Sunday, January 12, 2014

The Grass is Greener Under the German Wiener, Part 3

Part 1
Part 2

So we met my friends for lunch despite consulate man’s displeasure.  Ann’s husband asked if we found this consulate on Craig’s list, which was a valid question.  After lunch we to headed to the FedEx store for part two.

Nick retook his pictures.  He went back to his original rapist look.  Then the staff went back to being completely confused as to how to print off the pictures to the proper specifications.  We went back to perusing obscure office products.   Mom learned some phrases in Spanish from the Spanish cheat sheet for sale.  I read a chapter out of a book about killing clutter (tip: Ditch the coupons.  You don’t need them.)  After what I believe was a brief meeting with the UN, they were able to print our pictures and we left the store.

On the way out, Nick’s phone rang.  It was a Dallas number.  He doesn’t know anyone in Dallas.
“Umm, yeah…we’re on our way.  They were still confused.  It took about four of them to figure it out,” said Nick.
“JESUS CHRIST!”
It was the consulate man.

We arrived back at the office/apartment and he was now more than irritated.  He made several comments about Murphy’s law and how it feels like Friday the 13th and how he needed a drink.  It is for reason that when asked to review my application and make sure he has entered everything correctly I was afraid to tell him my name was wrong.

“Umm…this is my maiden name.”
“That’s what it said on your old passport.”
“I know, but I’ve had it changed since then…”
“You have to have it legally changed.”
“I know.  I did.  I got a new social security number and…”
You know that deep breath that people take with their eyes closed that says I am doing everything in my power not to rip your head off?  That.  He did that.  He also laced his fingers and placed them across his stomach as he said with as much control as he could muster, “You. Have. To. Change your name with the GERMAN GOVERNMENT to change your name on your passport.”
“Ok, so if I want to…
“ALL you do is travel with you marriage license.”
“Ok, I understand but if I do want to change it what…”
“You HAVE TO GO to the website and it’s $80 and it’s just EASIER to travel with your marriage license.”
“Ok.”

I stopped talking.  I did not want to die that day.  My mother was trying her best not to laugh.  She was failing miserably.  She asked him a question as he spun around in his chair, which prompted more comments about needing to drink.  Scotch.  He prefers Scotch.  I mouthed the words “Do not piss him off” to my mother, which prompted another fit of the giggles.  She had pulled a tissue out of her purse to hide her uncontrollable laughing.

He asked me one more time if everything was correct and OH MY GOD my eye color!  My eye color is wrong!  Shit.  Cringing I told him.  To avoid looking like an idiot I explained that because I got in late my dad filled it out for me.  He must have gotten me and my brother confused when he put blue.
“Well, your dad’s German must not be so great any more either because he put your first and last name in the wrong boxes!”
I couldn’t help it.  I am laughing now too.  I have never seen anyone so angry.  Mom was still covering her laughs with a tissue.  He must have thought she had the world’s worse sinus infection.

He told us he would like to move to Colorado where he can smoke pot.  Scotch is now definitely on the agenda for his after work plans.  He printed out the new paperwork and asked me again to look.  He said something about how his head is up his ass today, which I didn’t hear because my reply was “That is correct.”
“My head IS up my ass?!”
“No!  God no!  I mean the paperwork!  It’s all correct now!”

My mother was losing her shit, I was following in her footsteps and finding it more and more difficult to control the laughing and we hadn’t even got to Nick’s application.  It did not go any better.
“The street address is wrong.  There’s supposed to be an S on the end of Oak.”
“I DIDN’T PUT AN S!”
“I know.  It needs one.”
It now seriously looked like his head might explode as he rifles through his paperwork.  I prayed that this one was not my dad's mistake.
“Oh.  Sorry,” he says, “that was my typo.  I entered it wrong.”

We finally wrap up.  Mom asked him some questions about maintaining duel citizenship, which increased his annoyance level even further.  Nick and I chimed in with, “Hey mom, you know let’s just Google it?  It’s ok.  We’ll just Google it when we get home.”

And we got the hell out of there.  The good news is that I wasn’t offered drugs and I wasn’t sold into a prostitution ring.  The bad news?  We will have to go through this whole thing again in 10 years when the passports expire.  We can only hope that pot is legal in Texas by then.

Laughing our asses off post-consulate.

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