Happy Pumpkin Carving!

I'm spying on my neighbor. Well, actually, I am sitting at my desk, and it just so happens that from my window I can see into my neighbors back yard. He is carving pumpkins. There are five pumpkins on the table and he is scraping them out, but he is all alone in the back yard, which confuses me. Why would you carve pumpkins alone? That's really a social activity... I would never carve a pumpkin alone. To be completely honest, I barely want to carve pumpkins at all.

Since I was a kid, I have always hated the insides of pumpkins. It is disgusting in there. Trying to rip out the slimy innards make me feel like I am violating the pumpkins' wishes by tearing out its guts and babies. Also, the slime makes me cringe, and I hate touching it. I always need to use a spoon. Even then, the back of my hand sometimes touches the guts and then when I get it out I have to separate the seeds from it. It's terribly unpleasant.

So then after the pumpkin has been GUTTED, we carve designs into it. We try to get creative but usually fail, because sticking a knife into a squash is hard enough, and then maneuvering it around to actually create some sort of recognizable image is pretty much a success in itself. PS who came up with this idea? We seem to have a surprising amount of pagan rituals in our society that likes to think it is puritan.

Anyways, I feel better about this part of the process than the gutting part. At least I get to use a knife in a creative way, how often do we get to do that?

Yesterday Julie and I carved pumpkins. We put down some paper in my backyard, grabbed some knives and spoons (for me), a bowl for the pumpkin seeds, and some pumpkin ale for the occasion. I looked at the bowl.
"That's not a big enough bowl for all the seeds." I note.
"Yeah it is." Julie replies.
"No it's not! We are gonna have way more than that."
"Wanna bet?"
"Yes."
"Okay I bet you a shot of gin that this bowl will hold all the pumpkin seeds."
"Done."

So we carve out the tops of the pumpkins and begin the excavation of slime. I use my spoon, but Julie just dives right in with her hands. I can tell she was the kind of kid that played with the slime more than she cared about any other part of the pumpkin carving process. She probably threw the slime at people who annoyed her. I can just see it.

So the bowl starts filling up with seeds. More, and more, and more. I even put in the lame, not fully grown seeds because I can tell that I'm losing. This bowl probably WILL hold all the seeds. And Julie is right. When we get to the end, the seeds are about a half an inch below the rim of the bowl.
"Damn. You were right." I say.
"I know. I'm a really good judge of space." Julie shrugs. I stare at her.

It takes me awhile to figure out what I'm going to carve on my emptied pumpkin. Julie has her phone out and is googling images of jack-o-lanterns. "How the hell am I supposed to carve THAT?! How are people so artistic?" She shakes her head and continues to search on her phone for something suitable. I just stare at my pumpkin. What do you want to be? A face? A design? What face, or what design? Speak to me, gourd!

Julie finds something and soon she is totally focused on her carving. I am still staring at my pumpkin. As I'm brainstorming different ideas, Julie asks, "So, can you eat pumpkin?"
"Umm... yes. We eat pumpkin pies."
"I know, but can pumpkins be more than pies?"
"I don't know. I suppose so."
"How would you cook it?" Julie ponders.
"I don't know." I repeat.
"Maybe you can grill it or something. Why do we only eat pumpkins in the fall?"
"Because they're a seasonal thing, I guess."
"Why is no one in February like, 'So for dinner tonight we are going to have some chicken with a side of pumpkin.'"
"Uhh..."
Julie is still focusing on carving her pumpkin but I can see her eyebrows knit in contemplation. This is really baffling her. I take a drink of my pumpkin ale, have an idea, and start carving.

After a few minutes, I ask Julie, "What are you carving?"
"An owl. I found it online. What are YOU carving?"
"An ocean."
She looks up from her owl. "... ohh... okay..." She says, raising her eyebrows.
"Shut up." I tell her, and continue with my idea.

When we were done, hers was cute and did look like an owl. Mine looked ridiculous. I carved four waves on each side of the pumpkin, and then added a V that kind of looked like a bird in between two of the waves. I thought my mom would like it, at least. It's not often that you see an ocean on a pumpkin.

We take our pumpkins to the front of the house and set them up on the railing. "Claire!" I call. "Do you have any candles we can stick inside our pumpkins?"
"I think so! Let me check." She says, and minutes later she comes out with two tea candles.
"Can you tell what they are?" I ask, and Julie turns to look at Claire too, waiting.
"Of course I can. Julie's is an owl. And Ashley's is some stylized waves with a bird."
"... You knew." I say, crossing my arms. She must have heard us talking.
"Well, yes. But I would have been able to guess even if I hadn't known before!"
Julie and I look at each other. "Oh well Julie! Our pumpkins are awesome." I say, and nod to each other. Claire runs down into the yard.
"Ashley, turn your pumpkin a little bit, it kind of looks like boobs from here."
"Okay, which way?" I do not want my pumpkin to be mistaken for four boobs.
"A little to the left... a little more... there!" And nods her head in satisfaction.

