"Show 'Em Whatcha Got." - Public Enemy

Right now I have a cold.  I can’t breathe from my nose.  I can’t sleep.  Lots of sneezing.  Can’t taste anything.  You get the drift.  When the back of my throat started to hurt on Monday, I thought I could work really hard at the gym and sweat it out, but that didn’t work.  I sweated twice as hard but accomplished less than usual ‘cos my body was just not feeling it.  Tried again Tuesday and my body basically said “FU, watch this”, then Wednesday I woke up late for work after a restless night with my phone alarm going off in my ear and a full blown cold……the kind where people look at you like you have two heads and wonder why the hell you are out in public.  And it’s stuck around.  It’s Friday and I’ve still got it.  I never get sick like this so I really thought I could just ignore it and it would go away, but no such luck.

But hey – my hair has stopped falling out!   Praise Jesus!  (Just kidding.  No, it did stop falling out but I don't praise Jesus.)  And it has started to become necessary for me to retire many of my clothes.  This is a kind of overwhelming project…to sort through my clothes.  I have a lot of clothes.  A LOT, a lot.  And I have always liked loose, flowy clothes so I’m not the best judge of what I should keep and what is just plain too big.  After trying and failing to sort through them all in one shot, I decided to take a different approach.  Now whenever I put something on and I clearly cannot wear it anymore, I automatically put it in the donation bag that sits in my room.  I have already filled up 3 garbage bags.  If anyone knows someone who needs women's plus sized clothes, please contact me.

March 2012 - My highest weight ever.  Never going back.

This approach doesn’t always work.  A couple weeks ago I went to my friend Rick’s place and I was carrying a bunch of stuff up to his apartment.  Both hands were full and my jeans started to fall down.  By the time I got up the four flights of stairs to his place, my jeans were down at my ankles. I’m not kidding….I had no pants on!  And I had just walked up four flights of stairs carrying many things and I could still breathe enough to laugh hysterically about it!   It was awesome.   I had just put on those jeans right out of the dryer so it’s not like they were stretched out from multiple wears.  So I had to accept that even though they were my favourite jeans, it was time to say goodbye to them.  I’m sure I will have many more favourite jeans before this deal is done.

On July 6, it was 6 months since my gastric sleeve surgery.  I didn’t even notice.  Rick sent me a text wishing me a happy surgiversary, as they call it in the weight loss surgery community, and I momentarily enjoyed the good wishes and positive energy he sent to me, and then I started to PANIC.  Shouldn’t I have made more progress by now?    Shouldn’t I have lost more weight?  I’m due for my six months follow up…. How could I not even notice?  I’m a terrible weight loss surgery patient, I don’t follow rules and therefore I’m a terrible person. 

That’s how I think.  For me, it’s not a big leap from happiness to soul crushing unhappiness.  I can get there in two minutes flat.  I’m sure it must be somewhat amusing and/or frustrating to those observing from a distance that I can take ANY situation and spin in so it’s not only negative but that it must also somehow be my fault that things went wrong.  I ALWAYS internalize everything.  Something around me goes wrong, it must be my fault.  There must be something wrong with me.  And the thing is….I KNOW I’m doing this.  I just can’t stop doing it.  I don’t know what’s wrong me……Ha!

Before I had my surgery, I thought nothing is going to come before my weight loss efforts…that the surgery and the “journey” afterwards were going to be my number one priorities for the entire year and I wouldn’t focus on anything else.    Nothing could distract me from it. 

Man, I was SO wrong.  There are distractions and stress everywhere.   And I don’t know if I just thought I would live in a bubble for a year after my surgery and that’s all I would have to think about or what but the last month or so has been really stressful, really hard for me.  There’s a lot going on and I’m kind of a mess about it all.   I have found it difficult to talk about or even admit to myself because I know that every single person I know is rooting for me in this weight loss journey and because of that, I don’t want to admit when things are going bad or I screw up or whatever.  I feel like I can only talk about the great stuff – and there is a lot of great stuff.  I don’t want to let anyone down and I don’t want to be a failure.  I don’t want anyone to go, "oh we knew she couldn’t do it.  I don’t know why she won’t just accept herself the way she is.”  I don’t even feel like I can talk about these struggles with other weight loss surgery patients because it seems like everyone else just sails through the first year and drops all their weight like a hot potato.  Not me – I am fighting for every pound.  It is certainly not dropping off.  And my "everything is fine" veneer is cracking big time.

