aushwiscz for being in the wrong line. However, he was merciful to “ze stupid American” and motioned the next person forward. It was then I noticed the signs. I got in the line for non EU-ers, gasped a sigh of relief when the correct Hitler clone gave me the nod, and then rushed off for my gate as I heard them making the last boarding call. I ran through the departure lounge and handed the gate agent my ticket. “Are you still boarding? “ I asked. She nodded and I went through the gate, down more stairs and arrived at. . . a bus. I was tired, stressed, disoriented, afraid, in a strange country, I had just run through the world’s largest rat’s maze, was wearing two-day old underwear, had a blood sugar of zero and terminal jet lag. Imagine how I felt thinking I was rushing out to a plane and finding a bus. I was in Frankfurt Germany . I was going to Oslo Norway . How the hell was I getting there in a bus? I was totally confused. I asked the driver if he was going to Oslo . He must have sensed my confusion (or he didn’t speak English) because he smiled and nodded yes. The fight gone out of me, I slumped into a seat and resigned myself to whatever fate befell me.
Much to my delight, the bus took me to an airplane. It seems Frankfurt Main is Europe ’s busiest airport and they don’t have enough jet ways for all of the planes so they put you on a bus and you actually drive out on the apron. Man, there were a lot of planes out there. The driver found mine, I boarded it, and I was soon on my way to the arms of the most beautiful woman on Earth.
In Oslo , I went to the baggage claim area to once again be united with my suitcases which I had not seen for two days and 6000 miles. I stood there at the carousel and waited. It will come as no surprise to you that my luggage never arrived. At this point, I was beyond caring. In fact, I had almost anticipated that this would happen. I looked around but could not find any luggage service for Lufthansa. Screw it. I was only about 100 feet from Webbie and I needed her badly.
In great excitement and anticipation I walked out of the arrival area and there, among the crowd of people waiting for friends and loved ones, Webbie was not to be seen.I panicked. I had no idea what to do. My first thought was to call her. My mobile phone does not work in Norway so I went to the pay phones. I had no Norwegian money but I thought I could use a credit card. The instructions on the phones were in Norwegian. I tried every combination of buttons I could think of but nary a recording could I raise. Then I spotted the information desk.
I can imagine what the lady there must have thought of some disheveled American in dirty clothes who hand been on airplanes for the last 16 hours and was on the verge of a nervous breakdown approaching her. Norwegians don’t like talking to strangers anyway and this job must have been hell on Earth for her in normal circumstances. So I tried to put on an “I won’t hurt you” smile and I explained to her that someone was supposed to meet me. I asked her to page Webbie. “We don’t normally page people.” What? This is an * airport*. What airport does not page people? I switched from harmless to desperate and asked her again. She agreed and paged Webbie.
Oh come on! I could fart louder than that! I waited and it was no surprise that there was no response. I approached Inga the Incommunicado again and asked if she would perhaps call Webbie on her mobile. She tried and there was no answer. Damn! What was I going to do? Where was Webbie? I had no choice but to settle in and wait. In desperation I asked her to try one last time. She did. I heard her talking Norwegian and she told me “The person you are looking for is right over there in the coffee shop.”
After a doubly joyous reunion and several minutes of mushy romantic stuff, we took a breath and some time to talk. Webbie explained that she had got to the airport but they had told her my flight from Chicago had arrived too late for me to possibly make my connection in Frankfurt and that I would be on the next flight. So she had found a place to wait for six hours for my arrival. Ha! Those people at Lufthansa did not know whom they were dealing with. I had made my connection despite their pessimism. Unfortunately, my underwear had not. I explained to her about my lost luggage and my Norwegian Goddess took over, found the right person, and made arrangements for my luggage to be delivered when it arrived. She even got me a free toilet kit so I could clean up.
As we got on the train into the city, I snuggled up to her and said, “I can not wait to get to your place, get cleaned up, and get some sleep.” I added other things but those are none of your business.
“Honey, we are not staying at my place. We are going to Slevik. My family is having a barbecue for you.” Great. Here I am beat to a mental pulp and looking like I just crawled out of a Goodwill box and I was going to have to be sociable with my entire Norwegian family. Plus how would my luggage ever find me?
We negotiated and I did, at least, get a shower and a nap before we left for the coast. I won’t go into all of the horrid details about the two days of phone calls and hassles, suffice to say that my suitcases took the scenic route and went from Frankfurt to Stockholm, then on to Oslo where they caught a bus to Slevik and, finally, on Sunday night, arrived by taxi at the house. I have never been so glad to see my underwear.
