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.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
10 comments:
Happy belated birthday! And at the old age of 26, frankly, you might as well just call it retirement instead of unemployment.
happy birthday, girlspit! at least you're a cool alien.
Thanks guys. I wish I could retire. That would be sweet.
To echo Omar’s sentiments, seriously, retire. Work is over rated. I’ve been working for far too long now and I can say that it isn’t worth it. Besides, who needs it when you’ve already got a bread winner in the house? Canadian feminists be damned… just tell her you sell stuff for a profit on eBay. She doesn’t need to know what stuff or how much of a profit. Happy belated birthday, and glad to see your back :) I never doubted for a second, hence I never de-linked you.
wow, you came back! happy b-day! welcome back!
WELCOME BACK!!!!!
It's about damn time you came back to me. I miss you call me....
PS. go back to school. It makes not working and being supported my your caveman much more noble and socially acceptable. Except when people ask why you are bothering with education when you have a rich husband at home to support you.
Always, JumpUpMy
Hey...Og no say wife no workey. Og say school help wife make more money. Og think that good.
Og miss Girlspit. Og glad Girlspit back on shiny machine with buttons.
Og think Girlspit good for wife's sanity.
Sometimes "The Man" is a woman, and has flat feet and a bad disposition.
I found you... This is Stewart... If your interested, my old email adress still applies. twotoneska, and its at yahoo (sorry have to seperate 'em to keep it from getting attacked by the shady internet folks...)
Post a Comment