Some of the stressful stuff going on in my world:

•  Watching Sam move on – really move on and get totally serious about a new woman – has been way harder than I thought it would be.  I don’t think I expected to be “replaced” so easily and so quickly.  I really, really wanted to be totally cool, just like Sam’s ex was to me when I entered Sam’s life, but I just can’t yet.  Sam has been my best friend for the last 7 years and suddenly that’s gone.  It’s just not there anymore.  I had to detail for USCIS our entire relationship and writing that all out made me so incredibly sad.  Even though I know it’s right for both of us, I feel like a failure for not being able to make the relationship work.
•   I’m experiencing some health issues that have nothing to do with weight loss surgery.  Because of these health issues I have to go for my first mammogram and get a bunch of ultrasounds.  I’ve dealt with medical issues before, obviously, but these health concerns are all centered around my various lady parts and that’s extremely distressing to me.
•   My friendship with Rick has completely ended and I am so very sad about that.  Rick was one of the few friends I had here in Rochester who was not also connected to Sam in some way and he’s been a huge emotional support for me since before my surgery.  The way it ended brought up all kinds of baggage for me about who I tell myself I am…selfish, a liar, a destroyer of people.  Those thoughts have been a struggle to control.
•   The health of one of our dogs has deteriorated significantly.  She’s 14 and appears to now be deaf and blind and incontinent.  And she can’t really get around on her own very well either.  Lately she has been falling down the basement stairs if we aren’t watching her.  Seeing how dependent the little creature we used to call "the Anarchist" has become and watching her decline is really upsetting.
•    My Green Card is expiring on July 30 and I am big time freaking out about what’s going to happen now.  The USCIS issues Permanent Residents a 2 years conditional card when they first enter the country.  The condition is I am married to a US Citizen.  That’s why I was allowed to enter the country.  I have applied to remove the conditions and for them to issue me a 10 year unconditional Green Card.    But with my marriage being all but legally over, I don't know what to expect now.   It could be a year before the situation is resolved, but in the meantime my current GC will be extended for a year so I can still travel and work.  I am almost positive my case will at the very least be looked at closer and both Sam and I will get pulled in for an interview which will delay the process even longer.  I have no idea if we can begin divorce proceedings during this process or not.  The outcome of it is what has me worried though.  If my case officer decides Sam and I didn’t have a real relationship, they will deport me.  If they deport me, they could also ban me for the rest of my life from the country.  That is the worst case scenario, and that is pretty bad.

(BTW - As a far as I’m concerned, after USCIS is done with me, if I am allowed to stay in the US, I should be considered fully vetted and beyond reproach by anyone in this country.  This process has been completely invasive.  There is nothing the United States government doesn’t know about me.  Whether you immigrate from Canada or Iraq, the exact same process applies.  The US government has seen all my financial and medical records several times,  done extensive background checks on me, asked for multiple references who are willing to provide information about me under oath if asked, done completely invasive medical testing – including a strip search – on me and they know the details of my private life.    So I’m feeling pretty self-righteous.  If I am allowed to stay in this country, no future employer, future friend, future landlord or future partner should ever feel at all hesitant about me or question my integrity.  The fact that I successfully and legally immigrated to the US is all the proof I need that I am trustworthy.  No joke.)
•    Work.  I don’t even want to go into this, but I think it’s time for me to move on and this has been a source of tension for me for a while.  I was distracted by my surgery enough that I didn’t care before but now that I’m well into my surgery journey, it’s a problem and it’s stressing me out.

In case I didn’t explicitly say it, right now at this point of my journey I do feel like I’m in a pretty dark place.  The gym is really the only place where I feel in control, completely comfortable, confident, and relaxed.  Every other thing in my life right now has me on edge and I feel really isolated. 

As a result, I have felt myself reverting back to old behaviours, like eating and casual sex to make me feel better.  The cool thing is I could see what I was doing without any analysis on my part.  I really didn’t have to look very hard …it was obvious to me that I was looking for comfort with food and sex.  I bought the damned Golden Oreos and devoured the entire package in 3 days.  And when it was gone I thought, well do you feel better now?  The answer was, of course, no.  And did that guy who didn’t even remember your name make you feel better?  As if.  How about the other guy who knew your name and humoured you enough to talk to you but also clearly didn’t give a shit about you…did HE make you feel better?  Etc.

(Dear Laura:  Fuck you.  I get it, now shut up about it.  Love, me.)

So yeah I reverted back to those behaviours but it was controlled.  I knew what I was doing and stopped myself before it became more than a package of cookies or a few casual encounters.  I’m not justifying what I did but I’m saying that I’m learning.  I’m growing.  I'm onto my own games.  I screwed up and I’m ok about it.  I know it was a problem and I’m not out of the woods yet.  I am considering giving Jessica a call. 

I think the challenge for me is navigating the very fine line between self-destructive behavior and pleasure.  I have always thought of myself as a hedonist…..someone who devotes their life to the pursuit of pleasure.  For as long as I can remember, pleasure has been a priority for me and I never saw anything wrong with that and I really don’t want to change that.  Pleasure is the ultimate high for me and I’ll do what I have to do to get there….even if it’s humiliating, even if I’m scared, even if I need to suspend my common sense or intelligence.  For me, there is something valuable in the experience of the pursuit of pleasure.  Experiencing pleasure is a revelation, it’s a religious experience, and it’s mind-altering.   A life without pleasure seems so dull. 

But many of the things that give me pleasure are also the things I use to self-destruct.  I can’t completely eliminate food and sex from my life, and it is a real challenge for me to treat these things “moderately” and with respect.  Treating food that way has become a lot easier for me since my surgery.  I know if I, for example, get 4 beautiful scallops and perfectly sear them and eat them with a side of spinach for dinner, that I’m treating myself well and giving myself pleasure.  Sex is another story.  When you don’t have a partner you are committed to, sex is a tricky deal and the line between pleasure and self-destruction is blurry.  You can start an experience off with the best intentions and try to make it about pleasure but if your partner isn’t about that, then it can turn self-destructive FAST.  Most casual partners don't give a shit about your needs, your process, your wish for pleasure.  Even if they say and think they do, they really don't.

One of the things I worked with my therapist on was the idea of living through feelings of discomfort.  Any feelings of discomfort, for any reason.  For whatever reason, I never learned to handle "feelings"....I knew anger and happiness.  That's it.  So my response to any unpleasant feeling has always been to automatically get angry and eat so I feel better and whatever uncomfortable feeling there was just goes away.  Jessica and I talked a lot about mindfulness and acknowledging the uncomfortable feeling and just allowing it to exist while still getting on with the rest of the day.

It occurred to me this week that working out with my trainer has also given me some amazing skills for handling discomfort.  When I think back to when I first started with her, man - was I a whiner.  Yeah I kept going back but I didn’t think I could do anything, I didn’t want to try anything, I didn’t want to sweat, I didn’t want to hurt, I didn’t want anyone to see me working out.  One day, Dana - my trainer - told me, “girl you need to develop some mental toughness!”.  I’ll tell you what, I nearly punched her right in the face.  I was so insulted that this perky 26 year old girl who had dedicated her life to being fit and has never experienced true hardship had the guts to tell me I wasn’t tough.  It was only months later that I could understand where that comment was coming from and I had to agree.

I’m not sure how or when the toughness transformation happened but it happened at some point during the last two months.     Dana told me a few times that during a good workout you get tired, then feel pain, then numbness, and if you push through all that then you’re ok and you can just keep going.  I thought she was crazy….surely only crazy people think like that, but she was right.  I don’t complain anymore or say no to anything she has me do.  If she asks if I want a lighter weight or a heavier one, I always pick the heavier one.  I never stop when she tells me I’m allowed to stop, I always go a few reps more just so I know I’m pushing that little extra.  I don’t want to feel like I’m doing the bare minimum.  I deserve more than the bare minimum.  In fact, I’ve upped my 60 minute workouts to 5 days a week, and Dana gave me a walking challenge of 10 miles for the month of July and I’ve already blown way past that with 5 days to go.  And........she made me run one day last week.  Run! 

I’m never sore or tired the day after a workout.  This baffles her.  She is convinced now I just won’t admit that I’m sore and tired so she tries to break me by working me harder and harder each time.  I’m grateful for her determination and I push myself but I just am not sore or tired the next day.   Last night I did a mile on the treadmill to warm up like I usually do.  (Actually, sometimes I row instead.)  Then I did:  100 squats with 15 pound weights; 100 push presses with 15 pound weights; 75 two-hand swings with 15 pound weights; 25 leg lifts; 25 flutters; 125 jabs with 5 pound weights; 125 power hand with 5 pound weights; and 100 rapid fires with 5 pound weights.  I was so sore and so tired when I was done.  Today I don’t hurt and I’m not tired.

It was hard and it hurt like hell but it also felt amazing.....exhilarating!  The whole point last night was to do as many reps of each thing as I could possibly do before I felt like I would die and honestly I could have done more of each (except the leg lifts and flutters – I really need to work on abs!) but I wanted to keep moving.  Each time I started the next exercise, after a few reps, I really wanted to stop……I started to get tired very quickly.  But then Dana started talking to me and I found after awhile I was automatically going with the momentum of the movement and not even noticing the pain even though it was still there.  Working through the discomfort.  Accepting it and allowing myself to feel it without trying to push it away.

This is all new to me ‘cos I'm pretty much a spoiled princess.  Always have been and I know it.  A princess who is obsessed with black, who listens to Lords of Acid and has no interest in finding a prince who will rescue her……but still, a princess all the same.  I want what I want when I want it and I usually get it.  I have no patience.  I don't wait.  I have to work hard for anything.  I’m permissive with myself and expect other people to be also.  These are not my best qualities.  I’m not proud to have these qualities.  I don’t think, “oh well that’s the way I am so I’m just going to accept myself.”

I have always simultaneously loved and hated people who say no to me.  The 10 year old kid in me who has no impulse control hates people who say no to me, because……. how dare you say no to me!  Indignant outrage!  The woman in me really respects people who say no to me.  Thank you for caring enough to say no, thank you for being stronger than me, thank you for providing some stability to my pandemonium.  It kind of makes me feel safe when people tell me no.  When people tell me yes, I feel like I’m in control of the world and that scares the shit out of me.   In spite of how bossy I appear, I don’t want to be in control of the world.  I just want to be a bossy smart ass.

A few nights ago at the gym I met a guy who had gastric bypass surgery (a different kind of weight loss surgery than what I had) in Mexico.  He developed a very nasty infection afterwards and he almost died.  He was in ICU for four months…he just got out.  Talking to him about his experience made me feel incredibly grateful for mine and made me realize that it really is about time for me to start saying no to myself.  No, I don’t “deserve” the package of Golden Oreos because I’ve been working so hard.  What I  deserve is to love myself enough to say no to the Golden Oreos.  No, I don’t “have” to have a piece of cake because it’s someone’s big night.  No, I don’t get to “treat” myself by skipping the gym tonight.  And no, this dude who doesn’t give a shit about me is not going to give me the night of my life, so don’t expect he will and hate myself when he doesn’t. 

"Dare to Be Me", by Janet Visser



I’m not sure I ever talked about what I want to do for my first tattoo.  I was actually going to get it done a month ago but instead bought a piece of art called “Dare to Be Me”.  I’m completely mesmerized by this piece and it seemed more important to my journey at that moment than the tattoo did.  What this piece says to me is I am a work in progress and the end result is me...... the real me.  Whatever path I take, it contributes to who I am, but that I always need to be brave enough to make the choices that are true to myself.  It’s a mixed media piece so it says to me there is no one “thing” I am.    It was created using paint, pages from a magazine, pen….it isn’t just one medium.  And that’s me too.  I’m a complicated and bold collage and I’m beautiful and growing into the person I am by making the right choices for who I am.  Usually I just buy pieces that are beautiful for the sake of their beauty.  This one is beautiful, but it has special meaning to me also.

In any case, now it’s time for the tattoo.  My original thought for the tattoo was “True Grit”….the words spelled out with some sort of design.  Then I got the idea to use an Italian version as a nod to my grandmother, who was probably the grittiest woman I knew.  So I came up with a few variations:  Vero Grinta; Vero Grana; or Vero Coraggio.  I haven’t decided which I want to use yet.  But the idea of “True Grit” is something I need right now.  I want to put this tattoo on the underside of my left forearm so I can see it all the time and be reminded of it. This concept came up during a session with Jessica where we talked about the idea of being selfish and what it means to be selfish.  She talked with me about how making choices for yourself, even if they are choices that others don’t agree with, is not selfish…it’s determination.  She helped me see the word “selfish” – which has always been a real sore spot for me – in a new light.  After the month I’ve had, it’s time for some true grit, pronto.

Random Stuff:

·        I can’t write while I listen to music.  It’s one or the other.  In fact, I am just bad at multi-tasking in general.  Two stimulants happening at the same time is just way too much for me.  I forget what I’m doing.

·        I’ve had inner ear problems since I was a kid.  I experience vertigo on a pretty regular basis.

·        My dad was an amateur race car driver when I was a kid.  I grew up at racetracks and I still get kind of a thrill at a track.

·        When my dad raced, he picked up the habit of shimmying the car back and forth while driving and he still does it.  If he’s driving on a highway and I’m in the car with him, I am completely nauseous the entire time.

·        Like most girls, I love horses.  But I hate horse racing. 

·        I like driving fast.  A lot.  There are certain spots where it is a lot of fun….on the 490 going into Rochester across the bridge, around the curves and past Monroe.  I am always really sad when there’s too much traffic I can’t pass anyone there. 

·        I’ve gotten more speeding tickets since I moved to the States (not even 3 years ago) than I have in all the time I drove in Canada (25 years)!  It feels like the cops here are more interested in traffic violations than they are in doing anything about violent crime.

“They Say it's Your Birthday....It's My Birthday Too, Yeah.” – The Beatles

Both of my grandfathers were in World War 2. 

My mom’s father was in the Air Force and their family moved around all across Canada every couple of years the whole time my mom was growing up.  Her father was a medic in the war.......my grandfather who died when I was five, so I never got to talk to him about his experiences overseas.  By all accounts, my grandfather was a  fun loving guy – a lover, not a fighter - and he did not want to talk about the war at all when he got back.  I really don’t know a lot about where he was stationed....I suppose I could find out.  I don't know how he survived the war, how it changed him, how it defined him.  After he returned home from the war, he left the Air Force and went to work as an accountant in a hospital.  He had a heart condition, he drank a lot, was the life of the party, he loved his family and died at 48.  Maybe that early death was a reflection of what the war did to him, but that's just speculation.

My father’s father enlisted in the 48th Highlanders, which is an Infantry reserve.  He was married with a young daughter when he went to England but his experiences in the war were the defining moments of his life.  He is a small but tough Ukrainian guy who breaks your hand when he shakes it, washes dishes with boiling hot water and pulls shrapnel out of his own leg in his garage….he’s THAT guy.  Chuck Norris’ brother from another mother.  He does not show vulnerability or make small talk….but after 94 years alive on this earth, he has got some fantastic stories to tell and most of them revolve around the war.

He has always talked about the war with a lot of pride which caused a lot of tension between him and my grandmother.  He spent a significant amount of time in England, France and Holland and had a serious girlfriend in Holland….she might even have had his kid after the war ended but he did his duty and returned home to his wife and daughter.  This was no secret in my family.  My grandmother had her picture and showed it to me once when I was a teenager.  I think she thought he was living it up overseas...having the time of his life.  And she resented him for it, unfortunately.

 My grandfather spent a year and a half in England training with the British Army before he went to France and then Holland, where he stayed until the war ended.  He was a sniper.  He likes to tell stories about the famous people who came to entertain the troops and the boots he stole from  German soldiers (he presumably killed) and the time he got to dance with Princess Elizabeth and the Nazi bank he and his fellow officers broke into.  He gave his share of whatever they found there to his girlfriend in Holland when he went back to Canada.

I have to admit, I love hearing his war stories.  He’s 94 years old and has a mind like a steel trap…he remembers everything and he’s a great storyteller.  I didn’t always love his stories – especially while my grandmother was alive since it made her so upset when he started talking about it - but in the last 7 or so years, and especially after I moved to the States, hearing his stories helps me feel connected to Canada, and to him, in a way that they didn’t before. 

I never heard him get emotional telling a story until a few years ago when after a bottle of wine I asked him if he had ever seen any of the concentration camps.  Then he told me for the first time how he and his regiment liberated one of the camps but he didn’t know which one, only that it was in Holland.  I looked it up online…..I’m pretty sure it must have been Vught.  He said he still sees the faces with blank eyes and sunken cheeks staring out from behind the fences, the boney hands grabbing at the soldiers' coats as they broke those fences down, the way they all just stood there after the fence was down....they didn't know where to go or what to do, what his regiment did to the German officers they found there. 

When I was younger, I didn't understand how he could be so proud, so boastful when he told these stories.  Some of these experiences were so awful, you'd think he would be humbled by them...grateful to be alive.  It occurred to me as I got older that he wasn't really capable of showing humility and gratitude 'cos that makes you vulnerable and that was just not something he could ever show, especially when he was a younger man.  It was up to me to accept him, love him, understand him anyway.  But more importantly, he was telling me these stories so that I would feel humbled and grateful.  Who was I to judge how boastful and proud he was when he was the one who willingly gave up his youth, allowed his entire life, individuality and spirit to be shaped by the horrors he witnessed? 

The only question my grandfather has ever refused to answer is “have you ever killed anyone?”.  It’s a question I asked 20 years ago before I knew he was a sniper.  He just looked at me with his clear blue eyes like I was a fucking moron.  After I found out he was a sniper, I didn’t need to ask.  After he told me that I saw “Enemy at the Gates” and it became one of my favourite war movies ever ‘cos it told me something about my grandfather’s life even though it’s not a Canadian story. 

I'm willing to bet that someone reading this has had similar experiences with their American or British loved one as I do with my Canadian grandfather.  These experiences don't stop at the border.  And in fact, as my grandfather told me many times, "I didn't need a passport to go to war....they just loaded us up on a cargo plane and we went to England."  To him, a border between countries is meaningless. 

Ever since I moved to the States, the first week of July is always a really weird week.  I’m a Canadian Citizen living in the United States.   July 1 is Canada Day…..a huge holiday where everyone in Canada goes, “Hey let’s have a barbecue and get drunk to celebrate being a part of the British Empire!”.   Then July 4, Independence Day, rolls around and everyone in the US goes, “Hey let’s have a barbecue and get drunk to celebrate being rid of those damned Brits!”.

Yup, weird.  Kind of like the kid stuck in the middle of two fighting parents.  Who am I loyal to?  Canada is my birth home…I’ll always be Canadian, not a thing can change that.  But the US has embraced me and I have embraced it, warts and all.  And Britain is my spiritual and cultural home…I love it there, so there’s that.

Given the WW2 history between Canada, the US and Britain, it has always seemed inappropriate to me to be at opposite ends of the spectrum with our July celebrations.  I dunno, it just seems strange to me. 

 

So I don’t really acknowledge either holiday.  It’s great to have a day off work…..but it’s just another day off work.  Two years ago, my passport was expiring around this time and I needed it to get back into the country if I left the US since my VISA was in it and I hadn’t gotten my Green Card in the mail yet.  So I went to Canada on July 4 so I could get a super expensive same day passport.  I don’t even remember what I did last year.  This year I'll go watch the fireworks with a friend because he really wants to.

I’m pretty sure I’m going to become a US Citizen.  I mean, I’ve given it some thought but there are serious responsibilities to becoming a dual Citizen.  For one thing, the US doesn’t even recognize dual citizenship.  When you take your oath, you “declare, on oath, that I absolutely and entirely renounce and abjure all allegiance and fidelity to any foreign prince, potentate, state, or sovereignty, of whom or which I have heretofore been a subject or citizen.” 

That’s pretty clear.  But I don’t want to give up my Canadian Citizenship….ever.  Conveniently, Canada doesn’t recognize you saying the words of that oath as you giving up your Citizenship.    If I want to give up my Canadian Citizenship, I have to sign a form and pay a fee to the Canadian government.  So I could declare the oath with the US, and far as they’re concerned, I’m theirs…but by not telling the Canadian government in an official capacity, they still think I’m theirs.  And that’s how you become a dual Citizen of the US.  By lying, essentially.

If I were a dual citizen, I could not enjoy the privileges of both citizenships when travelling.  Whatever passport I use to enter a country, that country recognizes me as that citizen.  So for example, if I went to Italy and used my US passport, if I got into trouble in that country, I could only call the US Embassy…I could not rely on Canada’s help since I did not use my Canadian passport to enter that country. 

If I became a US Citizen and then moved to another country, I would need to file a US tax return every year for the rest of my life, no matter if I ever live in the US again or not.  And of course I’d have to file in whatever country I live in as well.  Two tax returns?  I dunno.

The alternative is remaining a Permanent Resident, which means I can never ever vote in the US.  And if I’m going to live here, that seems unacceptable to me.  Not to mention that Canada only allows expats to vote in Canada for up to 5 years after leaving the country so in a couple years if I still live in the US and am still a Permanent Resident, I can’t vote anywhere.  I have no voting rights at all in any country.  Plus it means I am never done with USCIS.  I’ll have to renew my Green Card again in 10 years.....another $600 fee, another interview, more biometrics, more affidavits.

Definitely something to think about.  If Sam and I do not get divorced before next July, then I can apply for Citizenship next July.  If we do get divorced before next July, then I will need to wait until July 2017 to apply for Citizenship.  Either way, I have time to think about it.  That’s assuming USCIS doesn’t throw me out of the country before all that happens anyway.  The bust up of my marriage has left me feeling very vulnerable about the whole thing.

In any case, both Canada and the US are incredibly special to me.  I grew up in Southern Ontario very close to the US border.  Just like any other border kid, crossing the border was no big deal for me.  I always had American relatives in Attica (the town, not the prison), New Jersey and New York City and we’d visit them often.  My grandparents went to Florida for half the year and we’d go visit them.  We’d cross the border to get gas and groceries in Buffalo.  After I got my driver’s license, my friends and I would go clubbing in the States.  Many times I also crossed the border just to go the movies or out for dinner…it was just as close as going anywhere in Canada.  I know that seems crazy to people who don't live close to a border but for those of who do, it's no big deal.

So, honestly, I did not expect there to be a big difference when I moved to the US.  The landscape looks the same, the people look the same and speak the same language (other than that ridiculous Rochester accent), all the same shows are on TV in both countries (except the Food Network), all the same stores and brands.  Superficially, there are not a lot of differences.

But as they say, the difference is in the details.  Once you get past the surface of “everything is the same” and look a little deeper, you realize it really isn’t the same in many important ways.  The US spends most of their money on their military which doesn’t leave a lot for anything else.  It’s easy for Canada to criticize that and talk up its subsidized post-secondary education system, health care system and social programs, but if there was a serious war, Canada would need the help of the US military.  One country isn’t better than the other…they both have flaws, they both do great things, they’re both “real” countries but they have very different philosophies on the role government should play in the lives of its citizens. 

I’d love to go on a cross country trip across the US......get an RV and travel from town to town, state to state, stopping for anything interesting on the way, work in exchange for food and gas.  I was in Kansas once when I was a kid, but I don’t remember it.  I’ve been to Vegas twice but stayed pretty much on the strip.  Other than that, I’ve driven to Florida and back a number of times, have been all along the East Coast (which I love) and have been to Michigan.  There’s a lot more out there to see and I want to see it.

I’ve seen some of Canada but, again, not enough.  When I was 14, my mom, my brother and I took a bus across Canada to go visit my aunt, her husband and baby in Stewart, BC….a tiny town which borders Hyder, Alaska, another tiny town.   Greyhound had a special…go anywhere in Canada for $100….or something like that.  So, the three of us got on the bus for the five day trip across the country. 

The trip to my aunt’s place was filled with adventure.  Since there were three of us, someone always had to sit next to a stranger and since I am older than my brother, that someone was me.  So I sat next to a lot of characters and listened to a lot of questionable stories on the total 10 days we spent on the bus.  We stopped in some interesting places that I had no idea existed, the first of which was Wawa, ON.    Wawa’s claim to fame is its 30 foot statue of a Canadian goose.  