Luggage difficulties aside, it was a wonderful weekend. On Monday we went back into town and had dinner with friends. Our appointment with embassy was Tuesday morning.
This was mid August 2001 and the tensions in the Middle East were running high. The whole world was holding its breath. The Israeli embassy is close to the castle and the US embassy in Oslo . Preparations for the Norwegian royal wedding, with its stepped up security, were going on as well. Tensions were high in the area near the embassy. I even remarked to Webbie that something bad was going to happen.
When we got to the embassy there was a Politi van parked outside with officers scrutinizing everyone who walked by. A Norwegian marine who could have not looked meaner if he had been wearing a horned hat and bearskin stood outside the door and made people wait in line there until it was their turn. Once past the front door, visitors had to empty their pockets and go through a metal detector. Inside the embassy proper, you don’t get to talk to people face to face. The folks who work there are on elevated platforms behind bullet proof glass. Seeing that this kind of security was required in the country where the Nobel Peace Prize is awarded gave me an even greater sense of how dangerous it is to be an American in this world.
Even without all of the intimidating security, there is no feeling like having your entire life and future being placed in the hands of an uncaring bureaucrat. The woman Webbie spoke to was friendly enough but a shake of her head could have destroyed our future. She asked some questions, went through the paperwork meticulously, and told Webbie that she would have to pay a processing fee. They would not take anything but cash so we had to leave, go to an ATM, and then come back and go through the whole waiting/security thing again.
When we got back and went through all of that again, the woman shuffled our papers some more and then, sure enough, told Webbie that her picture was not good enough. We paid Sears like $30 bucks for that damn thing and it still was not good enough! Thankfully, the lady knew of a nearby place where Webbie could get one. Off we went to get the picture, come back to the embassy, and go through all of the waiting and security to once again arrive back in front of the lady who held the strings to our life. She gave the picture the nod and accepted it (we have not seen it since and have absolutely no idea what they used it for). After shuffling the papers a little more and talking to Webbie, she announced that there was an additional fee that had to be paid to further the process. Okay, this was going to be our fourth time through the mill so I asked “Could you please tell us about every fee we are going to need to pay so we can take care if it all at once?” Looking like she had never even considered the option, she informed us that there were, in fact, two more fees. Off to the ATM we went again.The last time through satisfied all of the requirements. For a sum total of only $450 * more*, Webbie was approved for a family visa to live in the United States.
As we walked away from the embassy and into the warm sunshine filled with the joy that we had finally got the visa, I realized something. I had not had to sign one piece of paper, produce any kind of form, and, aside from asking about the fees, I had not even said one word to the embassy personnel. WHY HAD THEY MADE ME COME ALL THE WAY TO NORWAY ?
We spent one more night in the city and the rest of the week at her mom’s in Lillehammer . It was a wonderful and magickal time if all too short. As we said goodbye- really for the last time- we knew that the only thing left was for Webbie to sell her apartment and then she would be coming to live with me.
A few weeks later, I was in Southwest Florida on business. The nature of my business required me to work at night. I had returned to my hotel room at about 7:00 AM and gone right to bed. At nine the phone woke me from a deep sleep. It was my wife. She was calling to tell me the wonderful news that she had sold her apartment and that, now, it was just a matter of weeks before she would be here. She also told me some other news that kind of ruined the magic of the moment. The date was September 11. The “something bad” had happened.
The greatest day in my personal history since the birth of my child was set for October 20th. In the midst of all the turmoil and chaos in the aftermath, we were not sure what all of the impacts would be on immigration into the country. We anticipated that there would be extra scrutiny and security and that- with the additional factor that she was bringing her cat with her- anything could happen. Recalling everything that happened along the road to getting the visa- and that was before we went to war- it was decided that it would be best for me to meet her in Chicago.
As I approached O’Hare a mere five weeks after the attack, I expected to come upon and armed camp. I fully expected to see armed soldiers, security checkpoints, and even cars being searched. After all, I was approaching the international terminal of the busiest airport in the world. I saw nothing. The parking area is right across the street from the terminal and these was not so much as concrete barrier in place. Inside, I saw one cop sauntering through with no more concern than if he had been at a shopping mall.
Of course, since we had anticipated delays and endless trouble, nothing happened. Even needing her visa and having her cat in tow, Webbie came through the gate before many of the other passengers on her flight. I was almost an anticlimax, however I was grateful for it. My wife was here and we would never be separated again.
