Get Me to the Church on Time - Yesterday my partner picked me up from work quite agitated.

"Those fuckers!" she exclaimed, "Those fucking fuckers are at it again."

Not sure if she was talking about the raccoons that keep spreading our garbage over our lawn or what I asked her cautiously, "What fuckers, dear?"

"Harper and those fucking right-wingers are trying to put same-sex marriage up for a vote again. It's been settled. They can't just do that, give us rights and then take them away."

I grimaced and nodded solemnly. You see, as a queer American, I've been down this road before. You know, the one where others get to drive or walk on the pavement with shoes and you get to walk in the same direction but barefoot over stones.

I've certainly spent many a day in the state capital convincing "my legislator" that having a law to make it illegal to fire me, kick me out of housing or deny me access to public places because of being queer was called "equal rights," not "special rights." I've also been in the situation when a municipality passes some kind of domestic partner or civil union status and you and your partner have to decide quickly whether or not to do it because you're afraid that within a short time they'll rescind it and you'll have missed your window.

At any rate, all last night my partner alternated between fretting and being furious. I tried to be re-assuring but the only thing that I managed to say was, "Now you know what it's like to be a queer American, not knowing from one legislative session to the next how secure your rights really are." I don't think it was quite helpful but it was better than sharing with her some of my old war stories and sending her into full-blown panic.

So, between fits of emotion, we tried to also think practically. A million questions floated around for both of us. "What if they vote to re-open this? They said even if the law gets changed they wouldn’t declare those marriages already done invalid. Should we rush to city hall before they have a chance to vote it out? Or do we chance waiting until we think we're ready?" Let me tell you, it sucks to have to contemplate the timing such a life changing and deep commitment based on the agenda of the far right. Talk about a shotgun wedding. She's right, they are fuckers.

Neither one of us was feeling good about rushing off to get a marriage license under these conditions. One of the things I have loved about moving to Canada is that we have had options... to get married, to be listed as common law, to be considered single. But having marriage potentially yanked was sending us both into a bit of a tizzy because there are some legal perks to the whole business which we'd at least like the option of having (and no, at this point, I'm not going to get into the whole debate about whether or not marriage is good for the queers. I'll be the first to discuss in what ways "marriage" has the potential to lead the queer community to be co-opted by the androcentric heteropatriachy if we're not thoughtful and authentic. I'll save that for another day when I'm not worried about losing my rights... again).

Anyway, by the end of last night, we decided to table any further talk until we saw how things shook down today.

This morning, all the reports were predicting a healthy defeat. A number of key conservatives were complaining about this being a waste of time because they even felt it had been settled a year ago and everyone had moved on. And unlike most Americans in the last several major elections, Canadians saw it for the smoke screen it was.

By the end of the day, the predictions were proven right. The bill to re-open the debate was solidly voted down and my partner would be spared any further parallel experience to what queer Americans go through on a daily basis. God bless Canada!

Tawkin' Turkey - So here it is, American Thanksgiving Weekend. One of the most heavily traveled weekends of the year in the U.S. A time when families gather to break bread, gives thanks and sometimes put the "fun" back in "dysfunctional."

But, of course this past Thursday was just like any other Thursday here in Canada since Thanksgiving here is in October. It was a bit surreal for me, being at work, dealing with clients, colleagues and case managers while trying to squeeze in long distance phone calls to my parents and other relatives before their big tryptophan filled feasts got under way.

This is the first time ever I haven't spent Thanksgiving with my parents. Since I'm still technically on probation at work and, at the moment, my ability to stay in Canada rides on my work permit, taking 2 vacation days wasn't an option I wanted to consider. So, throughout the day I convinced myself it wasn't a huge deal anyway. I mean most of the family is spread around so it would be a really small gathering anyway, much smaller than Christmas. And besides, my mother said don't bother coming home because I was just there 2 weeks ago because of some health issues my dad was having.

But, I have to admit, despite all this rationalizing and how happy I am living with my partner in Canada where I have more rights as a queer person than back in the States, I was definitely aware of my "otherness" in way I haven't been thus far. I think had I been overwhelmed with sadness or loneliness or guilt, I could make sense of that. But instead, I was completely caught off guard by this strange low-level melancholy. You know, that kind of "it ain't easy being green" kind of feeling. It makes sense I would feel this for American Thanksgiving since this is first major U.S. holiday I've experienced which doesn't have a Canadian counterpart close by calendar-wise. Iguess despite all my bitchin' about U.S. politics and "attitudes," teh States will always still feel like home in some not so bad ways too.

On Arrogance - It's no big secret that I'm not a huge fan of the current American administration (or perhaps I should say " 'Merican 'Ministration" to fit in with the times). When I've traveled abroad in the past, I've often tried to distance myself from other American tourists, who are often boorish and embarrassing. Let me tell you there's nothing like watching a bus load of women from Texas descend upon some European gift shop with three poor employees who look as if they are witnessing the Chainsaw Massacre right in front of them.

Anyway, now that I'm living in Canada and am seeing America consistently through a different set of lenses, I find that I'm more abhorred than ever before about how we Americans conduct ourselves in arenas much larger than an unsuspecting boutique.

