Bad...

So my husband and I had a fight today.  Not a knock-down-drag-out yelling-at-each-other-and-throwing-things fight but it was a definite argument.  It all boiled down to his usual irritation with my inability to keep a museum-clean house.  He fell short of accusing me of being a bad wife and mother but it was implied.  He did come right out and admit that he thinks I sit at home and do nothing all day or the house would be cleaner.  Apparently he's been waiting for me to shape up for our entire marriage.  He "let" me be a stay-at-home-mom and now I haven't come through with what he views as my end of the bargain.  When I protested that there's a lot to do as a stay-at-home-mom, he retorted that this is what I asked for when I wanted to stay home.  At that point I shut up because I just didn't know what to say.

At first I was very offended and upset.  Now, I've realized that he was partially justified.  He's absolutely right.  I don't keep a clean house and if that's his definition of a good wife, then he's getting shortchanged. He's also right that he's been asking for this since we got married and I haven't been able to deliver.  For my husband, I'm not a good wife and, by extension, not a good mother and I don't know how to change it.  My husband is unhappy in our marriage and I know it and still can't seem to make myself a better housekeeper.  Maybe a good start would be to get off of here and go clean my kitchen.

So Mad

I'm so angry right now I'm shaking and I don't know what to do.  Usually, I would talk to one of my friends who are pretty good at calming me down but it's Christmas eve and people will be spending that time with their families and they don't need to be brought down by my spewed bad mood.  Christmas eve.  There's the rub.  I had these expectations that we would be this happy family instead of the farce of an excuse for a family that we usually are.

My husband loves to play cards and he goes to this particular card shop.  Lately I've been getting more and more frustrated with this hobby as it's two nights a week (at least) that he does this.  Cards are starting to feel increasingly like the "other woman."  Attempts to communicate this to said husband have been met with a shrug at best.

This card shop has been planning some sort of tournament on Christmas eve for some time.  My husband told me that he chuckled when it was announced and told his friends that cards on Christmas eve was either for losers with no family or men who want a divorce.  ha ha.  Very funny.  Guess where my husband is.

He broached the subject earlier today with "How 'bout if I take Conner out for a while and get him out of your hair?"  Blatant manipulation if I've ever heard it. Conner was nowhere near my hair.  I said something like "What are you talking about?"  He then admitted that he'd go to the card shop and take Conner with him.  I responded with, "Seriously? You're going to leave your family on Christmas eve?"  He sulked for the rest of the day because I was laying guilt trips.

He left a few hours later to go to the bank and he's still gone.  aaaarrrrgh!

Defender of the Week

So we're playing word games this morning.

Conner had his last soccer game of the season last night. The entire season he scored exactly zero goals. Not one. My heart broke for him because I want my son to feel accomplished and successful. Then, I realized that my son really enjoyed his last game because he found his niche. His forte. His modus operandi. He was the Defender of the Week.

All season long he's been focusing on trying to make a goal because that's the stuff people cheer for. And who can blame him? We all want to be the one with the sexy job. We want to be the receiver making the cool touchdown in the end zone. We want to be the cop who saves the people who are being robbed. We want to be the fireman who rescues the toddler from a burning house. No one cheers for the front line that protected the quarterback so he could make that beautiful pass that was caught in the end-zone. We don't see the dispatcher that took the 911 call that got the cop to that robbery and the fireman to the burning house.

All season my son has been much bigger than the most of the kids on his team (or any of the other teams for that matter.) He's not as fast or as agile as the other kids he's played with. He was the moose to their antelope. This last game, he did a lot of getting in the way. Our coach was the referee for the game (that's how we roll when it's 4-year-olds.) He laughed after the game and said the other team tried several times to push him out of the way with their bodies and just bounced right off. When everybody got tied up in a scrum in the middle of the field, Conner would just wade right into the middle and kick the ball out to one of the superstar strikers who got about 15,000 goals this season. When a member of the other team was going to try to steal the ball from one of our guys, Conner just stood in his path and, of course, the kid just bounced right off. He raced around the field just looking for somebody to frustrate. And he had an absolute blast. He got a couple of yellow cards in the process but who's counting? As one of the parents said, "It's not holding unless the ref calls it." Just call him "Moose McBride."

I guess the lesson here is "play to your strengths." The front line of the offense may not get the cheers but they still get an NFL-sized paycheck. Not bad. Not bad at all.

