Well, well, well… July 4^th seems as auspicious a day as any to try and restart this blog. I started it back in 20-aught-6 to chronicle my move from the US to Canada. So much personally and politically has happened since then (wowzers, is that an understatement).

In all honesty, I had forgotten I even had this blog. But I saw a meme on the socials the other day that jogged my memory. It said, “I don’t think the US deserves a birthday party this year.”

Sometimes I joke around that living in Canada these days is like living above a Meth Lab. Not that Canada doesn’t have its fair share of issues. It certainly does. It’s just that I feel like I am watching the decline of the country of my birth with a worry and sense of helplessness in the same way I might navigate a loved one with an active addiction; in this case, an addiction to white supremacy, Christian nationalism (are those two even different at this point?), late-stage capitalism, guns, heteronormativity and a death grip on the gender binary, oligarchy, and to so many other things that are bad for it.

I am going to try and make a concerted effort this time around to get this blog re-started, if for no other reason than for my own processing and therapeutic needs.

So, US, while it is indeed July 4^th, it would be disingenuous for me to say there is much “Happy” about it in 2023.

Times - they are a-changin'

Wow.... right so clearly it's been more than a few years since I've posted here. Honestly, I've been busy just living life: buying a house; burying my father and supporting my mom in finding her "new normal" without her husband of 40+ years; getting my Canadian citizenship (maybe that will be a blog post of its own some day); tending to my career; and *drum roll please* getting married (again, this might be another post about making that decision about where and when since we did it before the US Supreme Court decision striking down all the marriage equality barriers).

I had just about forgotten this blog I started waaaaaaay back in the day to chronicle what it was like to move from the US to Canada. I mean, I did the acculturation thing right? I now understand what kind of clothes to put on based on the temperature told to me in celcius. In my head, I totally have a mental idea of how far a kilometer is. I now get officially annoyed that all US money is green and you have to actually look at bill to see what denomination it is.

It's all good! Right?

Except these days it's not all good when it feels like the country of my birth is on fire running around flailing its arms instead of doing the ol' stop-drop-and-roll to put itself out.

So what's a New Yorker by birth, dual citizen by choice dyke about town to do? (well, besides religiously call her state senators - both Democrats- and her congressional rep - a RepubliKKKan.)

I guess one thing to do is start blogging again. But this time it's for reals. Not just to relate quirky cross border/cross cultural moments. There's too much at stake these days.

I'm not sure how this will all look. And I suppose to some degree I need to do this as much for me as for anyone else. Stay tuned for more...

Things I don't want to change being an American from NY who is living in Canada:

1) Saying, "mawl," "cawl," "cawfee," "tawk," etc.

2) Although my job title has been "counsellor" we all know that it's"counselor..." and "labor," "color" and "center."

3) The Giants rule! (though I have nothing against the Jets. Nothing likethe Yankees/Mets hate-on).

4) I'm 5'6" ish; not whatever in centimeters.

5) I prefer "Department of whatever" v. "The Ministry of whatever"... too Harry Potter or Monty Python otherwise... ahh yes, the Ministry of SillyWalks and Muggle Protectionism. Give me the good ol' DMV anyday.

6) Being able to buy alcohol at the grocery store along with my toiletpaper, tortilla chips, Windex and half pound of American cheese.

7) Not saying, "Sorry" every two minutes when I don't really mean it.

8) Knowing exactly when an election is going to happen.

9) Target stores.

Things I really like about being a New Yorker living in Canada:

1) Canadian beer.

2) Canadian swear words like "knob" and "tool."

3) Health care.

4) Equal rights as a queer (and these last two count really big for me).

5) Peameal bacon.

6) Real maple syrup.

7) Cool "coloured" money.

8) Not having to apologize for Canadian foreign policies as much as the American ones.

9) Canadian Tire stores.

Weight of the World - Ok, I know, I know, it's been a long time of nothing from me. But with the U.S. election being only 2 days away I felt like I should write something. A curious thing has been happening over the last month. It started out as an occasional thing but has really picked up over the last week. It seems as though various Canadian co-workers and friends have all virtually had the same 2 questions:

1) "Did you send your absentee ballot out yet?" and

2) "Did you vote correctly?"

The first few times this happened, I chuckled and heartily replied with an enthusiastic, "Yes!"

But, after the first two or three inquiries of this kind, I began to notice something rather unusal. None of the people asking me these questions were chuckling with me. Heck, they weren't even smiling. In fact, they were as serious as serious could get. It was then that it dawned on me. The hopes (and fears) of all these folks were resting on me, the person they knew had a shot at having some impact, no matter how small, on the U.S. election.

I can't help but wonder if U.S. citizens still living in the States understand to what degree the rest of the world is holding its collective breath. And more importanly, if they did, would that increase the chances of them voting for Obama?

Subway Series - Sorry I haven't been posting lately. I've been taking a creative writing class and that's been keeping me busy. At any rate, in the last few months, I've become quite obsessed with taking the subway. Here is a series of Haikus based on my daily journeys "riding the rocket" I did for my class.

His head bowed in peace;

Serenity emanates.

A snore wakes him up.




Air thick laden with

Coffee, curry, sweat and smoke.

So robust and alive.





Sounds from her headphones

Fill the silence between us.

So close yet so far.





Smooth, greasy hard pole

Once shiny dulled by grasping.

Who else has touched you?

FBI Records Check - To the person who sent me a comment about this, I tried to respond but it bounced back. You can run actual finger print card the form off from their website and take it with you to a local sheriff's office (bring 2 or 3 in case they mess one up). Once I sent mine in, I think it took 3-4 weeks.

I just looked on their website (the link is on this blog) and they were saying 16-18 weeks. If you use the cards you can print off from their website, it shaves time off. Otherwise, you have to send them a check, wait for them to send you the blank card, then you have to just turn around and send it back to them.

Good luck!!

Embar-jack-assing - A couple of weeks ago, after our get up and go got up and went, we decided to eat at a diner around the corner from us and let someone else do the cooking. A few minutes after we were seated, a woman sat down at the table next to us and told the server that she was waiting for a friend to arrive. Not long after that a white man who appeared to be in his 20's arrived.

The two greeted each other fondly, sat down and began the process of catching up. The two, particularly the man, were loud to the point where I kept loosing my train of thought while talking to my partner. However, I chalked it up to the fact that they hadn't seen each other in a while but were excited.

Then, when the server came over to take their order, it began... "I'll have a rootbeer," the man declared. "We only have it in bottles and not as a fountain drink and it's a dollar more. Is that ok?"

"No it's not. Why can't I get it as a fountain drink?"

"Well, because we only get rootbeer in bottles."

"So do I at least get free refills."

"Uhhhh, no sir. There are no free refills on bottled drinks or actually any drinks here."

"Well, I'm from the States and we get rootbeer as a fountain drink and we get free refills. This is not acceptable. I want to speak to the manager."

At this point, I'm shaking my head. This guy is like the poster-child for "The Ugly American." Shit, I mean really this not the restaurant at the top of the CN tower with $50+ bottles of wine. This is a burger joint where, even if you tried, you couldn't find a meal for over $8 CND.

So then it continues.

The manager, who knows me well since I eat lunch at this place just about every Tuesday, comes over.

"Is there a problem, sir."

"Yes, I'm from the U.S. and in the U.S. we don't have pay extra for rootbeer out of a bottle and we get free refills."

"Well, sir, Coca Cola, who distributes this kind of rootbeer does not distrubute it in syrup form to hook up to a fountain. It only comes to Canada in bottles. And I'm not sure if there are other places in Toronto that offer free refills but we don't offer them for any of our drinks here."

"This would never be acceptable in the U.S., NEVER!"