Here's the latest example which was all over the news recently in Ontario. An American citizen was convicted in Buffalo of a sex crime (apparently he couldn't keep his hands off his 15 year old female students)and was given 3 year probation. However, without checking with Canadian immigration, the man was told by the U.S. judge he could serve his probation in Canada, where is family lives. Gee, that's a little presumptuous isn't it? Can you imagine the uproar if it was the other way around and other countries were wanting to send their convicted sexual predators to the U.S. without asking because they had family?

The man was stopped at the border and given an immigration hearing because it turns out he has permanent residence status in Canada. The person in charge of the hearing went against all the other Canadian officials and let him in (which of course is something the Canadians will have to sort out) but, I still can't believe the audacity of the judge to put this sentencing forward without consulting with the Canadians.

*sigh* Ya know, as of late, when someone up here asks me where I'm from, I taken to saying, "So before I tell you, I'll just say up front, I'm sorry, for everything. I'm American." I just wish those with some political clout could take some ownership too.

Take me out to the hockey match,
Let me push through the crowd.
Buy me some beer and some fattening snacks,
I won't bother to button my slacks.
So it's root, root, root for the home team,
If they lose we'll find someone to blame,
So it's check, slash, skate towards the goal
At the old hockey game!!!

Yeppers, this past weekend for I took part for the first time in perhaps one of the most sacred of all Canadian rituals: going to a hockey game.

Some neighbors down the street gave us tickets to the annual "Legends Match" in which a group of Hockey Hall of Famers (or Hall of Famer quality players) get together and play a hockey game for charity. Apparently it's a really big deal and these folks' careers are folkloric in nature.

Considering I was raised in the NFL/AFL tradition, I suppose I appreciated as much as ble the action on the ice. However, what I found more interesting was watching people and the crowd dynamics.

Now I'm no expert what so ever on sporting events of any kind. I was forced to play in the pep band for high school football games and that's about it. But, from what I could tell there were many of the same elements that you'd expect from sports fans. People dressed in their teams' outfits; lots of beer and opportunities to clog your arteries; and the usual amount of generalized and play specific hootin' and howlin'.

But there were some interesting differences for me. First, on two occasions, complete strangers asked my partner and I to watch their "stuff" while they went foraging for food and/or bathrooms. Dude, seriously, I was flabbergasted. I can't imagine anyone I know living in NY who would ask strangers to look after their expensive coats and cameras. Despite having been here nearly 5 months, the friendliness of Canadians is still unnerving to me (see my July 7, 2006 for some of my early thoughts on this specific topic).

Second, the Canadian organizers of this match included women alongside the men as both players and coaches. It was so empowering to see them out there on the ice as equals with the men and even more empowering to see the number of young girls in the stands wearing hockey jerseys from the pee wee teams they play on.

Third, I'm still thrown off by not always being barraged by homophobia and by being "seen" as a queer person. An older man in his 60's struck up some chit chat with us that ended up with him joking with us about not necking in the bleachers and about how politically correct (or not depending on who you are) the word "dyke" is. THEN! as if having this older man being so comfortable having these kinds of conversations with us wasn't cool enough, the entertainment between periods was the Nylons, a well known gay men's a cappella quartet. Can you imagine this being the half time entertainment at the NFL All Stars Game or the Superbowl?! Man, the responses to that would make the ones to the "Janet incident" look like people just calling in for the Jerry Lewis Telethon.

Election-o-rama - Ahhh, it's that time of year, the leaves have turned all those beautiful hues; there's a chill in the air that let's you know it's time to pull out your favorite sweaters; and neighborhood lawns are festooned with a cornucopia of placards enticing you to vote for Hopeful Candidate X or Incumbent Y.

This is my first year experiencing the election season from both sides of the border. I did my civic duty and registered for an absentee ballot. I haven't missed an election since I turned 18. I figured there are places in the world where people literally have killed for the right to vote and that plenty of my sisters around the world can't vote so why would I throw mine away.

Anyway, The Democrats have won the House and Senate and Toronto is in the midst of a contentious mayoral battle. Although I have discovered that "contentious" and "nasty" political fights north of the border look and feel quite different.

Last weekend I had to unexpectedly travel back to the U.S. because of my dad's ill health so I caught the last few days of pre-election media blitz. Having watched this year's elections unfold in Canada and then being suddenly dumped into the States really made me realize how negative U.S. campaigning is and how little the process has to do with the issues.

In the States, it seems that in the 2 months leading up to election day, the only t.v. ads not related to prescription drugs are some kind of mudslinging diatribe of one sort or another. Candidates search out and exploit (or just outright make up) any flaw or sign of weakness in their opponents. And whether or not it has anything to do with the price of tea in China, never the actual "issues," is not nearly as important as it's ability to create smoke screens, buzz phrases and "politainment."

Here in Canada, to my recollection, I haven't seen one t.v. ad for any of the big races, never mind the small ones. And their idea of a contentious public debate is when one candidate says, "I must strongly disagree with what my opponent says on such-and-such an issue."

What? No trash talking? No diverting to get in a dig or two or avoid having one's own flaws jumped on? An actual discourse on the issues? While this approach makes for poor entertainment, it sure seems to make for better politics.

P.S. I've included on my links list one for an organization, "Democrats Abroad" that provides amazing resources and information to help Americans living outside the U.S. to register to vote if you aren't already and to get signed up for absentee ballots.

The Man I Love - Well, I didn't think it was possible but I've found a new man.

