Sunday 11th February

Things have been busy busy here the past 10 days and no mistake. Firstly we had the whole visa debacle, and then the bank account saga. True, all these things happened last week, but it has taken me a whole week to recover. Not at all that I've been lazy about writing, not at all.

The time is fast approaching when I need to renew my visa stamp for another 6 months. Happily I was spared from going to the Immigration and Naturalisation Service building and queueing for a day to get the forms, since they were available online (marvellous what they can do with technology these days...). So, I filled them all in, gathered together all the stuff I needed, and Father Hand took Thursday morning off work so he could come with me to support my application. Thursday morning, 8am, we're...both sleeping through our alarm clocks. By the time we got up and got down there, it was 11.30 and there was a line out of the door and almost around the corner, and the place closes at 12.30! No matter, we decided, Father Hand would just drop me off there on his way to work the next day. Next day. Friday. We pull in, and there's no line! Nor are there cars in the parking lot. It transpired that these government workers not only just work half days, they have Fridays off as well! So I have to go down there next week before I take off on my travels.

Then came the saga of the bank account. I'm not to be trusted with a cash card, apparently - I am under qualified because I don't have a social security number. Thus, I cannot have a bank account because the American government won't be able to extract taxes from any interest I might accrue. Basically, it seems you cannot spend money here unless it's easily traceable. It's all a dasterdley plot, I'm sure of it.

There was an earthquake here last weekend, it was 3.4 on the Richter scale. I was very excited, even though it only went on for about 10 seconds. At first I thought the people in the apartment below were slamming the door repeatedly, or a big truck was going past outside, but no. The lights shook and the stereo jumped quivered...it was all very exciting. Now, as long as they blow up an old casino while I'm here I'll have almost completed my true Vegas experience, hehe.

The date for travelling has approached more rapidly than I expected - I'm leaving for Mardi Gras a week on Wednesday and might well be gone for 6 weeks. Happily I will be staying with computers...er, I mean, friends with computers...so I can still keep you all informed of every little thing I do. After I get back, the end of my year here will be in sight - Mr Z and Mother Hand will be visiting in April, then in May I will (hopefully) have to start preparing for camp, and Virgin Spice *cough* Justine might visit if she gets herself together, and then I'll be at camp until the middle of August and then, FINALLY! it will be time to come home.

I've been pondering more and more over what to do in "the future (gasp)". This was prompted by a phone call from Mr Jonny Walker in Australia who I can always count on to prod me into trying to make firm plans rather than being just, oh, well, *maybe* I'll do this, *perhaps* I'll do that...in spite of the fact he always thought I'd be a good teacher, when I told him I was thinking of it he asked me what I *really* wanted to do (same as ever...write, get paid) and then made helpful suggestions. I still don't think I've got much chance of getting into it though, but then I am multi-talented - I can always go back to the porn industry if things don't work out. Or cleaning. It was also suggested to me by someone else that I apply for a US green card from England, so I can wait it out over there instead of being stranded here, which does sound like a good suggestion, should I ever find myself here again and in a position to work. I think it would be kind of fun to not get tied into a job forever, but have the freedom to go all over the place and work where I choose. Sadly I don't know whether I'm *that* multi-talented.

Finally...thank god! Somebody has finally solved the sock mystery! Behold...

"As a person who has had occasion from time to time to work in the field of engineering, I am always intrigued when someone presents one of the fundamental scientific conundra in a manner to suggest that it is an eternally unsolved problem. Why dropped toast always lands butter-side down, why the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow is only found in Ireland - imponderables, certainly, but not unsolved.
I eschew brightly colored socks; I am not even particularly upset if I cannot find a pair of matching color or style. This condition has become enshrined in the American psyche as "nerdism", to which I proudly admit my membership.
At the same time, this nerdishness on my part causes me to examine oddities in nature with great care, and strive to find logical explanations, supported as much as possible by empirical evidence. Over time I have worked in bachelor modein various parts of the world and I have observed the missing sock syndrome just as most people have. That it is a valid phenomenon is beyond dispute.
Applying the scientific method to the situation, I did as any nerdish person would and started by disassembling the washing machine. After determining that the socks do not pass through the pump or pass over the top, I reassembled the washing machine and created an interesting wind chime out of the excess parts. The washing machine now runs much more efficiently - but I digress.
It then became necessary to evaluate all of the ancillary evidence. Matter is never made nor destroyed - we all learn that in first grade science (at least in the better schools) - so now we know that the socks did not cease to exist. The likelihood that they changed into pure energy was an interesting thought that I considered for awhile, but lacking the equipment to prove their contribution to cold fusion, I discarded that possibility.
Empiricism anticipates that the student will evaluate all reasonable possibilities. Obviously a loss of matter in one area must be matched by an exactly equal increase of matter in another.... I continued to search for some incremental phenomenon that exactly paralleled the decremental one experienced by the socks. It consumed a great deal of time (fortunately, I had time available because, as a nerd I don't watch much TV, although I had to sacrifice time at my computer)... - nothing seemed to fit.
Finally, I decided to look in the one place where simple logic would predict success: my clothes closet. Socks are clothing. The solution must be clothing-related. Sure enough, there I found the answer. At this time I would like all readers to examine the simple fact that I have discovered.
Look in your clothes closets. Do you see all the wire coat hangers? There is irrefutable, empirical evidence that they increase in numbers at exactly the same rate that defines the decrease in the sock population. There can be no purer scientific explanation than this. A direct one-to-one ratio of matter transference. I am at peace, I rest my case.
Unfortunately, I have not yet determined the best way to reverse the process. "