She comes back up to the porch and we light the candles. "Oww, I probably should have lit the candle AFTER I put it in the pumpkin." Claire says wisely as she burns her hand. I shoved my candle in through a wave to the center, then stuck the lighter in and lit it. And you know, even if a pumpkin is ridiculously carved, everything looks cool with a candle glowing from its hollowed insides.

That One Time When I Peed On A Strangers Boat

"You girls want to come wakeboarding on our boat?" They yelled from a good distance away.

Brittany and I look each other, questioning. We have been sitting in our dads boat on the lake for several hours now, enjoying some Keystone Light, listening to some Foreigner, and generally having a wonderful time in the sun. Did we really want to get onto someone else's boat who we barely knew just to wakeboard, which we had done already that day anyways? We look to the boat and begin shouting back.

"I DON'T THINK -- " I began.
"MAYBE ANOTHER -- " Brittany says at the same time, until our dad cuts us off.
"Girls." He says softly, and we stop mid-rejection to look at him. "That's an invitation." Brittany and I look at each other, shrug, then turn back to the boat.
"YEAH, OKAY!"
"THAT WOULD BE GREAT!"

The boat comes over and we climb aboard in our bikinis, and our step-mom Laurie gets in as well. The sun is sinking slowly towards the horizon as we watch Laurie put on the wakeboard and get behind the boat. It's getting a little cold. I kind of have to pee. We throw a towel over ourselves and sit facing the back, watching Laurie. There are several other people on the boat who we have previously met back at the campsite, including three guys about our age, their friend, one of their girlfriends, and their mother. One of the boys is so good-looking that Brittany and I have to avert our eyes, and focus instead on watching the wakeboarders and listening to their mother's ceaseless commentary as each of them take their turns behind the boat. And that is when I realize, I really have to pee. But I shove it down. We should back soon.

These boys are GOOD at wakeboarding. My friends thought I was good because I could go outside the wake and jump it a little bit on the way back without crashing, but these kids LEAP over the wakes, can turn their boards 180 degrees flawlessly, do tricks while they're soaring in the air... I have to admit, I had never watched such good wakeboarders. Their mom is taking pictures every time they jump. And yet, I still have to pee.

The urge is getting stronger now, and I shift in my seat to try and get more comfortable. I should have jumped in the water and just got it over with, but it's so COLD now. And I'm so dry, and the sun is going down. I try to focus on something else, so I listen to their mother again.
"...wasn't going to buy a boat in the first place. I told my husband, 'I will not get a boat unless it has a bathroom,' and what do you know, we found this one! I am not the type of person to pee in the water, I need a proper toilet." Then she pointed to a spot on the boat I had assumed was just a storage space, but when she shows it off, it indeed is a very small space, you would have to crunch yourself in a ball and back into it, but there is a small toilet, and some toilet paper. Damn.

I stare at the cubby. My bladder is starting to cause me pain, just like the time I was driving home from Salem on 99W. I thought I could make it home, but I realized while I was driving through the farmlands and forests that there was NO WAY I could make it, but there were no towns coming up soon enough. I was sure I would have to pull over on the side of the road next to a tree and just endure the shame and hope no one drove by while my pants were around my ankles, but then I remembered there was a mini mart in Adair Village. When I pulled up, I laboriously got out of the car and hobbled into the store, afraid I wouldn't make it to the bathroom on time. As I walked in, I desperately asked the cashier, "Do you have a bathroom?!"
He stared at me suspiciously. "Are you a customer?"
"Yes, fine, fine. Whatever, where is the bathroom?" I grimaced. He pointed down a hallway and I practically ran to it, relieved that I had found a proper toilet and would not have to hike into the forest. When I came out of the bathroom, feeling so content after the stress I had just endured that I felt like whistling, I picked up some candy bars and set them on the counter. The cashier looked at me. "You need to buy at least five dollars to be able to use your debit card."
I glared at him. I then grabbed a couple chocolates to complete the transaction. This man was charging me $5 to use his bathroom. Rude. But worth it.

As I sit in the boat and reflect on the desperation of that situation, I decide that, NO, I will not use that little taunting bathroom. EVERYONE on the boat would KNOW I was peeing. On the same boat they were sitting on. I could TOUCH most of them while sitting on that mini toilet if there were no walls around me. No. I can hold it.

I can't hold it. WHY did I drink so much beer?? Beer is the devil! Yes, I can hold it. Think about something else. Think about deserts, and watch the wakeboarders. Look! He just grabbed his board in mid air! No, you can hold it. You are a strong woman who controls her bladder in social situations. You do not need to use this bathroom. Can bladders actually burst?? You can make it back to camp, we will be there soon! Wait... WHY is the boat turning away from camp?!  Oh my GOD, I HAVE TO PEE!