I know, I know, shocking considering I moved here to be with my female partner and am just about the dykiest dyke you'll ever meet. But, don't worry, my partner loves him too. In fact sometimes, we enjoy him together.

Who is this man, you ask? Who could possibly find himself being enjoyed by two dykes, something which I've discovered is the secret fantasy of just about every straight man on the planet? His name is Tim. Tim Horton to be exact.

Yes, indeed, I'm a convert folks. Now granted, I've never met the actual "Tim Horton." I mean he is dead after all. But, if I did, I'd plant a big, fat, coffee and Tim-bits smelling kiss on him.

For those of you reading this who don't know who or what Tim Horton's is, the simplest way to explain this Canadian phenomena is this:

Tim Horton's coffee is to Canadians as McDonald's French Fries are to Americans.

You know how no matter where you get fries, you always compare them to McDonald's? And you know how you can have a million other plans and places to be, but the smell of McDonald's fries wafting from blocks away makes you at least go through the drive through?

Yeeeeaaaaahh... now imagine that same kind of addictive joy in a cup of hot coffee. Take it from a recent convert, Star-fucks and the rest have got nothing on my Tim!!!

(FYI: I've included a link to the Tim Horton's website on my links list if you're so inclined.)

Homophobia Begins at Home - This weekend my partner and I went to visit my folks in the States. On our way there, at the very first rest stop we hit in the good ol' USofA, something that I haven't had happen since I moved to Canada did: a group of three women in the restroom started making comments about me (you know the usual shit, "You're in the wrong restroom...," "Oh, my isn't this the women's room?").

Now, I'll be the first to admit, I ain't even vaguely girly. But it's amazing to me how for as many public bathrooms that I've used thus far north of the border, no one has yet mistaken me for "a guy" and made rude remarks to me about my gender expression or my sexuality. Yet, in the States, it seems to happen with as much frequency as those freaking Christian radio stations that are more plentiful than a plague of locusts.

This leads me to ask, are Canadians more tolerant? More observant? Less observant? or simply more focused on the task at hand in the restroom?

Lemma tell ya what I think is partly responsible (can we stop her is the better question?). I think that because of the number of equal protections built into the legal system, including marriage, the larger social culture has its "tone set" already. Even if you're homophobic, you know you're going more against the fabric whereas in the States, expressing and acting on your homophobia is practically patriotic.

Now, I'm sure there are places "out west" in Canada that aren't so keen on the queers. But hell, at least they're full of "rural gals" who look just as butch if not more so than me!!!

Look busy, Jesus is coming - Today as my partner and I were browsing in the video rental store, she was approached by a short, dark skinned man with an accent that sounded Indian.

"Excuse me," he said, "Do you know about 'The Last Temptation of Christ'?"

"I'm sorry, we don't work here, sir," my partner politely replied.

"No, I know, but I was looking for someone who would know something about Jesus and this movie," he stated.

"Oh, geez, uh" my spiritual but not religious partner fumbled, "you'd better talk to my partner. Honey... uhhh..."

As I tore myself away from the "D's" in the "New Releases" section, the man approached me and asked again, "Do you know about 'The Last Temptation of Christ'?"

"Uh, yes, it believe you'll find it in the drama section," I answer, assuming he's trying to find a copy of it.

"No, no, I know that, but, what about Jesus? What does this movie say about him?"

"Well," I reply, the light bulb starting to dimly illuminate, "the movie was very controversial because it looks at what would have happened if Jesus he married and had children. Some people protested when it first came out because they thought it was blasphemous."

The man immediately became more animated because I think I'm finally started understanding what he was really trying to ask. "Yes, yes! But, don't they believe that he was single, that he didn't marry?"

"Right," I exclaim, catching onto his energy, "the Christian scriptures and traditions teach that he did not marry and that he died on a cross and was raised from the dead. This movie tries to explore what would have happened if he married and had children. Some people have questioned if he had perhaps married Mary Magdalene."

"But, isn't Mary his mother?" he continued.

"Yes, Mary was his mother and there was another Mary, Mary Magdalene who was in his circle," I answer.

"Ahhhh, I see. They believe he was single and this movie imagines something else," he says definitively.

"Yes, that's it." I reply back.

"Very good, thank you very much."

After we end our brief theological discourse, my partner, who tends to wander off at the first sign of "religion," returns and asks, "What was that all about?"

I pause and think a moment before answering, "Well, he wanted to know about Jesus. I'm not sure, but, I think he assumed that he asked some white folks, we'd be more likely to know something about Christianity."

"Huh, well, I guess of all the people here, he probably got the right person to ask with you."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

One of the most refreshing aspects of moving to Toronto has been it's diversity. More than even the huge range of cuisine, perhaps one of the biggest benefits of this diversity is not having every other radio station being a Christian one like in the U.S. In fact, since I've been here, I've heard more t.v. and radio shows that are Muslim, Sikh and Hindu than anything else. I think one of the reasons it took a bit for the penny to drop for me in talking with this man is a result of the Christo-centrism so prevalent within the U.S. where we assume everyone, even people who aren't Christian, to know all about Jesus. Though, I'd bet ya the farm, this guy still knew more about Jesus and Christianity than I know about what his faith tradition might be.

Lingo Limbo - Recently, I had to ask someone to sign a work related document for me. As I handed them the document, I said, "... and could you please put your John Handcock right there," to which the person responded, "Huh?"