Defender of the Weak

Man! I have so much racing through my head right now I'm afraid I won't be able to type it fast enough before it leaves. I woke up at 4 am (thank you, 5-month-old) and couldn't get back to sleep. I started thinking about how God is the Defender of the Weak. I sort of had an "Awwww. Isn't that sweet?" moment thinking about how He takes care of all those weak people out there. "Itn't that special?" (Insert Dana Carvey reference here.)

Then I sort of got hit between the eyes with the fact that sometimes I'm "the weak." ugh. I hate thinking of myself as weak. I'm the self-sufficient one. Toilet guts need to be replaced and sprinkler system repaired? I'm your girl. You need to store up enough food in the freezer to feed Cox's Army? Call on me. New chocolate chip cookie recipe and made up pumpkin cranberry bread? I can do that. You want a new bookcase, tile in the kitchen and new concrete counter-tops? Sure. I can do that. Probably. Just because I've never done it doesn't mean I can't.

But.... Sometimes I've been cheated and cheated on. I've been betrayed and lied to. I've been stolen from and wrongfully accused. Someone who for one reason or another had power over me decided to use that power to their advantage and my disadvantage. I was the weak.

So what God was dealing with in me this morning when my mind was racing at 4:30 AM was the fact that when I do not choose (it's a choice not a feeling) to forgive the guilty party in those situations, it's because pride has risen up in me. I would rather be angry and bitter about those things than admit that I was weak. Ouch.

Then I had to get past that point to the fact that when I can't admit that I'm weak it's because I don't trust God to be my defender. Double ouch.

Thankfully there were no more points. I think that's enough for us to deal with for the next few weeks. Or years....

A Little Bit O'Hope

It's interesting how just the smallest glimmer of hope can change your whole situation. I had a friend talking about that this weekend so it's been rolling around in my brain like a loose marble for a few days and I think it finally fell into a hole last night.

People go through some really bad experiences. You've just been diagnosed with stage 4 breast cancer. Your husband has just confessed that he's been involved in an affair for the past year with a 60 year old prostitute/afghan crocheter. You have a 4-year-old with an attitude problem. Your daughter is about to marry a serial killer. The toilet in your guest bathroom is overflowing, your dishwasher is broken and your mother-in-law is on her way over. How does hope change my situation? The answer is this: From the outside looking in, it doesn't. I still have breast cancer, a weird cheating husband, an attitudinal 4-year-old, an evil son-in-law, broken appliances and an over-involved mother-in-law.

From inside my circumstances, however, hope makes all the difference in the world. Suddenly breast cancer is beatable. My husband is truly repentant and with a lot of work we'll end up with a really good strong marriage when we're old together. My four-year-old will be five next month. Maybe my daughter will see the light and break up with the jerk that she's been dating. The plumber is on his way over and the dishwasher will be fixed because my best friend's husband "knows a guy."

It all comes back to perspective. Someone else looking at my situation might not see hope make a difference but it makes a difference in my attitude which makes all the difference in the world.

I Hate Snakes!

What a beautiful day it was today! If you live in Texas, you live for days like this. Sunny, slightly breezy and mid-70's. (That's low to mid-20's for my Canadian friends who live in Celciusville.) It was a perfect shining jewel of a day. To enjoy it, I opened my back door and my front door propping the laundry room door with a brick to keep it from blowing shut and scaring the bejeebers out of the whole family. I opened the garage door and let the refreshing breezes blow through. I finally had fresh air in my house!

After an entire summer of avoiding going outside because of searing heat and glaring windshields, I felt reborn. I actually cleaned out my fridge and enjoyed it. I rinsed out the science project containers with a smile on my face and loaded the dishwasher while I did a little happy dance on my freshly swept kitchen floor. I was freaking June Cleaver. I whisked through the house; a virtual tornado of happy and contented productivity. Ah, the wonders of fall in Texas.

As I waltzed through my yet to be swept breakfast nook, I glanced under the table to see what had my cats so fascinated only to discover... a snake. Yes, you heard me correctly. A snake. A creepy little slithering unnatural mutant of nature. Have you ever wondered how they move with no feet or legs? It's just not right.

Now, I consider myself to be a pretty down-to-earth and reasonable woman. I'm not a girlie girl who screams at mice and spiders and bats. In fact, I think bats are pretty cute and I once had an earthworm for a pet when I was a kid. Snakes are my downfall. I embarrass myself with how freaked out I am about snakes. They send my blood pressure into the stratosphere and I suddenly become a quivering mass of squealing girlishness.