Thankyou, Lisa and mensa bulletin, for setting my mind at rest!

Saturday 17th February

"Take the National Express, when your life's in a mess, it'll make you smiiiiiiile...." la la. Five days until the beginning of my trip! And everyone is coming out of the woodwork to offer me beds for the night and alcoholic companionship so I'm very excited about the whole thing. I have been industriously taping MP3s off my machine so I won't have to listen to the same 3 cassettes for the 100+ hours I'll be spending on a bus in the middle of nowhere. I also bought sleeping pills and crayons as a diversion. I went out to buy a backpack today - and came back with a very fetching knitted bag that I might just be able to cram 5% of my stuff into - but my heart was in the right place.

I also went to get my hair cut. I toyed with the idea of shaving most of it off and dying the stubble purple but Mr Z pointed out that it might make me look like I'd joined the dark side and if I did that I'd have to have various bits pierced and tattooed, so I just went with a cut which was supposed to leave layers around my face a la Jen and lighten the tousled, fluffy, totally uncontrollable mess I've had since I foolishly decided to abandon the Rapunzel look ('sdo with the thickness innit....without the weight of the length to pull it down, it sticks out in any direction it chooses which leaves me with that just-shagged-through-a-hedge-backwards look unless I spend 20 minutes blowdrying it dead straight...and life is too short for hairdryers...especially when it goes back to its old ways about 5 minutes after the end of all my hard work).

I digress. I remembered why I haven't been to a hairdresser since I was 16. I hate them. They're not to be trusted. I waited for an hour (although managed to read most of this month's Cosmo which means I won't have to pay for it now), and when I finally got to see the "stylist" she asked me whether I wanted my hair shampooed or not. I was almost speechless - my hair? cut dry? what was she *thinking*!! - but managed to confirm that I did. I then warned her off cutting my fringe by threatening death at the hands of her scissors (I might trust these hairdresser types with my hair, but my fringe is another matter, she'd probably have left me with that lopsided look I achieved when I first tried cutting it myself with nail scissors when I was 12...the night before a drama exam...Mother Hand was less than amused...I digress again). Anyway. She did at least take the time to wash my hair but didn't bother with any conditioner which left me with palpitations (never...NEVER do I wash my hair with shampoo alone, I'd rather leave it dirty) and then proceeded to snip away for approximately 3 minutes. Then she asked me if I wanted it blow dryed. This really did render me speechless...was I paying $13 for 3 minutes' snipping and a teaspoon of shampoo? She started blustering on about a perm needing doing on someone else though so I let her off. This means that the newly shorter bits at the front dried naturally - to my utter horror - into girlie ringlets. It doesn't look any different, other than that. Father Hand said it looks very different and very nice, but then I'm a bit suspicious of that because he's a man and therefore has probably realised by now that "it looks lovely dear" is a necessary comment after any woman has had her hair cut.

Hum, I'm being ungrateful. It got rid of all the split ends, and it's nice and even, and once I've worked hairdryer magic on it, it'll look better. I guess it just doesn't look the way I'd imagined it would.