So , after about $5000, three trips across the ocean, and one big. . .adventure, I finally won the right to live with the woman I love.
posted by The Pendragon at 4/29/2003 05:25:00 PM
Pharmaceutical Follies
During the course of this past weekend's activities, I damaged a tendon in my
right arm. It is nothing serious, it just hurts like hel. I was just going to
wait until it got better but my wife insisted that I go see the doctor. You know
how women are, running off to the doctor for every little thing while men don't
even entertain the idea unless it does not look like the bleeding is going
to slow down any time soon. Wanting to eliminate the growing pain in my neck
more than the pain in my arm, I acceded and went to see the doc. He gave me a
little sympathy, wrote a scrip for some pain relievers, and, of course, told me just
to wait until it got better. In order for my time not to be a total waste, I
decided to go ahead and get the scrip filled. At least it would feel better.
This is where the real trauma begins.
It seems we have this new law called the Health Information Privacy Act (HIPA).
Its purported intent is to ensure that health care providers protect the privacy
of their clients, which sounds very reasonable. However, how this wonderful idea
has been enacted is a study in bureaucratic madness and red tape gone wild.
I had not been to the pharmacy for quite some time. I navigated my way
through the cheap toys, the pantyhose, and the seasonal sale items and finally
came upon the counter where one could actually purchase medicine. I was shocked.
It looked more like a bank- and a very paranoid one at that- than my friendly
chemist's shop. There were ropes cordoning off the counter which was divided by
two inch thick Plexiglas panels that would have stopped an armor piercing round.
Near the ropes, was a large sign saying CUSTOMER PRIVACY AREA- WAIT HERE. I
looked around for the metal detector and the person who would make me take my
shoes off but, evidently, they have not yet been installed.
My turn came quickly enough and, as I approached, the pharmacist leaned
forward and almost whispered conspiratorially "Have you been here
before?"
I was taken aback. These were legal drugs I was buying. "Yes, I
have."
So he looked at the prescription and noted my insurance card and did all of
the these they usually do. Then, he reached into a bin and pulled out a
document. He waved it in my face (creating a nice breeze) and said. "Have
you read this?" This thing was printed on 11x 17 inch paper and had six
columns on each side of miniscule blue print. I have signed contracts on
business deals worth hundreds of thousands of dollars that required less
verbiage than that monstrosity. I saw a government seal and bunch of reference
numbers and I knew that it was filled with legalese that a Philadelphia lawyer
with a PhD in Latin would not be able to understand. Since I had not brought
food, water, or otherwise made arrangements for a protracted stay, I lied and
said I had. He turned back to his computer and typed for a moment then said,
"I don't show any record of you reading it." What the hell! The
pharmacy keeps tabs on my reading habits now? Being a writer, I can think
quickly on my feet. So I mumbled something about my wife getting one when she
came in a few days ago. He didn't believe me but he decided not to force the
issue. Did this guy really think that the people who took the damn thing actually
read and, if their lives were so desolate that they did read it, it meant
anything to them? I dismissed his scornful look and went to peruse the vitamins
while they filled my order.
As I was reading about the wonders of zinc with saw palmetto extract, I heard
my name being called over the loud speaker. "David W, please return to the
pharmacy!" Return to the pharmacy? Was there some problem? Was my insurance
cancelled or was I to be mistakenly arrested for passing a fake scrip for pain relievers?
In near panic I flew back to there and ran up to the PRIVACY AREA.
"Yes," I panted out, "Is something wrong?"
"No," the pharmacist said, "It's just that your prescription
is ready."
"So, why didn't you just say my prescription was ready?"
"Oh, we can't do that because of the privacy law. We can't even say your
last name over the intercom." Oh yes, I am sure Iraqi spies are lurking
around the neighborhood druggist insidiously making note of whom was getting prescriptions
filled and relaying the information directly to Baghdad.
"Ayatollah, Ayatollah, Bill Smith just had a prescription filled!"
"Good job, Ali. You shall have 200 virgins in heaven to thank you for
your work."
Please.
I was sure he was just getting revenge for me not reading his "War and
Peace" on a page but I took it like a man and moved to the PICK UP PRIVACY
AREA. When my turn again came, I moved up between the Plexiglas nuclear blast
shields. The lady there just looked at me. I catch on to these things fast so I
told her that I was there to pick up a prescription (I am sure the
med police would not allow her to ask). She asked for my name and I responded,
"Am I allowed to tell you that?" This lady was a tech, not a
pharmacist, and the look she gave me made it crystal clear that she was someone
who's life and job had been made ten times more complex without her getting a
penny more for her efforts. She had to listen to people bitch about the hassle
day in and day out when it was not her fault and she could do nothing about it.