"I need to use your little bathroom." I say abruptly while standing up. The pain is just too much, and I'm afraid that with one little turn of the boat will cause a much bigger problem than having them see me back into that little cubby. I try to laugh and be cool about ducking down into a hidey-hole. The space is cramped and my knees are up to my chin. It takes me a while to figure out how to actually flush the damned thing. I generally hate the experience.

I eventually emerge triumphant from the potty cubby, but I feel awkward. I just peed in their boat.

"I just peed in your boat." I announce to everyone. Why did I say that? I think Brittany rolls her eyes at me, and everyone else chuckles. The hot guy raises his eyebrows. I ignore that. I sit back down next to Brittany. A changed woman. And finally not terrified that I would pee all over her. She doesn't even know the bullet she dodged.

Immigration Law... Who started this mess?!

I have learned an incredible amount of immigration law during my 2+ years in working as a legal assistant. I have heard stories about child brides and murder threats and women being raped in Morocco. I know how to file a family petition, a fiancee petition, how to turn in documents to the court, how to order police and court records. I have heard countless stories about domestic violence and victims of crimes. I know what evidence is necessary for a pre-hearing statement, and have worked with consulates all over the world. I have learned a lot, but the lesson that stands out most to me is this: Immigration law is arbitrary.

I mean that someone made up a law, and put it into action, and though it is not based on anything specific, for some reason we give it power and it means something and shapes how immigrants can live in our country. Though maybe it's not just immigration law that's so arbitrary, but law in general. Why can we drive at 16, become adults at 18, but can't drink until we are 21? Because someone in power said so, and people let that person have that power. It was enforced. It was obeyed, simply because a piece of paper was signed by the right person. It's baffling when you begin to think about it. Words have power. And words become law.

Anyways, let me give you an easy example from immigration law. Let's say an illegal immigrant marries a US citizen. It seems that they should be simply given a Legal Residency card, right? They married a US citizen, so that should give them legal status right away. But in fact, that's wrong.

There are three ways immigrants can become a legal resident from marrying a US citizen (Legal residents are not the same as citizens, but still have many legal rights in the United States. Almost all immigrants are residents for at least 3 years before they can become a citizen.). For two of those ways, the immigrant is allowed to stay within the United States during the application process as long as:
1. They entered legally, or
2. They have a previously filed family petition dated before April 30, 2001.

If, however, the immigrant does not have one of these two things, the immigrant must LEAVE the United States to process their petition abroad from their own country. BUT, as soon as the immigrant exits the United States, most become what immigrant attorneys like to call 212(a)(9)(C). 212(a)(9)(C) is part of the immigration law that states that if an immigrant enters the United States, stays illegally for more than one year, and then departs the United States, they are AUTOMATICALLY BARRED from re-entering the United States for 10 years. 10 YEARS. So, does that seem like a trap to you? It does to me.

These immigrants are not criminals. Their only crime is entering the United States illegally and then leaving. It does not matter if they were children when they were brought here. It doesn't matter if they are good people. It doesn't even matter that they are married to a citizen of the United States. They came illegally, stayed illegally for more than a year, then left. And because they left, they can't come back for 10 years.

So how do these illegal immigrants who are married to US citizens but leave the country and receive a 10 year bar ever COME BACK to the US to be with their families? They have to apply for a waiver of this 10 year bar by proving that their 10 year absence would cause EXTREME and UNUSUAL hardship to their US citizen spouse.

I have a US citizen friend who recently married an illegal immigrant. They were happy together. They both had jobs, she was not sick, her parents were healthy, she didn't have many debts. They were in a perfect position in their new life together... except that they did not have a good waiver case. Because they were doing well, they could not apply for the waiver of the 10-year bar. There was no hardship, besides the fact that she would be devastated to be separated from her new husband for that long. But does the United States Citizenship and Immigration Service care about that? No. They do not. They do not care if tearing a couple apart would be emotional agony. They need something more concrete than simply FEELINGS.

Good evidence for extreme and unusual hardship to the US citizen spouse would be that the US citizen spouse is ill; they have cancer, they have depression, they were abused as a child in the country they would be forced to return to. Additional evidence could be extreme debts that the US citizen cannot leave behind, US citizen children that have learning disabilities or medical problems, parents of the US citizen that they must support, extreme financial hardship were the spouse to leave... anything that proves that:
1. It would be impossible for the US citizen spouse to relocate to the immigrants country, and
2. The US spouse NEEDS the immigrant in the US with them.

So the worse someone's life is, the better chance they have that their waiver will be approved. It is a depressing thing to cheer because my client's mother has cancer, or because her son has autism. I am constantly baffled by being happy about terrible things.