"Uhhhh, sign here," I asked again, realizing that my very American reference was completely lost on this person.

Yeah, I've been having a lot of those kinds of moments recently in which I realize how much of what what we say, how we say it and how we spell it is so culturally bound. The spell checker on my work computer up here loves me and my New York ways!! I've been having to read through paperwork at least twice because half the time I'm using Canadian spellings (which in many cases the differences are about using the more British spellings). But, then as I get rollin' with my writing, I forget and drop back to American spellings.

People ask me things like do I have a touk or a bellaclava in case I go "Up North" in the fall (and I have no idea if I've even spelled those right). Dude, to me, it sounds like Touks are an ethnic group originating from a former Soviet block region now called Bellaclava. And as far as I know, I am "Up North" in comparison.

Hey, but, it's not all bad. At least coming over the border, I went from being a "counselor" to being a "counsellor." I'll take a one letter promotion any day!

Extra Credit Assignment - Banking has never been one of the most exciting "errands" I do. Since moving from the U.S. to Canada, however, it has now moved down close to "getting a root canal" on my list of favorite things to do.

First, I've discovered that U.S. and Canadian banks don't play together, never mind play nicely. Turns out that banks between the two countries, even when owned by the same damn multinational company, refuse to acknowledge each other's existence. The best you can really do to transfer/open accounts is to come with a bank check in hand and hope they don't put a 10 day hold on it like they did mine (don't get me started on how holding a bank check defeats the purpose of using a bank check in the first place).

Second, until I moved here I didn't fully appreciate the low and/or no fee banking I had in the States. It seems in Canada, the banks charge you fees for absolutely everything and then charge you more when you go over the number of "transactions" you are allotted for your particular kind of account. And I should probably explain that "transactions" according to most banks in Canada include withdrawing or depositing money in person, over the phone or at the ATM (even ones owned by the bank), writing checks and sometimes even making electronic payments. I'm amazed they didn't charge me for breathing excessively in line the other day.

Third, and most frustrating to me is the fact that since coming here and getting my brand spanking new social insurance number, I apparently have NO CREDIT HISTORY according to all the Canadian banks. Last week I applied for an in-store credit card at IKEA and got turned down. Despite the fact that I have perfect credit in the U.S. and a credit limit at least 4 times what I need there, I'm not even qualified to borrow a pencil at the bank in Canada.

"Well, we MIGHT be able to give you $500 limit and see how it goes from there," the bank representative across the desk said to me, smiling in the same way that people smile at the McDonald's cashier who has Down's Syndrome.

"What?!" I exclaimed. "You mean to tell me that you're giving me the same kind of credit limit that you would give an 18 year old who is just getting their first card with a part time summer job?"

"Yes. I'm sorry," she replied, though I don't believe for one second she really was sorry.

Weights & Measures - Ok, for the most part I'm sorting things out here north of the border... the best route to get to work, how to find my way to Ikea (which by the way, I now need a 12-Step program Ikea-holics Anonymous), traffic rules which are particular to at least Toronto and so on.

But, one area that keeps throwing me for a loop is the whole measuring thing. It's getting better now, but for the first 2-3 weeks I was here, I would wake up in the morning and have to ask my partner what to wear because at the moment I have no mental framework for the temperature told to me in Celsius. Listening to the weather on the morning news, the temperature feels like an arbitrary number... "and today folks we're gonna have a scorcher with a high of 30 degrees."

Huh? 30 degrees in my lil' brain means break out with your winter coat. Mornings are hard enough without trying to work out some conversion formula that I had to learn in 7th grade science... something about multiply by 5/7th's divide by the square root of the daily currency exchange rate and add the number of Canadian beers left in the fridge?

It's not just the temperature that I'm messed up about, it's distance and weight.
Example A. - Most maps here read in kilometers; my car's odometer only reads miles so when I'm driving I'm trying to convert so I don't miss my next intersection.
Example B. - I jumped on the treadmill on the gym and was asked for my weight in kilograms. Although I do have to admit, saying my weight in kilograms does make me sound skinnier since it's a smaller number!

Friendliness Factor - So far, so good here in Canada. I've manage to sign myself up for a social insurance number and sign up for the government based medical insurance (more on my thoughts and experiences on that later).

There is, however, one very unnerving experience which keeps repeatedly happening: people are friendly.

I know it sounds strange that this would tweak me out but it does. The fact that strangers speak to me... on the street, in the store, at the gym, wherever... for no other reason than to be polite and friendly, is a bit of a mind-bending experience for me. For example, the day I moved here and was unloading my moving van, more than one person stopped as they were walking by and welcomed me to Canada and the neighborhood and said they hoped I liked it here. They were being friendly and sadly my first thought was, "They stopped to talk to me so they can scope my shit out."

I guess living most of my life in NY, I assume that if I don't know you and you start talking to me you are: a) crazy, b) going to mug me, or c) crazy and you're going to mug me. There have been a few times when my partner and I have been out when strangers have initiated some sort of conversation with us and she has actually had to tell me to "relax." You see, when folks do that, I physically and mentally get into a defensive posture and assume the worst.

I'm a little better now but for the most part, I still feel like I'm in some sort of shiny-happy twilight zone episode or a warmer and fuzzy version of a Ray Bradbury story. I suppose I should be grateful to being pushed to stretch and grow in this way... makes me wonder if there's a way to make this kind of attitude contagious?