My husband thought it was hilarious that I emailed him that a snake was waiting under a hastily (and quite expertly, I might add) tossed Tupperware container for him to come home and liberate. Preferably in someone else's yard. He never got the chance. The darn cats would not leave that Tupperware alone. They batted at it and shoved it and were doing their feline darnedest to push over that container. Apparently they were just as uncomfortable as I was with leaving a live snake in our house. Then again, maybe they just wanted to torture it for hours until it finally died because cats think that kind of thing is fun. You never know.

Finally I put Kalen on the bed in my room, made Conner stand back and I released the freak of nature from its dishwasher-safe plastic prison. I was ready for anything. I had the dustpan held in front of my because I was just sure that undoubtedly poisonous snake would slither right for me and bite my toe. I imagined flashing red lights and an ambulance ride in my near future. (You see how illogical snakes make me?) The Tupperware flipped back. The snake froze. I banged the dust pan by the snake and herded it out the open door where it disappeared in the grass of my back yard. Anticlimactic, I know. No one was more disappointed than the cats, trust me.

Needless to say, all my doors and windows are now closed. Air conditioning is a good thing. I am no longer June Cleaver because I've gotten nothing accomplished since "The Snake Incident." Although, to be honest, June Cleaver probably would of freaked a little, too, so I don't feel so bad.

Chains vs. Snares

So, I've been thinking about what it is that traps us. The big stuff is easy to see. Abused as a child? A big chain around your waist. Raised in a cult? Huge and heavy shackles clamped to your ankles. These things clank and draw attention to themselves every time you walk. You can see these things and they are something that you OBVIOUSLY want to get free from.

The harder stuff for me is the little things. Those little foxes get me every time. I see those little things like, for instance, just a slightly skewed image of God because of who your dad was or wasn't, as more like fishing line than chains. Fishing line is sneaky. It's silent and nearly invisible. It's not something that's immediately obvious to you or anybody else. You don't know you've even been caught until it's wrapped around and pulled so tight that you're losing circulation to one of your legs. You look down and can't even remember when you picked up that tangled stuff.

I'm going to start praying that God will show me those snarled nests of invisible fishing line before I step in them and lose a leg. I'm also going to start asking for some scissors.

Letting Go

Why is it so hard for me to let God handle my stuff? In my head I know that He's infinitely bigger than any problem I have so why do I still worry and stress? I get so frustrated with myself because I just keep coming around to the same place again and again. I'm the guy who said "I do believe Lord. Help my unbelief." My head believes but my flesh doesn't.

It doesn't help that my bank account is in the negatives and my 4 year old son is driving me crazy. It's getting harder to combat that voice that screams, "See? You can't afford to stay home. You're not really cut out to be a stay-at-home-mom anyway. Your kids are probably better off with someone else." Seriously?! I wanted to be able to stay home more than anything and now that it's happened I'm scared to death.

Plus, my support base is shaky because a lot of my friends are from work so they are all busy and have no concept of what this is like. I don't blame them for not being sympathetic. I wouldn't be either. It's just hard to feel like I've kind of lost 3/4 of my friends because of the whole "out of sight out of mind" thing. But I digress.

I think part of the reason I have a hard time just letting God handle things is because in my life I don't let ANYBODY just handle things for me. I have the hardest time accepting help when it's offered much less asking for it. It's a tough habit to break. (If you offer to help me and I turn you down, call me on it!)

I keep reminding myself to take baby steps but I'm pretty impatient. I want to be fixed and refined RIGHT NOW. I don't want to have to go through the process. Lord, give me perspective.

In Defense of Mother-in-Laws

So it's been a while since I'm posted anything. I've been busy. I went to Asheville, North Carolina with my mother-in-law to see Biltmore House. Yes, that's right. I went on vacation with my mother-in-law.

Even as I write, I realize how utterly weird that sounds. Mother-in-laws have gotten kind of a bad rap. Most of my friends don't have an evil mother-in-law. In fact I can't think of one who doesn't at least like her MIL. Sure, we all have our issues. A lot of mother-in-laws don't like to share those special recipes that their sons like because they want them to have a reason to come home even if it is just for that special macaroni or their famous roast beef. