The 21st was my birthday, and while I'm not old, I am now officially not young. Twenty-six is definitely not 30, but it's so oppressively close that I have already begun to lament my youth.
Mostly, I am afraid I can't put off procreating much longer. However, since I have spent most of the last eight years trying to get my shit together and figure out what I'm going to do for a living, I don't have a career to speak of as yet. The fact that I am now unemployed does little to assauge my guilt in this department.
It's not my fault! I can't work in this country yet, but I can now freely travel back and forth to Buffalo, thanks to a very nice Immigration officer I met on my birthday. So I've been looking for work there.
But, here's the problem: I have found exactly zero jobs that I am qualified to perform and that pay enough money to warrant a daily commute of 45 minutes and $4.75 in tolls.
This being said, Lunger (the husband) and I traveled to Buffalo to eat dinner at Carraba's and spend some of our American gift cards (Christmas presents) on my birthday. It was awesome. If there's a Carraba's near you, go. I know it's a chain restaurant, but dammit, they serve good chow.
Anyway, as we crossed back over the border into Canada, we pulled up to be inspected by one of the depressingly abundant GWT's. Yes, guards with 'tude.
"Could you drive any more crooked?" she asked my husband.
"Um. I guess I could..." he mumbled and handed over our passports.
"Wait. You're Canadian and she's American?! What do you have to declare?"
"We bought some glasses," he told her.
"And some DVD's. Oh. And I have a pack of cigarettes in my pocket," I offered.
We explained to her that I needed my passport stamped as official proof of the day I entered the country so we could file for my residency from inside Canada.
"Don't you have a job?"
"Not right now, no," I told her.
"But you won't be able to work!" she exclaimed.
"Yes, I know." I replied.
"But you won't have a job!" she continued.
"My husband has a job." I indicated Lunger. Here, her face twisted into a sneer.
"What did you do for a living before now?" Her eyes narrowed.
"I worked as a registration clerk in an emergency room." She scoffed.
"Pull to the left and go into the immigration building," rolling her eyes and slightly shaking her head.
To make a long story short, the guy inside Immigration was really cool. He gave me all the papers I needed and answered all my questions.
So I haven't been employed for six months! So what? It's not like I'm on welfare. I cook, I clean! Lunger pays his taxes! Like she's some ground-breaking feminist because she's a border guard. Hah! Bet she's never been to a Women's Action Coalition meeting. So what if I only went once because their Communist overtones freaked me out!
I feel bad enough because a man is supporting me. I don't need some self-important public servant telling me I live in the stoneage. I'm smart enough to figure that out for myself. Besides, Lunger only asks for a few things: clean animal skins, tidy cave, fresh berries, and the occasional undercooked woolly mammoth. It's not like I purposely refuse to take advantage of the opportunities provided for me by my predecessors in the women's rights struggle. I'm just an alien, sheesh.