Happy July 4th! Happy Canada Day! - This past weekend I got to experience my first Canada Day on July 1st, which for those American folks reading this who don't know, is the day Canada officially became a country.

It's been an interesting experience watching the media and observing the preparations for Canada. There is definitely a sense of national pride here in Canada but it feels so different than in the States. I can't quite put into words how, but maybe some examples of differences will help illuminate what I'm struggling to find words for.

One difference I noticed was that in the media Canada Day is was described as "Canada's Birthday," or the day Canada became a country. There was not the same kind of emphasis on "hard fought independence" as in the States. This kind of makes sense given how the States originally came into being versus Canada. Even just reading through both national anthems, you can clearly see differences in that the U.S. anthem speaks of "bombs bursting in air" and Canada's talks of "we stand on guard for thee." (If you haven't even heard Canada's anthem, I'm sure you can Google it).

Second, in the days leading up to Canada day, there was not the kind of advertising blitz I'm used to seeing in the States where every furniture and car dealer sees even the vaguest of holidays as a commercial coattail. In fact, I read that any store bigger than a certain square footage and not in a designated tourist area is required to close on Canada day and other state holidays or face severe fines, sometimes up to $50,000 CND!!

Somethings did feel familiar... lots of flags, fireworks, BBQ's... but there wasn't quite the underlying we're-#1-and-don't-you-forget-it feel that seems to pervade American patriotism, especially these days. Given that the UN recently named Toronto the most multicultural city in the world, the sense of nationalism here feels more complex and frankly, more mature. This past weekend felt to me as if there was room to appreciate Canada without doing it in a way that necessarily meant that other countries and groups therefore had to necessarily be "lower" or "less than."

And so today, on July 4th, I will hang out my newly purchased American flag on my deck and perhaps on my walk to work, I'll hum a "patriot" tune or two to remember the day in a quiet ex-patriot kind of way.

Houston, we have lift off - Well, I'm here, I'm queer, I'm still unpacking.

So for those of you keeping up with my little saga, I have to say, the process getting into Canada with all my worldly possessions was quite anti-climactic. The actual drama occurred the morning of my move and trying to load up the moving van and get the car and hitch attached. I was fortunate that I had some amazing friends who not only had strong backs and a high tolerance for the amount of crap I have but who also had savant-like visual-spacial sensibilities.

I took a different route into Canada than I normally do, which was a bit of shot in the dark but I thought about as well calculated a risk as possible. I went with the unknown route in because I heard it was far less busy than the one I usually take through Buffalo. So, after leaving, I drove North for about an hour and a half with my partner, my cat, this 17' moving van and car in tow (I now have a whooooooole new appreciation for truck drivers) and reached the border with a knot in my stomach. Although I knew my paper work was in order, my life works such that I was convinced that they would tear apart my van which had been packed as tightly as a pimento in an olive.

However, when I reached the border, the woman at the booth stated, she didn't think I'd need to do anything since my permit was only for a year but I'd better stop in the office just in case. After managing to park the monstrosity I was driving, my partner and I went in the office. After about a 4 minute conversation, they determined that I would only need to submit lists of belongings and so on if I was coming in for the first time as a permanent resident or on a work permit longer than 36 months. It actually took longer for them to tell about where the bathrooms were and how to get to the nearest Tim Hortons.

That's it.

No search.

No other questions.

Just, Welcome to Canada!!

So, now I'm hear and up to my eyeballs in the new job, the new place and getting to "be" with my partner without the commute. I'm already having lots of adjustments (some more along the lines of observations and some just mind bending shifts) which I'll write about over the next few weeks.

The final push - Ok, T minus 32 hours and counting until we load up the moving van and make a run for the border.

Took a few days in Cape Cod to relax and have a bit of a vacation. I didn't quite realize how badly I needed to "just be." I actually didn't set the alarm for three mornings in a row!! ... proof that miracles do happen.

And now, my partner and I are in the final throws of packing and sorting. It has not been pretty folks, but, I think it's getting done. As she said earlier today in the midst of the two of us having a "moment," we have different perspectives on what kinds of things to hang on to and why. I do have to say, however, despite our differences (I am waaaaaaaaay more sentimental about "stuff"), we've been respectful of each other's needs or at least tolerated each other's vocalizing of needs.

While on vacation, I caught news of the foiled terrorist plots in Toronto. And in case you were wondering how self centered this whole process has made me, let me tell you my biggest worries about all this terrorism in Canada stuff. Am I worried about the prime minister? No, not at all (besides he's like the Mini-Me version of Bush). Am I worried about major parts of the city being blown to smithereens? Nope. Am I worried about my own personal safety and that of my loved ones there? Nuh-uh. What, you ask, am I really worried about? At this moment, I am most concerned if this now means the border guards are going to make me unload and reload my whole moving van and add hours of labor and time to the day and screw up my carefully organized and precisely timed "load out" at the new casa.

Yep, that's it folks, my biggest concerns about the extremist version of the "B & B" (bomb and behead) is that my move will be made more difficult. Pretty shallow, I know, but it's where "I'm at." Besides after years of "yellow" and "red" alerts, I'm chicken-littled to the point of numbness anyway.

