The M-Word

I have a confession to make.

It is, of course, no secret that I enjoy frequenting our local watering holes on repeated occasions throughout the week. Several factors play into this proclivity, including my penchant for beer, whiskey and tequila, my affinity for company and the slowly dawning realization that, in four short months, this will all be over.

All of these are good and sufficient reasons for people to want to go to the bars. But, unlike virtually every other person who attends them, I am also driven by another quite different and slightly more pressing goal.

I go to the bars not because I’m an alcoholic, but because I am looking for a wife.

Now, before you ladies start sending in head shots and buying wedding dresses, allow me to explain a few things first. I am not one to brag, but I am Mexican, born and raised. That said, I’ve been here in these United States for almost four years and have been allowed to attend this fine college thanks, in part, to the good graces of the INS.

The folks over at the INS are good folks, but they have a tough job. People enjoy coming to America a little too much, and the agency somehow has to stem the flow. This includes limiting student visas, such as the one I possess. My own visa expires about a day after Commencement, at which point I am expected to pack up and ship out on the next plane heading south.

I don’t quite want to do that, you see. I don’t really want to leave the U.S. There is something about the smell of freedom that’s somewhat … intoxicating, and I am loath to leave it for any particular reason.

This, of course, needs a solution. And when I started walking around this pleasant town and realized that there were real, honest-to-goodness non-bottle blondes here in America, it struck me.

I can get married!

If I get married, I get a green card. If I get a green card, I get to stay! If I get to stay, I can earn dollars!

Yay!

Taking a cue from that age-old tradition, I started bar-hopping, if only to find a momma for my baby. But what I didn’t realize is that looking for a one-night stand is very different from looking for a spouse. Changes to my game plan were necessary, from top to bottom. I now had to look respectable and pretend that I was on my way to something. I had to give the impression that I had a future. I needed to reassess my priorities.

I needed new pickup lines.

Instead of using what has always worked, the tried-and-true classic, “Do you like math? Why don’t we add a bed, subtract our clothes, divide your legs and multiply?” I have had to modify my opener to the more necessary, “Are you American?”

Having ascertained that the girl is, in fact, from this country, I like to follow these up with other useful lines like, “So, you seem to have wide enough hips,” and the also necessary, “How good a sandwich do you make?”

I realized that I was moving too fast, however, and that I probably shouldn’t have brought the engagement ring to first dates. It’s a dazzling piece of “jewelry,” that’s for sure. But perhaps I should have at least waited for the appetizers before popping the question. I scared away a few girls like that, but I maintain that the second one liked the ring and only left because she was put off by the Chili’s wait-staff and their far-too-enthusiastic rendition of “Happy Birthday.”

I’ve gone through college in much the same way, looking for a dependable ball-and-chain, but it has always been tricky for me. See, the girl would always have the upper hand. You need to be married for three years before the INS lets you stay for good. I feel, however, that this would give my sure-to-be-lovely wife one hell of an upper hand.

“Mow the Lawn.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Want to mow the lawn in Mexico?”

“ … (grumble) … ”

“And when you’re done, you can drive me to go buy some more shoes.”

I’m a bit reluctant to dive into that kind of situation, but I feel like I may have to, if only to allow myself the opportunity to stay.

But people tend to find out that I’m foreign, and this always hangs over the two of us. Perhaps the reason I’ve never really had a very serious relationship is the unspoken elephant in the room. Does he love me? Or is he just trying to stay in the country?

Well, can’t the answer to both be yes?

If you think that the answer to both can by all means be yes, then you are in luck! Allow me to put out a call to anyone who is interested. I have planned a huge wedding in Vegas over Spring Break — I don’t mean to press, but it has to be kind of soon — sparing no expense, hiring the best Elvis impersonator money can buy. I’m cribbing the vows from Dawson’s Creek, I have the best champagne south of twenty dollars and promise to wear a tie.

I really want this citizenship, and I bet I’ll really, really like you.

Ah, but what, you ask, is in it for you? Well, let’s not be modest: me. You also have the assurance that I will be there for at least three years. Three years is a good amount of time, isn’t it? I mean, that’s a long relationship. Think anyone else you’d go out with would guarantee you three years up front? I also shower daily, speak Spanish and have no criminal record in this country. So far. I’m one hell of a catch.

And think about how much it’s going to piss off your parents.

Carlos Maycotte is The Sun’s Associate Editor. He can be contacted at cam98@cornell.edu [1]. Tequila Sunrise appears Thursdays.