I remember when I asked Justine to cut off my hair when we were in Cuba, she almost made me sign a waiver promising not to kill her if I didn't like it. She wouldn't let me look in a mirror until she'd finished, since she was taking off about 3 feet and she thought it might scare me. I'm surprised she didn't make me wear a blindfold. To her surprise - and I must admit, mine (I only cut it because I started to see myself with immensely long hair for my entire life and thought it would be a shame to never know if it suited me shorter) I liked it. Well, I did until she told me it made me look more like Mother Hand than ever. That took the gloss off it a bit. But it didn't irreparably damage our friendship or anything, which is why she probably had more courage when I asked her to do it again 6 months later, and let me sit in the living room facing the window so I at least had some idea of what was going on. This courage wasn't necessarily good though, as I realised when Zoe and Beccy - drunk on the sofa in front of me - let out shocked gasps as the first locks fell. She cut it so short I couldn't even tie it back for a couple of weeks, and it stuck out worse than ever. Beccy offered to layer it for me, but I wasn't about to let 2 bottles of wine control scissors anywhere near my ears, let alone my hair. But that grew on me too - metaphorically and literally - it was so easy, since I couldn't tie it back, just to pull a brush through it in the mornings and run out of the door without even attempting to make it look tidy. Maybe one day I'll even go as far as *gasp* growing my fringe out and having highlights done, or something. But not before I've worked out how to keep it straight. Isn't it strange...when I was a kid I had hair as straight as a ruler and I wanted it to be curly; now it is, I want it to be straight again.

Maybe I should have just gone for the purple stubble. That would have been quite cool - when it grew out I'd have been left with normal hair with purple split ends.

I wonder sometimes whether conquering my hair would turn me into a proper grown up. It's like, as long as I have this hair, there's no way I can turn into the sort of besuited office types who wear high heels and sheer tights to work and always have tidy hair and impeccable make up. The sort of women who, if they must, only drink to excess on nights when they don't have work the next day, and do so on white wine spritzers or vodka and slimline tonic to avoid excess calorie consumption - but in any case regard drinking to excess as undesirable and would die rather than almost fall off a tube platform after running so fast down the stairs in a race that they can't stop and have to veer wildly off course to avoid overbalancing. The sort of women who don't have an irrational dislike of white bras (shudder...*shudder*) and would flatly refuse to spend a night in a strange place without cream cleanser, wash-off cleanser, toner, day cream, night cream, undereye cream, a full make up kit and 3 changes of clothes. The sort of women who have their manicurist's home phone number on speed dial in case of a nail emergency. I live in fear of becoming such. Not that there's anything wrong with it, but it would be an utter betrayal of my life so far. In my opinion.

No danger of that, I think, anyway, while my hair continues to have a mind of its own (or while I'm still buying crayons to amuse myself). I will admit it does irritate me when I break a nail, and I do like to keep an emery board within easy reach of me at all times, not to mention Chapstick. I have suffered a mild depressive attack because of Chapstick lately - I've nearly run out, and when I bought another cherry one I discovered the American version is medicated, or something - at any rate it smells vile and tastes worse. I realised this probably means I'll have to suffer the remainder of my time here cherry Chapstickless, since I don't know anybody in England with the dedication to scour independent chemists until they come across some. Cherry is not, for some unknown reason, a very widely-available flavour. Most places sell strawberry flavoured Lypsyl, but it's vastly inferior. Only Chapstick has the right consistency. *Whinge* curse Zoe for getting me hooked on lip balm. Curse Nevada for being so dry. Curse the countless scientists of the world for intercontinental teleportation not being a viable method of travel yet. At least I have this Aloe Vera type, which weirdly smells of sherbert lemons, so I suppose I can make do with that, it's not too offensive. I am very fond of sherbert lemons, after all.

Mentioning Zoe, she has gone and got herself not one but two jobs - one in Chiquito's (where she got fired from...but a different branch) and one in some swank place uptown, and apparently they both want her to be supervisor, so it sounds as if she's fallen on her feet there. Meanwhile, Beccy has passed her driving test, and my old school beat my brother's old school in a hockey match last week, in spite of the fact that the Grammar school cheated and put girls over 16 in an under 16 team...typical Grammar school. I don't know though, we didn't have hockey in my day, it was all ridiculously short skirts and lacrosse sticks in the freezing wind on the common. What's the world coming to, eh? These kids don't even know they're born.

Monday 19th February

Funny that I should so recently have written about not becoming the quintessential ladylike woman, since today when I was packing I found myself with really horribly typically girlie dilemmas. For example: if I take no underwear with me and go commando for the entire trip, will I be able to squeeze in my sparkly shoes (in spite of the fact I will probably have no occasion to wear them)? And should I take a spare pair of (wearable) shoes or the hair dryer? And can I cope with only taking one coat, even though it doesn't go with everything?

(For those of you who I'm visiting, don't worry: the underwear's gone in instead of the shoes. But it was a tough decision.)