So, at this point, I'll be dismantling my computer for the move and hopefully in a few days time, I'll be back on-line and ready to begin the chronicling of this process from "the other side." Wish me luck!

Total number of pieces of paper required for my cat to immigrate: 1
Total cost thus far related to said cat's immigration: $64 for a vet visit

Total number of pieces of paper thus far required for my immigration: 54 and counting
Total cost thus far related to my immigration paperwork: approx $1635 with several hundred dollars more needing to be paid down the road.

Price for being with my partner under one roof: Priceless.

Defense mechanisms are such strange things - At moments when we're most overwhelmed, we start playing Jedi minds tricks on ourselves. My big one right now is "compassion fatigue." Don't know if that's the "mechanism" or just merely a "symptom" of my state of mind but it's what's going on and I almost feel bad about it. Almost.

I started having last sessions with clients early last week and I find myself emotionally bottomed out and my office is now one kleenex box less than when the week started. I know I should read all these heavily laden sessions as a "job well done," but dang, when you do 'em back to back 4-5+ days in a row, whew, ya start feeling numb on all levels! Thank gawd for a few close colleagues who've been kind enough to literally let me cry on their shoulders in the moments when I have let myself feel the magnitude of what's going on.

I can't say that one type of person is harder than I another in terms of this "closure" business. Adults, kids, teens, clients, colleagues; they all have their own way of working it through. Some have given me cards or little gifts. A few have just gone through the session as if I wasn't leaving and gave me a minimal reaction at the end. A couple just didn't bother to show for their last session. But, most involved a lot of tears.

They teach you in grad school about doing "closure" in therapy, but how do you do that politically when you're about to become a sorta-kinda, partly by choice, partly by default ex-patriot? Maybe you don't. I'm not quite sure yet. Stay tuned.

Memorial Weekend Mayhem - 2 weeks and counting to the big move. There are boxes everywhere and I've been doing more paper shredding than the staffers for any recent president.

One thing I've been acutely aware this past week is the number of flags out in preparation for Memorial Day Weekend. Now, anyone who knows me knows that I'm not exactly your flag-wavin', red-white-and-blue wearing kind of queer. If anything, I'm more likely to seen donning something Polish or Irish.

But something strange happened this past week. I had the urge to buy my first American flag. Not one of those small printed ones made in China that's stapled to a flimsy piece of dowling, but a real, made-in-America flag that goes on a flag pole.

My partner and I talked about this last week. "You want to buy a what?" she asked. "A flag, an American one for the back deck. Don't worry I'll buy a Canadian one too," I replied. "We don't have to have it out all the time, right? This isn't exactly that 'kind' of neighborhood," she protested. I sighed, "No but I'd like to put it up once in a while, on important American holidays and stuff. I'm still American you know. And what do you mean 'not that kind of neighborhood?'"
Now she sighed, "You know, people don't get all patriotic around here and they certainly don't have a huge love of the U.S."

And do you know what? I actually felt a little defensive about this. What a strange feeling considering how much annoys me about this country right now. Maybe not getting the 4th of July off will make it mean more to me. I dunno

Anyway, after some more grumpy conversation we compromised on buying an American and a Canadian flag and we're going to get a double bracket so we can put both out at the same time. This felt ok to me, though if you catch me buying a copy that horrible county song, "Proud to be an American," then it's time to star worrying!

And the word for the day, boyz & grrlz, is "exhaustipated." - Now for those of you who haven't heard this word before, "exhaustipated" is obviously derived from the words "exhausted," meaning "tired as hell," and "constipated," meaning "all bunged up." Put them together and you end up with a state of being in which you are worn down beyond description AND the context which is driving this tiredness is not letting up.

To summarize, I am burning my candle at both ends (I know, I know, such a shocking statement for an over-achiever) by working as much as I can to earn as much as can before the move and trying the balance all the emotional and physical logistics.

Is there a psychological/emotional/logistical version of Ex-Lax? I guess I shouldn't complain since this scenario of having a job and moving to Canada is exactly what I asked for.

32 minutes - Yep. That's how long it took from the moment I walked in to the immigration office at the border until I had the work permit in hand (and a good chunk of that was spent in the cashier line!).

I still can't quite believe it. The officer who processed me was formal but in a very polite, professional way, not in that I've-got-the-power-here-buddy kind of way. The only question he asked was if I was the same person who had also applied for a permanent resident permit back in January, to which I answered, "Yes." He scanned my passport, looked through the offer letter, studied my resume and glanced at the originals of all my degrees/licenses/certifications.

Needless to say, I was literally shaking the whole time. I had brought some magazines to read but who was I kidding. I was barely able to do anything beyond basic bodily functions like blink and breathe, for which I still need some internal reminders to do.

After about 15 minutes of checking all my documents, he looked up over the counter and said, "You clearly meet the NAFTA requirements so I'll give you a one year work permit." I stood up and as coached by my immigration guy, I tried to dicker a bit, *shaking even harder* "Is there any way you could make it for 2 years so I'll be covered while the other permit is processed?" To which he responded, "No, I can only do one but I've looked through your other permit (huh, is my whole life scanned into some Canadian Immigration database already?) and you should get it before this one expires."

So that was that. I paid the bill. Brought him the receipt. The form was printed and stamped and stapled in my passport and I was on my way to Toronto to celebrate for the evening over dinner and drinks with my partner in my soon to be hometown.

I'm still in shock. And honestly, a little embarrassed now at how much energy I spent on my anxiety. Then again, I've never done this before and hope not to have to do it again. Anyone who knows me knows I'm an adrenaline junky big time but this was even more than I usually like.

Now, I guess I'll need to shift my "need for speed" to the cardboard/packing side of things.

Tomorrow is the big day - the day that I drive to the "port of entry" through which I usually get into Canada and "present" myself for my work permit. How nervous am I you ask? More nervous than two blind virgins in a full-wave water bed. More nervous than a chicken in Col. Sanders back yard. More nervous than a piece of chocolate cake sitting in my fridge during PMS week.

I had my "coaching" session earlier this week. My immigration representative gave me the list of "must haves" in terms of documentation and the list of "would be really a good idea if you had." Then he coached me on what I should say ("I would like a 2 year work permit in order to gain the maximum benefit for the residency permit I already have in process, Officer ______. Here are all my primary and secondary supporting documents.") and what I should not say ("Partner? What partner? This is all business related, Officer _______.")

Apparently, I don't want them to start asking questions at this time about my relational status because it will make my work permit stuff look more suspicious or dubious in some way. Normally I would balk at the idea of not proudly proclaiming who I am and who my partner is. However, lemme tell ya, this ain't a gay-thang at this point and I'd tell them I've been celibate my whole life if it'll help (though I of course would never lie just in case some key immigration person is reading this... can you tell the whole eavesdropping thing in the States is getting to me?).

At any rate, I've checked my briefcase at least 3 times tonight already and will probably check it at least 3 more. And no doubt, my poor clients tomorrow morning will not be getting me at my best but hopefully they'll forgive me or at least not notice.

Say Cheese - Do know that in Canada, they don't have American cheese? Makes sense, right but not something I had ever really contemplated until a few weeks ago. My partner and I were grocery shopping in Canada and when she asked me what I wanted, I answered "American cheese," because sometimes ya just need a slice or two. Here, in case you and your Canadian partner decide to re-enact this exercise in cross-border culinary linguists, is the dialog that resulted.

P(artner): Is there anything you want to buy to have around the house, honey?
M(e): Yeah, actually, I'd love some American cheese?
P: What?
M: American cheese?
P: What kind is that?
M: Ya know, you buy it usually in slices, it comes in white and yellow kinds and certain brands, like Kraft are all cute and individually wrapped.
P: You mean like cheddar?
M: No, like American cheese?
P: I don't know what American cheese is, that's why I'm asking you.
M: *harrumphs* You know, it's kind of mild, creamy and all yummy....
P: *stares blankly for a moment* It's not cheddar? I don't know, honey, why don't you go over to the dairy case and see if anything in there looks like it and we'll buy it.
M: *saunters over to the dairy case and picks up a variety of cheese and cheese food products; a light bulb goes on that the name "American cheese" is not so universal; picks up a package of individually wrapped slices of "mild cheddar," returns to home base (i.e. the shopping cart) and puts the package in*
P: Did you find what you wanted?
M: Yes. It's called mild cheddar here.
P: Well, why would you call "mild cheddar" something other than "mild cheddar?"
M: *opens mouth to answer but is silent for a moment* ... I don't know.
P: Weird.
The End

Do I even need to say more about what we Americans can be like sometimes?

Homophobia Begins at Home - Yesterday I spent the day with my extended family at a function in New Jersey. Everyone seems excited and supportive of my move and was very curious about and surprised at the complexity of the process I've had to go through to get this far in the immigration process.

One of the major questions that I was asked by various family members was would my partner and I be "protected" in Canada. Some of them were aware that same-sex marriage is legal in Canada. Others weren't sure but knew that same sex couples were recognized in some way (which by the way, can be through both marriage and domestic partnership). It was while chatting with them that it dawned on me that as a queer person, with the exception of voting in Canadian elections which I can't do unless I decide to become a citizen, I will have more rights and protections in Canada than I have in the U.S. I guess that's what they mean when they say "Homophobia begins at home."

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.

The Immigration Countdown is on. I start my new job exactly one month from today. I move in 28 days. I'm planning on "presenting" myself at the border one week from today. The cardboard fairy looks like s/he threw up on my apartment. The cat has no idea what's going on and honestly, her owner isn't much further ahead in that department.

I talked to my immigration representative earlier this week and he says, "this shouldn't be too much work on either of our parts." Buddy, I'm counting on that. It seems like I'm anxious 24-7 trying to pull the logistics of this together. At this point, it's the "what-ifs" that are doing it to me. You know the "what-ifs," right? What if the border guard delegated to issue work permits is homophobic? What if I forget some vital piece of paper? What if they say no? This whole process could test even the nerves of both Christ and the Buddha.

In theory, I know what I should do to "interrupt" the madness that is running rampant in my head. For crissakes, I work with people around these issues for a living! I guess if nothing else, I'm developing a whole new empathy for my client's struggles. How's that for a reframe?

Ruthless - that's the word for the day folks. I've spent much of this weekend sorting and packing and I keep having to tell myself to be ruthless... if I haven't worn it/used it/read it in years do I need it? Be ruthless, Patty, be ruthless.

But being ruthless honestly sucks.

I'm better than I used to be about saving every little thing. But, anyone who knows me will tell you that I'm a sappy, sentimental sort of boi. Very odd going through my stuff. I know they're my things but sometimes finding a card or scrap I've hung onto is feels a little like an archeological dig in which I'm making observations about a long lost civilization. Who was the person who thought this thing or another had meaning? I can hardly remember her anymore.

Which is why I guess that being ruthless sucks... there's this fear that if I don't have some of the "stuff," I'll forget who I was. Maybe if I had children, ya know, was movin' the ol' genetic material forward through time, I'd feel different. Then again, maybe it would be worse, because not only would I be trying hanging on to who I was, I'd probably be hanging on to who they were.
Good thing my biological clock appears to be digital since I don't seem to hear the ticking other females do.

*sigh* I suppose what I need to do instead of bitching and moaning and being anxious is to be grateful I have "stuff" at all and that I have memories worth hanging on to for the most part.

I think part of the anxiety I'm feeling at the moment isn't really about the packing. I think what I'm most stressed out about is the fact that I've given notice at work, told all my clients I'm leaving, given the landlord notice and as of this moment, still do not have the work permit in hand. What if there's a problem? The new employer already said if I don't have the permit by June 14th, they're rescinding the offer. I'll be jobless and homeless. Can you say, "Fuck?"

My immigration guy cc'ed me in on an email to the new employer indicating he would soon start coaching me on my "presentation at the border" but he has yet to set something up. "Presentation at the border?" Is that like Jesus being presented at the temple? Or maybe I should have some sort of power point ready to roll, ya know, have my sales pitch as to why some complete stranger upon whom my entire future rests should let me in.

I just hope that when I make my "presentation," that the border guard is my kind of "ruthless" ... the kind of ruthlessness that makes room for emotion and meaning, for context and possibility even when that kind of "ruthless" sometimes makes things clear as mud.

May 1st - the day that many around the U.S. are marching and boycotting to bring attention to the issues surrounding immigration rights. I've been paying particular attention to the days leading up to these events in part because of my own experiences in trying to get a work permit and immigrate.

Having been engaged in the process now in one way or another for the better part of a year (with still much more ahead of me), I've thought a few times in the last few days, "Ya know, I can see why people would illegally immigrate." Thus far, the process has been expensive (understatement), time consuming (even bigger understatement) and required a level of reading and understanding that at times 2 graduate degrees didn't quite prepare me for... and this is going from the U.S. to Canada, which from what I understand is less difficult than the other way 'round.

I am entirely grateful that I have the resources and education to help move my process forward. And the recent immigration debates have made me realize how my economic status and education level (which undoubtedly also raises issues of related to race) have privileged me. I've wondered if something were shifted in either economically and/or educationally to be less than I already have (which trust me, working in social services, ya don't have a whole lot to work with economically), I doubt I'd be in the position where I sit right now. I can imagine it would take years, to even accumulate the money to file, never mind secure the professional help needed to navigate the system.

I suppose this is kind of strange coming from someone who has played by the book the whole way and is patiently waiting in line. But, I need to at least be honest with myself about why I can afford to wait in line and how I got into line in the first place.

Ok, so let me be honest here, the reason I'm moving to Canada can be summed up in one word: Love. But, let's not be naive about things. With love comes politics, semantics, economics, legality, psychology, sociology and sometimes even numerology. Which I guess is what brings me to this blog.

I never saw myself as a doing one of these blog-things. But, then again, I'm not sure I've ever been in quite this position. While my reasons for emigrating and immigrating have to do with the fact that my partner of 2 years is Canadian (and trust me, the commute has grown reeeeeallly old), the story isn't quite as simple as girl meets girl. You see, when one of you is "here" and one of you is "there," you have to make choices which lead you to think about, delve into and experience all kinds of areas you've only thought about in passing because of some random NPR story if indeed you've thought of them at all. All of a sudden, when you trying to bring "here" closer to "there," the intersections between gender, sex, sexual orientation, class, race, economics, law, health care, policy and a million other things come crashing towards one another in some sort of pre Big Bang moment in a "really real" kind of way. (Trust me, the immigration debate in the States takes on a whole new feeling when you're the one who's entire future rests in some file folder on a complete stranger's desk.. more on that later.)

Anyhoo, I kind of wish I had I started this blog 2 years ago. While I had visited Canada quite a bit prior to this relationship, it wasn't until I was up to my very pierced ears in it that I realized I was beginning quite the bi-cultural journey (which I'm quite familar with since if you're queer, a women, person of color, poor or anything other than the "moral majority" in the States, you have to learn to be bi-cultural or die). Despite what many Americans may think, Canada and Canadians are not just an extension of "us." Nor do I suspect that it is the utopia that some of us fantasize it to be either. At any rate, the more I've thought about it, the more I wondered if as I make this transition from "here" to "there," maybe I could use this blog to chronicle not only the logistics of my physical journey, but, the emotional, ideological, political ones as well.

If all goes as planned in my head (which can be cluttered place most of the time), I hope to use this time of transition to explore (and I invite you to explore with me) issues which influence and are influenced by us, which affect and are affected. As the weeks and months of this process of "here" to "there" unfold, I hope to comment from a both-sides-of-the-border (i.e. a sorta-kinda Ex-Patriot) perspective on topics such as immigration, health care, marriage and sexual politics, social attitudes and policy and who knows what else.

Thanks for reading and journeying with me