By now the man is almost shouting and everyone has stopped whatever they're doing and are staring over to our corner. My head is burried in my burger so as to make sure no one thinks I'm with this asshole. My God, we're talking about a beverage that, for all purposes, has absolutely no nutritional value!!! This guy was acting like he was being denied a life-saving blood transfusion.

The manager, who maintained his calm and his sense of hospitality to the end, finally stated, "I'll tell you what, sir, if it will making your dining experience here better, I will give you free refills on your bottle of rootbeer. Will that be acceptable?" The triumphant asshole agreed and my partner and I ate as fast as we could to escape the bad vibes that had filled our corner.

Before I left, I went up the manager. "Hey, it's not Tuesday! How are you?" he exclaimed.

"I'm fine. Look, I'm from the U.S. and I just want to say, we're not all like that. He's just an ass but some of us are polite and grateful for the service we receive."

"I know. No worries. Some folks think that everything should be just like it is in the States and can't set aside their ways to appreciate someone elses. But I know not all of you are like that."

Radio Back to Headquarters - This post doesn't have much to do with my immigration journey. However, on our recent trip down South I was so thoroughly amused by a trend in North America to give radio stations strange names, that I had to write about it. Back in the day, I can remember just identifying a station by its call letters. But, I guess with the advent of huge communications corporations buying out all the local markets, they're wanting to make life easier by using generic names to be used in syndication.

Anyway, here's a list of some of the names we heard driving from Canada to Florida and back again:

Jack FM

Wally FM

Steve

The Boss

The Lake

The River

The Beach

Sunny 103.whatever

Froggy

Big Dawg

The Shark

The Rooster

The Beat

Kiss FM

and my personal favorite... The Pickle

Southern Charm - My partner and I recently drove down (and back) to Florida to visit some family, have a holiday and get some scuba diving in. It's been years since I've been south of the Mason-Dixon other than one trip to Florida (which we flew to) to go to a lesbian resort in the Keys. So, I was a little anxious about how we'd be treated as a same-sex couple and with me not exactly being "girly."

I'll admit, I was preparing for the worst. We were, after all, driving through a part of the country where the only billboards that outnumber the roadside cross displays are for strip clubs and fireworks stores. And of course, the only radio stations available are country ones with people singing about losing or gaining back their lovers, dogs and trucks or Christian stations proclaiming the evils of homosexuality, feminism and the Democratic party.

Getting a hotel room our first night, though, set the tone for most of our travels in a way that caught me quite by surprise.

We didn't make any reservations ahead of time because we weren't sure how far we would get each day. So when we were told our first night on the road that the first place we tried had one room left, we were relieved. But, the desk clerk, who was as friendly as could be, asked us a question in a slow southern drawl that completely threw me off, "The one room we have left only has one bed in it. Is that alright with you girls?"

Huh? Is one bed ok? Ummm, yeah, one bed is preferred. In fact one bed is a requirement in my world!

The whole way down and back, we were consistently asked things like, "Did y'all want separate checks?" and "Is sharing a bed ok with y'all 'cuz we only have one room left?"

I was expecting nothing but harassment on this road trip but it turns out all there was was a very anti-climatic invisibility.

Or was it? It's been a week since we got back and I'm still trying to figure out if it was ignorance/obliviousness or just a form of Southern "politeness" which dictates that in the case of some social situation that feels awkward to you, you just ignore the obvious and label it as something else (like, "Oh, isn't that hairdo just lovely, it covers up that goiter so nicely.")

While it was nice to not have people harassing me to my face, I think I still prefer the native New York way of telling someone exactly what you think of them. And of course my absolute preference is the way I get treated here North-North of the Mason-Dixon: that I can be queer, visible and fully accepted!

Springing a leak - Despite all my efforts to maintain my reputation as "butch," most people know that I'm really a sensitive new age guy. It's not unusual that I get moved by things but every so often, I even catch myself off guard by something so ordinary.

This past week, the ordinary event involved my wallet. I went to grab my wallet to get something out, who knows, my bank card; a subway ticket. But, instead of finishing the task at hand, it hit me all at once. If I were thunked on the head and someone was going through my wallet to see who I was, they would have no idea that I'm from the U.S. There is no piece of i.d. left in my wallet to say anything other than I belong to Canada. In fact, except for my passport and a social security card that I haven't found since I hid it apparently too well when I moved, I have no U.S. identification left. You see, when I went to register for a driver's license and my car, they take all that stuff away. I have to admit, it was a little distressing at the counter when the woman took my NY driver's license and stuck it in a locked drawer.

So anyway, when this realization hit me, I found myself bawling. This was what I wanted, right? To live in Canada, to be with my partner in a place where I had health care and legal protections as a queer that most American queers could only hope for. So why was I snifflin' away like a kid who lost his blankie? Identity is a weird thing. I am who I am regardless of the card(s). But why did it feel like all of a sudden I was live without a net?

I don't have any answers to those questions yet but chatting with another ex-patriot/immigrant a few days later and explaining my breakdown to her, it seems like it's a normal reaction. She said she had almost the same emotional experience as me when they took her U.S. driver's license. She said she made herself feel better by digging up an old social security card and putting that in her wallet. Perhaps, this'll be the catalyst to push me to go through the last boxes of crap that made it over the border to find mine and do the same.

I was thinkin' that this whole "immigration" experience was wrapped up when I landed. What I'm realizing now is that while the "logistical" part is, the "emotional" transition is just beginning.

Moore or less the truth - Last weekend my partner and I, in order to get a break from unbelievably muggy and smoggy weather, did what most without air conditioning do... we went to the movies. After a very brief debate, we decided to go see Michael Moore's new documentary, "Sicko."

I had heard good reviews and, having seen him speak in person once, knew I would like the film. But, I wondered, how would it feel seeing this movie in Canada, one of the places he features in the movie as an example of how medical care can be provided for all. Would people in the audience think that he painted too rosy a picture? Would people cheer at the same parts as me? Would their opinions of America change for the worse (if that's even possible)? Would they pity us more? Would they have a renewed sense of gratitude for what they do have?

Well, for the most part, they did what the generally left-leaning sorts who go to Michael Moore films do... peopled cheered; people laughed; people booed (mostly every time Bush appeared); and I don't know about others, but my partner and I certainly had a few teary moments as well. I felt the movie did the Candian system justice though I checked in with my partner, who's lived there her whole life. As soon as she could get her Canadian pride until control enough to talk again, she agreed.

Having been one of those Americans who have gone for stretches of time without health insurance, I could really identify with the people in the movie. One twist of fate and I could have very well have been on that screen. All the crap that Americans say about "socialized medicine" and how it would ruin the American health care system is just that: crap. Today I was reading an article on the net about people's responses to the movie and one woman from the U.S. said she would never stand for "socialized medicine" because she worked hard so why should she pay for others. Well, there ya have it folks. The reason why the U.S. is the only westernized nation without a national health plan: Greed. It's not that we couldn't provide for others. It's just that we (especially the corporate, for-profit "we") don't want to. Sad and wrong. Wrong and sad but all too true.

I've been lucky so far since moving and haven't had any serious medical issues to deal with. Though I have had enough trips to the health clinic down the street that I think they're starting to get used to how sappy and sentimental that this American gets every time they swipe my card (see my post from January 27, 2007 for my initial reactions after my first trip to the clinic).

C'est Fini!! - Holy crap! I think I might have actually managed to finish all the last of the paperwork and line-waiting and completed the "official" parts of the immigration process! I now have: permanent resident status, an Ontario driver's license, an Ontario health card (got to love that after having had periods with no health coverage at all in the States), Ontario registration and plates for the Patty-wagon (i.e. my car) and a permanent social insurance number!!

I'm here legally, my cat is here legally (though she probably couldn't care less... girl cats are like that) and my car is bonafide and certified!

17 months. 17 loooong, expensive, paperwork filled confusing months.

Now, the real work of settling in and getting better acquainted with life in Canada begins.

I'll still be blogging away on this whole phenomena, though, so don't worry about this being my last entry or anything. I already have the next few ideas percolating in my head. The adventure continues!! Thank you everyone who has cheered me on through this whole process!!

The American Eagle Had Landed! - This past Thursday I took the day off from work and drove to the Canadian consulate in Buffalo to "surrender" then retrieve my passport and then "present" myself at the border.

It's a good thing that I'm not a very superstitious person (or at least not as much as I used to be) since on my way there, a huge tanker filled with diesel fuel overturned and they had to close the QEW at like 6:30 am. So after my lovely tour of downtown Hamilton (not a place I think I'd like to visit again unless I'm in desperate need of eau-de-refinery), I managed to find my way through downtown Buffalo, score a primo parking spot and make my way to the lobby of the huge high rise where the consulate sits on the 30th floor.

I got there right at 8 am when they opened to find a dozen or so people in front of me. Now given the line of work I'm in with all the dramatic crisis and twists of fate, I don't rattle easily. But I have to tell you, that although the consulate folks weren't rude or mean, presenting in-person was one of the most intimidating and anxiety producing experiences I've had in really, really long time.

Our every movement was dictated ("Stand here." "You 12 may proceed. The rest must wait until I return for you." "Walk single file only." "Permanent resident applicants sit in the second row and move down as your number is called." "Principal applicants only, no family members allowed." and so on).

We were told what we could hold ("You are only allowed to bring in your passport, photos and application. No other documents or papers allowed.").

And we were certainly when to be where ("Return at 11:15. Do not return at 11:00 or any time before 11:15 because you will create further problems in the line." "Be back at 1:30 to retrieve your passport.").

Again, it wasn't that any of the consulate staff were rude or mean. But, I felt as though my whole life was in the hands in strangers and that one misstep or break in the official protocol would somehow call the whole thing in jeopardy. I felt as though to ask a question or try to exchange a few casual words with my fellow immigrants would be seen as suspect or being a trouble maker. I know this sounds crazy or paranoid or like I let my anxiety get the best of me but, I feel as though I had a teeny tiny glimpse into what life in highly controlled environments, like the military or prison, might be like (and I'm sure there are days when those two aren't that different).

At any rate, I got my passport back with all the appropriate stamps and forms and proceeded to the border to present myself and enter Canada, the last official step to becoming a permanent resident. I walked in at 2:15 pm and by 2:25 was on my way to Customs to pay the $200 fee to get my car in. By 2:40, it was all over and I was on my way to fight rush hour traffic back home. Yep, after 16 months of forms, fees and waiting, this last official step was 10 minutes. Kinda like a wedding, you spend months if not years planning and the final step is just minutes long.

At least I managed to hold it together in the immigration and customs offices, though I cried before and after in my car.

So now what? Well, although I took a brief moment to celebrate this achievement, the paperwork and fees are still far from over. Next on my list before the end of May, I need to: get a new Social Insurance number, a new health card and a new drivers license. And within the next 45 days I need to: fax a copy of the title to my car to U.S. customs then 72 hours later drive there to get clearance to re-register the car; get Canadian car insurance; and re-register the car. Now if only those lines could be 10 minutes long too!!

The Final Countdown!!! - Alright, so sorry I haven't blogged in... oh say a few months. Life's been hectic. A promotion at work, lots of family health issues that have sent me flying back and forth across the border like a bat outta hell flying over hell's half acre.

On one of those trips, I stopped at Canadian immigration on the way back and tried to get a sense of whether I would need to renew my work permit or if my landed status would come through in time. They, of course, could give me no definite answers saying, "Your best bet is to put in for the renewal anyway. It's only an extra $150."

"Only" an extra $150? I don't know how much immigration officials are making these days but that $150 is my share of at least 2 weeks worth of groceries!!! But, what choice did I have. So more papers, more money, more letters. I had already plunked down $200 for the medical exam (which, by the way, consisted mostly of making sure I was breathing and knew my own name) and almost $500 for the "landed fee." Add that on top of the several hundred I had already spent in fees, all the costs associated with getting fingerprints, police checks and transcripts and the $1000 for the lawyer for my work permit... I seriously could have half of a down payment for a small house by now.

But then last week, when I returned from being on holidays for a week, there, sitting on our coffee table, "IT" was... the letter congratulating me on being accepted for landed immigrant status. "IT" consisted of 2, double sided pieces of paper, rather sloppily stapled together (with only about half the written material actually pertaining to my specific situation).

So, according to "IT", I need to go the immigration office in Buffalo on any given Tuesday or Thursday between the hours of 8-11 a.m., "surrender" my passport and they will "make all efforts" to return it to me between the hours of 1:30-3 p.m. on the same day. At that point, I will need to officially "enter Canada" before the expiry date or risk having to start all over from scratch (don't fret, I'll be getting my ass over the border as soon as they put the passport back in my hot little hands).

My partner wanted to take the day off from work and come with me, bring the camera and celebrate the moment with me. However, "IT" said I have to present alone, which is kind of a bummer because I know I'm going to get all emotional and start crying and whoever gets me at the immigration office at the border is going to have seconds thoughts about letting some blubbering "whacko" in.

Even though the paperwork part of this process will be wrapping up soon, I hope to keep up on this blog (no, really, I mean it this time) because in actuality, my acculturation is only just beginning.

12 Months and 12 Days - That, my dear friends (and strangers who might have ventured a gander into my world), is the length of time that passed between when I sent my application for permanent resident and when I was told I get to move through to the next stage. For 12 months and 12 days, with the exception of being sent my case number, I have heard not a word, not a peep, not a grunt or a groan from Canadian immigration. Lemme tell ya, it's a bit nerve wracking knowing that that much of your personal life is in a file and you have absolutely no control over the when's, where's and how's of trying to make a permanent life for yourself (see my June 1, 2006 entry about the amount of paper work and costs). Perhaps this is good "purgatory practice," (or at least it could be for those who still believe in that sort of thing).

So, what is this next stage? Well, it involves an "immigration medical exam," another letter of reference from my current employer, and, surprise!, a couple hundred more dollars.

Now, I shouldn't really complain about the money. One of the only things the current Canadian prime minister has done that has broken with his role as a Bush-like mini-me was to lower the "right of permanent resident fee" from almost a thousand dollars to just under five hundred. I am still quite grateful that I have the resources to be able afford this. I know there are families out there who have to scrimp and save for years just to get one person in.

Another aspect I should also be grateful for is that in the cover letter that was sent along with the next set of papers to fill out, I was informed that at this time, I am being exempted from the interview portion of the immigration process. From what I've heard, this will shave quite a bit off time-wise from my process (because over 12 months of stoney silence isn't quite long enough to rattle you).

As to the "immigration medical," I have the form I'm to bring, I went a got 2 more "passport size" photos to bring with me and I have found a "designated" doctor in my neighborhood that I need to call this week. It looks like it'll involve chest x-rays, blood tests and who knows what else. I suppose I'll more to write on that later... just hoping it's not as "detailed," if ya know what I mean, as the documentation I had to provide, especially since I think the doctor I can get into the fastest is a man. Ain't no man seen my "bits and bobs" since my pediatrician and I'd like to keep it that way, especially since immigration has info on just about everything else in my life.

Super Bowl Bum-day - I've always been a pro football fan so most years I watch the Super Bowl regardless of the teams playing. And in a year like this one when none of "my teams" are playing, a good portion of my viewing enjoyment comes from the very clever commercials.

However, much to my dismay, watching my first Super Bowl "abroad," it seems that the game as it is streamed into Canada does not have most of the commercials that have become as popular as what's happening on the field. Pretty much the only "product" that seems to have made it through is Bud Light, and the ones of theirs I'm seeming aren't that funny which makes me think they're not the ones being shown in the States. Most everything else is Canadian based or "stuff" I've already seen.

I guess instead of Monday morning quarterbacking I'll be Monday morning surfing by trying to find the "real" Super Bowl ads on the net.

Is there a doctor in the house? - So about a month ago my crap-tacular knee went again (got to love genetic defects) and the strangest thing happened. I went to see a doctor.

Yep. Isn't that totally weird? I had a medical issue. I went to a walk-in clinic that is 2 blocks down the street (which, by the way, is a clinic that is open 7 days a week). I told the front desk receptionist an old knee injury resurfaced. I showed her my government medical insurance card. I waited about 45 minutes (which was less than my average wait for my doctors in the U.S. even with an appointment). I saw the doctor. He wrote me a script for physical therapy and one for an anti-inflammatory. He sent me to the basement for an x-ray. I took the elevator down to the basement. They took me immediately and 2 x-rays later, I was on my way.

The total amount of time from when I walked in to when I walked out was less than 90 minutes. The total cost: $15 and change for the meds, which after my employer's prescription plan kicked in, came to less than $4 CND.

I kept thanking all the receptionists, doctors, nurses and technicians as if they had performed some kind of multi-organ transplant on me using their own organs. Each person I thanked looked at me like they thought I was a bit "touched," until I explained, "I'm from the U.S. and just moved here a few months ago." Once I uttered that phrase, they all smiled proudly and gave virtually the same response, "Oh, yes, that would explain it. You're not used to having health care are you?"

They all said they couldn't understand why a country with as many resources as the States couldn't provide basic health care for all of its citizens. I told them it wasn't that we couldn't. It's that we didn't want to.

There's this crazy concept at work here. If you give people access to medical care while they are well and/or in the early stages of an illness, you can save money down the road versus waiting until the sickness is too much to manage and then having people show up in the emergency room where the cost of treatment is much, much higher and people without insurance still can't pay.

Now, don't get me wrong. The system here is not perfect by any stretch of the imagination. Keeping docs and nurses has been a bit of an issue and there are waiting lists for certain kinds of procedures and surgeries. I know that there are some Canadians with resources who are going to States rather than wait. And of course, we pay much higher taxes for this government service.

But, I have to tell you, as one of those Americans who has gone for stretches of time without health insurance, it sure is nice to not have to hold my breath and live with the fear that I am one illness or accident away from complete ruination.

News-a-tainment - Between the two years I spent commuting and the now 7 months I've been living here in Canada, one of the things that still fascinates me is the difference in what and how American news stations present versus Canadians ones.

In the morning, I generally flip between CNN and CBC (the main national Canadian news station). Although they both might be reporting on the same news item, I end up coming away not only with different information, but with a different feeling. First, I find that I end up knowing more about the topic from Canadian news. It's made me realize how much American news sources leave out. Second, the "spins" are also different with the American news reporting, even from the more "liberal" sources (don't get me started on Fox "news"), being more to the "right" than the Canadian ones.

Then there's the issue of "balance." By this, I don't mean "right" versus "left." What I'm talking about is balancing stories that directly tie into the country versus reporting on stories that involve the other billions of people and places that share the planet with us. I've become so aware of how nationalistic even the "world wide news programs" are in the U.S. I probably hear as much about U.S. politics in Canada as Canadian but with U.S. reporting there is no such reciprocity with any other country. No wonder most U.S. students can barely find their asses on a map never mind some country where "those poor children" are starving and whatnot.

I'll be honest, getting to view U.S. policy through the eyes of another has on more than one occasion made me more embarrassed than I already am. I wish that the average American could have the chance I've had to step outside of the U.S. media machine and get some perspective. Maybe then people would be more appropriately outraged at what's going on in the world and the U.S.'s role in it.

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.