My "immigration guy" says I should be fine for next week. Says he's "booked" time in his schedule on Monday to work on my packet and that we'll talk late Monday so he can coach me so I'll be ready for Friday.

Coach me? I've been thinking about that phrase all day. Like an acting coach? Perhaps. More like a sky diving coach if you ask me since the exhilaration of all this, both personally and professionally speaking, feels a bit like throwing myself out of an airplane.

My partner is coming down this weekend and we've got many things on our "agenda" (note: that's with a small "a." Agenda with a big "a" is what the religious right thinks we're up to). Included among those things are picking out some new bedding and buying paint for what will become my study. I'm excited yet a little scared. Well, not so much scared as superstitious. I have this weird thing about not wanting to jinx myself as if buying paint and 300 thread count sheets is going to somehow throw a cosmic wrench into this carefully orchestrated endeavor and lead ultimately to my work permit being denied. I know that's ridiculous. You don't have to tell me that. Maybe this is akin to the various rituals and/or items used by the various athletes I've known over the years. Maybe that's where the coaching part comes in. To bring some logic into this and to remind me I already have what I need to do this.