My friend and her husband did not have any extreme or unusual hardship. They were a caring, healthy, dedicated, hard-working couple, but the simple fact was that her husband would not be able to become a legal resident because their life wasn't shitty enough.

The more my friend thought about this, the more she understood that if her life was more difficult, her husband could become legal. She needed to become worse so that her husband could get better. She agonized over how GOOD her life was. If only something were wrong with her, then maybe they could win their waiver case and she could live happily with her husband. The stress of never knowing if he hadn't picked up the phone because he was driving or because he was detained by immigration consistently wore her down. Would he come home that night? How long would it be before he was pulled over by a cop for not changing lanes correctly and asked to show his legal identification?

Her constant stress about her husbands legal status as well as knowing that she wouldn't have to worry about that anymore if only something were going wrong in her life finally took their toll. She became a victim of depression. She had to quit her job, see a therapist, get on medication. And therein was the cure to her husband's legal status; her life was finally shitty enough that maybe, just maybe, her husband could become a legal resident and stay with her in the United States.

HOW FUCKED UP IS THAT?!

My friend and her husband are the EXACT kind of people that we would WANT to stay in our country. I have met people that I thought should get deported, and I have met people like my friend and her husband, who love this country and treat it well, who work hard and contribute to society, who are intelligent and kind and caring. So WHY is it that because of a stupid, made-up, arbitrary rule, that these people are made to suffer so much? Why was it that my friend had to become extremely depressed before there was any hope for her case? The punishment does not match the crime.

So there is just ONE instance of how ridiculous immigration law can be. Tomorrow I will go back to simply shaking my head at this stuff, but every once in awhile it really fires me up to think about the injustice of it. I think a lot of people don't understand the immigration system because it doesn't apply to them, but the more informed people are about the issues our country has, the greater chance we have of actually fixing it... not taking recent governmental shutdowns into account. But we should always hope for the best for the future.

Ramble ramble

As some people may  have noticed (or perhaps not, that's totally fine), I took a small hiatus from writing in the last few weeks. That's because, a few weeks ago, I realized that I was constantly feeling stressed. I felt unsatisfied and frustrated and unfulfilled, and then one day I stopped and asked myself, WHY the HELL am I feeling like this?? I have a fucking awesome life! I live in Portland (The best city EVER, no matter what you think, Dad!) with amazing friends, and I have an awesome job and boss and co-worker, and I work downtown and I get to go out with friends and my little brother and family lives only a couple hours away, and my MOM lives in HAWAII, so, you know, free vacations!

And then I realized, the reason I was feeling stressed was because I felt that I needed to figure out how to become a writer RIGHT NOW. I was always trying to think of what to write and how to write it and how do I get it published? And should I take a class? Is that story good enough? And then I read something about blogs, and how you are supposed to write in them EVERY DAY. Are you kidding me?? Who has so much to say that they can write a blog that often? WHO EVEN CARES?! If I wrote a blog every day, I would run out of things to say. Like yesterday. I went to work, and I got a cappuccino for a treat. I went grocery shopping. We bought pears AND apples, because we were feeling adventurous. We made home-made micheladas, because they are the blood of a Mexican angel. A slightly crazy looking black man who was trying to sell me something while I was waiting at the bus stop told me I was beautiful and asked me for my name, to which I mumbled something, and he said, "Ahh, Sheri! You are a heart-breaker," and I thought, Sheri? I didn't say Sheri, but that's my moms name, HOW DID HE KNOW?!

But the point is, I was stressed out about a goal I had set for MYSELF. Meaning that I was creating my own stress! And when I figured that out, my mind was blown, because what right do I have to make myself feel like that? That is for the OUTSIDE world to do, the world I can't control. Reacting to stressful situations is one thing. Creating my OWN stress is ridiculous. Inside is where MY power is, and I am usually very calm and content, and feeling so powerless was new and unwelcome. So I kicked it out.

I also realized that my goal was not well thought out and also unspecific: "Get something published" is a terrible goal. So I did what I had to do. I let it go. I decided to just STOP IT. I decided to take a break from writing altogether. It used to be something that I liked to do, that made me feel fulfilled and valuable, but at that time it was bumming me out.

And lately I've realized that I miss it. I like storytelling. I like connecting to people in this way. I don't know if anyone hears me, but I like to think they do. I like to believe that people think I'm entertaining or at least interesting... perhaps not in a post such as this where I am rambling on without end, but generally.

So I'm going to stop putting so much stress on myself and just enjoy writing, and enjoy where I'm at right now. Because my life is AWESOME. Creating my own stress once was enough, and it was easy enough to move past once I realized what the hell was going on. I wanted to write so badly that I thought about it too much and messed it all up. I spoke to a psychic once and she said, "You over-analyze things way too much. Stop thinking about it, and just WRITE." Yes ma'am.