Over the course of my three years at Penn, I've been threatened with deportation twice, frisked three times -- not just checking my boots for box-cutters, but the full deal, burly mustachioed women and all -- and most recently, over Fall Break, denied entry into this land of the free/home of the brave by a smug U.S. Airways rep with poor oral hygiene.
I'm not a terrorist or a shoe-bomber. God forbid I ruin a good pair of Jimmy Choos. I'm a British citizen, and apparently, in this world gone mad, I pose a threat to national security. Anyway, while you were all skipping class last week to watch reruns of Newlyweds: Nick and Jessica, I was in line with the dregs of society outside the U.S. Embassy in London. I'm not complaining, I promise. All the pandemonium turned out to be a simple misunderstanding about my student visa, and so, I got to spend an extra week with my boarding school friends -- some of whom I hadn't seen since we were climbing out of dorm windows to smoke cigarettes in the bushes.
I'm just angry with myself for not realizing the obvious solution to my constant battle with the INS sooner. I need to marry a U.S. Citizen. Now. Any takers?
It'll only be for a few months, just until my green card arrives in the mail, at which point I'll divorce you and, let's be honest, probably try to swindle some cash out of you. I guess I'll consider providing sexual favors if you're attractive and disease-free -- I know, I know, that's asking a lot at Penn -- but don't expect me to be faithful. I've cheated on every boyfriend I've ever had, and if bed-hopping was an Olympic sport, you'd be singing my national anthem.
In the unfortunate event that we must live together for a few months, there are a few things you need to know to fool the prying eyes of the petty bureaucracy: I don't cook, clean or do anything remotely domestic. My clothes are all dry-clean-only and I certainly won't be doing your laundry. You won't be watching 'the game' anymore, unless it's soccer (Beckham, mmmm). Also, I hope you don't mind second-hand smoke, reckless spending, picky eating, foul language or hissy fits: they also come with the territory. If I'm hung-over, tired or PMS-ing, you'll need to refrain from speaking to me or looking in my general direction, unless you have some sadomasochistic desire to have your balls severed from your body.
As you can tell, we're not talking romance here. We won't be gazing dreamily into each other's eyes over candlelit dinners or snuggling on the couch watching schmaltz like You've Got Mail -- I hate Meg Ryan and her shaggy blonde bob. No, this will be purely a marriage of convenience.
Send in your applications soon. I'm sure this will be a hot competition.