Today I washed my hair and put aside my dislike of hairdryers, and I have to say it came out looking more as I had imagined it, with the layers curling under my chin. Well...they do on one side - for some reason, the other side is curlier and no amount of hot air will convince it to behave (I fear it may be genetic; although I am also wondering whether all those years of absent-mindedly twisting my hair around my fingers on that side are to blame). So I look a bit lopsided but I have resolved to buy some sort of spray or mousse or something (*shudder* styling products *shudder*) to try and tame it. Father Hand said, "It looks very nice...you looks like Alice..." Alice in Wonderland? "No..Alice, the woman with the big triangular hair in the Dilbert cartoons." Yey

Tuesday 20th February

The day dawned with thick swathes of cloud hanging heavy over the snowy peaks to the west (I know, I was awake to see it), and after dragging my weary self out of bed at 8am I managed to open my eyes for long enough to marvel at it during the drive to the INS centre. It was pretty spectacular - only when the clouds wreath mountains one has visited does one remember how far above sea level Vegas is. Seeing it put me in a good mood. WELL! It was just as well *something* did because the day pretty much trailed off from there.

We arrived at the INS centre around 8.30am - it had already been open for an hour - and realised with horror that the line was out of the door, to the corner of the building, around the corner, and almost to the next corner. However, there was nothing to be done but queue, since I needed to get my visa extension papers filed before I left the city. So I joined the end, pulled out the necessary trappings - book, personal stereo - and lamented my lack of coffee and cigarettes. As I was busy lamenting, I didn't notice the strangely wonky sound of my personal stereo until it had chewed up and attempted to swallow into its depths quite a length of one of the new tapes I had crafted for my journey (right in the middle of an Ace of Base song *hang head* - it has taste, even if I don't).

This did not bode well. Neither did the fact that the wind was howling around while at the same time it was bright and sunny...my lack of Chapstick started to irk me. We all shuffled up the pavement; we all shuffled down the pavement; and it went on. For two hours.

Finally I reached the door. Happy day! The guard asked me if I had a cell phone or cigarettes on me before walking me through a metal detector and then yanking me back when he realised I was carrying a bag (did he just think I was wearing a blue shirt with stupidly-placed grey lines over the shoulders?), which he proceeded to search, asking whether my innocent water bottle contained "water or tequila?" I bit back the quip about needing tequila to get through a day there, figuring he might not appreciate it. Then he came across my muesli bar, and with the attitude one might take towards a lethal weapon, he withdrew it with his fingertips and told me I couldn't take it in with me, so I told him to throw it away, since his hand was hovering directly above a rubbish bin. This he would not do, however: he made me take it from him and throw it away myself (it was heart breaking..I was hungry). This little piece of ritual humiliation over with, I joined another line, in order to get a ticket to join the main line. I was in this line for an hour. Every 5 minutes, Mein Fuhrer the guard yelled at our weary and downtrodden personages to squeeze closer and closer together, so that he might herd yet more cattle into the room, preferably those with squalling brats and appalling bad breath to make one's squeeze in the line that little bit nastier.

Finally, I made it to the ticket desk..
Me: (cheerful McDonald's voice) Good morning! I'm here to file an I-539 (big bright toothy smile)
Bureaucrat: (slight curl of lip) Do you have a cheque for $120?
Me: (thinks) no beating around the bush with you, I see..
Me: (says) Yes
Bureaucrat: Do you have a letter detailing your reasons for staying?
Me: Yes
Bureaucrat: Do you have photocopies of your passport?
Me: (starts to shake) Um...it didn't say you needed those on the instructions...
Bureaucrat: (I'm sure I detected a faint look of triumph at this point) Oh, well, you do
Me: (filled with dread at thought of having to come back tomorrow) Well, can I copy them here? Is there a copier here? Can I make copies here? Do I have to leave? Can I come back without waiting in line again? Babble, babble
Bureaucrat: Sorry, we don't have a Xerox machine here...
Me: (thinks) Ouch! Your nose just poked me in the eye, you lying witch...
Bureaucrat: ...but you can get them copied and come back once you have a number
Bureaucrat: (hands over hallowed number) There's a 3-4 hour wait
Me: (looks at ticket - 221; looks at board: 208; looks at bureaucrat: disbelief) OK

That done with, I explained to the door guard (different guy, fell for the big bright toothy smile) and he was most helpful, he even told me which copy place outside was cheaper, so I went over there. They charged me one dollar for a photocopy. One entire dollar! They also, I noted, had the forms I downloaded for free on the internet for sale - at 25 dollars a shot. God bless America, where the opportunist may flourish. I made my way back to the INS centre, pausing briefly to again lament my lack of caffeinated beverages, and marched straight past the end of the line and back inside, big bright toothy smiles a-go-go, found a seat, and settled in. The line was still around the corner outside, and around 2 sides of the room inside, and the majority of the 150-odd chairs appeared to be filled.