When I was younger, I got car sick pretty often.  I had to take Gravol (I don’t know what the US equivalent to that is…I just know I can’t find it in the US) while travelling.  Much to my mom’s horror, I must have not taken Gravol or ran out or something but at one point I got sick all over the stranger sitting next to me.  Literally threw up all over him.  The bus had to make an unplanned stop so this poor schmuck could clean up.

We stopped in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan  for my uncle’s wedding.  My uncle is a huge music fan and while I was at his place, I raided his album collection and recorded as many albums as I could on cassettes to listen to in my Walkman.  I still had a huge box of cassettes when I moved to the States….just got rid of them last year.  My favorite was the one I made at my uncle’s place….one side was Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the other was Roxy Music’s Flesh + Blood.  That cassette provided the soundtrack to the rest of the trip.

That trip was a life changing experience for me in many ways.  The way my aunt and her husband lived was very different than the way my parents lived.  My aunt and her husband lived in a teepee in the middle of a forest outside of Stewart.  The bus simply stopped on Highway 37 in the middle of nowhere to let us off – I have no idea how the driver even knew where to stop…it’s not like there were any buildings, any landmarks - and my aunt’s husband emerged from the forest to come and guide us back to the teepee.  On the trek through the woods, he pointed out the glacier stream they use for drinking water and refrigeration.  We stopped for a drink and the water in that stream was the coldest, purest, clearest water I had ever seen.  I could barely drink it ‘cos it was so cold.

The teepee was a one room structure, so they had set up a tent outside for the three of us to sleep in.  He showed us where the outhouse and the outdoor shower were.  There was no running water and no electricity.  The first night was kind of scary.  The trees were taller than any I had ever seen before – you could not see the sky - and the night was completely black.  There were animal sounds all around us everywhere…it really was a completely different experience for us and my mom did not like it at all.   In the middle of the night, after she had tried to go find the outhouse in the dark, she took us inside the teepee and my aunt’s husband went out to sleep in the tent by himself.
 

They hunted for moose to eat and for the fur and raised their own chickens for meat and eggs, so we ate moose and eggs while we were there.  I balked at eating moose so my aunt said she would make chicken and she went out to her yard, grabbed a chicken, killed it and cooked it….no big deal.  I was mortified.  Such a spoiled little princess.  One night as a treat for dinner we got a couple of King crabs…live King crabs.  Those suckers are HUGE.  In retrospect, this seems kind of cruel but we sat around the deck of the teepee and watched the crabs race around before we roasted them on an open fire and ate them. 

My aunt took us to Bear Glacier and told us how to react when we saw certain kinds of bears, which we did…lots of them.  We parked in Stewart and walked across the US border to Hyder, Alaska.  There was a tiny little shed in the parking lot which was the Customs office.  There was a sign on the door asking you to fill in a declaration form and drop it in the box…there was no one there manning the shed.  My brother and I thought this was hilarious since we were so used to the Peace Bridge.   We could not believe someone could just walk into another country and no one would even notice.  My aunt told us that Hyder is so tiny they don’t even have their own school, police or hospital.  US residents who live in Hyder go to Stewart, BC.  for school, police and medical care.

We watched the salmon run while Grizzly bears waded through the water and devoured salmon.  They could not have cared less we were there, as long as we didn’t get too close.  We spent a few hours wandering around looking at glaciers, which is a completely awesome and overwhelmingly beautiful experience.

I’m sure it was on that trip that I learned to love remote, unpopulated, wild spaces.  It also showed me that the border really is meaningless when it comes to how people live.  We had more in common with my cousins in Attica, NY than we did with my aunt and her family in Stewart, BC.  It’s been too long since I took a life changing trip like that and I’m hungry for another.  Canada or the US…doesn’t matter.  Either will do.   Both countries feed my soul and I could not imagine living on a different continent.  People joke about Canada becoming a State but honestly for me, that border is invisible.  I respect the differences of these two great countries and don't think either one of them should change who they fundamentally are.

So Happy Birthday Canada!  Happy Birthday America!  Celebrate!  You are both everything to me and I wouldn’t be who I am today without you.