She did not appreciate the joke.
So I gave her my name.
She found my little bag, rang up my order, and then started attaching all of
these little stickers to this clipboard thing sitting on the counter. "I
need you to sign here and here and sign and date here and here." When I
asked what I was signing she said, "These say you received counseling"
(I hadn't but I was certainly going to need some kind of counseling
after this ordeal) "And these say that we complied with privacy
guidelines".
Now, please recall, gentle reader, that I was here to get relief for a
damaged tendon in my arm. A tendon I was required to use to sign ALL FOUR OF
THOSE FREAKING STICKERS. My arm was absolutely throbbing when I was through
signing and dating. Going the pharmacy made my condition WORSE! Why am I
responsible for indicating that I know what they are supposed to do and
not do? Should they not be signing things saying they complied with the law and
handing them to me? Who thinks up these stupid laws? What do they accomplish
besides making what should have been a smooth flowing process turn into
something skin to going to the DMV? How much did it cost the pharmacy to put up
those signs and barriers? How much do they spend providing, tracking, and
administering all of that paperwork? Who does it benefit and how? The one
question I can answer is who's pocket the money comes out of- mine. On
top of that it was all a WASTE because everyone else's stickers were on the SAME
goddamned clipboard and I could not only see their first and last names but what
medication they got!
Foolishly thinking I was done with the ordeal, I picked up my little bag with
my non-throbbing arm and turned to go. "Wait, you need to sign and date
this." She held out a piece of paper and a pen. I asked what this one was
for and she held up the giant piece of paper covered with legalese.
"It says you read this."
posted by The Pendragon at 4/16/2003 05:08:00 PM
Spring Cleaning
Nary a dandelion was to be seen on Friday. However, on Saturday, through some
mystical communication via the vegetal hotline, they all conspired to make their
debut and the lawn was peppered with the bright yellow flowers. They had decided
there was something special about this day and conspired to commemorate it by
decorating the monotonous green carpet of grass with their bright accents.
There was not much time for observing nature as this was THE day- the day of
Spring cleaning. Company from Europe is coming next weekend- Scandinavian
company used to precision cleanliness in their domiciles. In a short month,
family will be arriving from the coast to attend the graduation ceremonies.
Plus it was simply time to clean away the last remnants of Winter and our imprisonment.
So we dug in to clean the carpets, scrub the floors, move furniture, toss
away the things we no longer need, even to clean out the garage and sweep off
the deck. It was a day of hard work and intense manual labor with the doors and
windows flung open and the animals hiding in their dens, confused over the
sudden chaos sweeping over their home, having their cages moved into strange
places, and the growling menace of the vacuum. We scrubbed, swept, shampooed,
polished, mopped, dusted, hosed, and cleaned until it felt like not a speck of
uncleanness could possibly remain. The house looked winderful. Well satisfied with our efforts, we
rested.
Our respite was short lived, however, as the bustling tornado of a teenager
in a hurry burst into the house. Tonight was Prom night and Mr. Third All Conference
was not so concerned about the Academic Tournament that has consumed his day as
he was being perfect and ready on time for the party that would consume his
evening. In near panic he tore up the stairs to shower and don his finery for
the affair.
This is a child who thinks dressing up is a black t-shirt, jeans, and a pair
of Docs so putting on a tuxedo for him, I am sure, took more effort than putting
on a suit of armor required of a knight and his squire. Speaking of squires,
thank the gods my wife was there to sooth and cajole, to tie his tie and subdue
the errant hairs that sullied his coiffure, and to teach him how to walk in
shoes made for dancing and what that particular pocket was for. Soon enough, the
boy I raised was replaced by a polished gentlemen that would have made Henry
Higgins proud to call his creation.
As we rushed outside to take the requisite pictures of my son and his date,
we noted that all of the other teenagers in our little cul-de-sac in the woods
had also been transformed. Now, instead of kids in shorts and skater garb, there
was an entourage of finely groomed young men and women, sparkling in that
scintillating moment between the glow of youth and the grace of adulthood.
Wherever in the Universe there had been non-descript sameness, there was now sparkling finery and
a beauty not formerly seen. Our neighborhood, our home, and our children
had all been touched by the magic of Spring.
posted by The Pendragon at 4/14/2003 04:52:00 PM