The first hour was memorable for the screaming brat who hovered all too near my legs with its nasty, sticky fingers.

The second hour was memorable for the same brat being joined by a dozen others in a mindless cacophony that rose in tandem with the temperature, and the volume level on my personal stereo.

The third hour was memorable for the teenagers sitting next to me jolting my elbow a dozen times as they played vivacious games of noughts and crosses; also commended for being the hour in which I had to move my legs to let people past the most, and the hour I got stared at most by a creepy US Navy bloke. (The brat was asleep by this point - just as well because I was starting to fashion the wire on my headphones into a noose).

The FOURTH hour - which should have been memorable merely because it was the fourth hour (for crying out loud!) - was memorable because they upped the number of counter staff from one to two and the numbers started moving quicker. We were stuck at 217 for a very long time, and all the other counters moved (the 200s being reserved only for filing - there were 3 other categories, and 3 other lines) and I was starting to lose patience, when suddenly it was at 220 and there came an announcement telling everyone to make sure they didn't miss it when their number was called, since if one missed it, one would have to return the next day because they weren't issuing any more numbers now the centre was closed. Thus, when my number was called, I fairly leapt out of my seat, narrowly missed treading heavily on the brat (shame) and practically ran to the counter, whereupon I immediately got the shakes from the big rush of adrenaline at finally having something to do.

It was shortlived, however. "Is Peter here?" sniffed the clerk (who badly needed to wax her upper lip, I might add) "Um no, he's my dad, he's at work..." "Can't take a cheque from Peter unless Peter's here." PANIC! PANIC! "Um er, er, well, um, if I go and call him and he comes down will the guard let him in even though the door is locked now can I come straight back will I have to wait in line again can I get another number will that be acceptable um er *shake*?" "You go call him, when he gets here, come straight back." I did so. (Don't worry, this painful story is almost at an end). Father Hand duly arrived, where the guard let him in with no problems, in spite of the fact that he'd just given rabies to someone else who knocked on the door (well..almost..he certainly snarled). He kept telling us to sit down, like school children, but eventually we made it back to the window, where Father Hand managed to lighten the clerk's mood by carolling "Daddy's here!" at her. She was entranced and sorted it out in two shakes of a duck's tail. She barely looked at my carefully crafted bundle of papers - I might have written I was planning to stay in America in order to carry out mass genocide (I'M NOT! I'M NOT! IT'S A JOKE! A JOKE! Mr INS Man sir...) - and gave me a receipt to staple into my passport, until they send out the confirmation "in a month or so". Meanwhile, Father Hand produced his version of the big bright toothy smile and asked her to check on his green card, which has been pending for 18 months. He has seen it. It has been renewed - he has signed it, and put his finger print on it - all they need to do is laminate it and put it in the post - a process which apparently takes 18 months to complete. She said it hadn't been done, but restamped his passport so he can travel now. He later remarked that it was worth 120 dollars to get his passport stamped without having to wait in line all day. I think if we ever do this again - and I don't plan to - we should do it the other way around. Mind you, when he applied for his green card, he waited in line for 3 days in a row *just to get the forms*, and only got into the building then because he refused to leave.

As he remarked - it's all so undignified. The ban on cellular phones. The confiscation of food and drink. The condescending attitude of the staff. Of course, they can get away with treating us like cattle because we don't vote so we don't matter. But I'm still smarting over the muesli bar. And the endless wait...the place would have been better if children and Mexicans had been banned. Not that I have anything against Mexicans you understand - it's just that 99% of the other people there were Mexican, and if they hadn't been there my wait would have been a far more reasonable 15 minutes or so. As it was, I was so bored I actually started hoping someone had planted a bomb, just to liven things up a little.

Thank goodness it's over with, anyway. And - just to prove that spending the day in purgatory often bears rich rewards - we arrived home to find my bus ticket, my new credit cards *and* a free little tour booklet for the US in the mail. So now I have everything I need for my trip. This will be my last entry before I leave, but I should hopefully be able to keep the updates fairly regular with the invaluable help of Mr Z...let's have a round of applause to display our des...*cough* collective appreciation of Mr Z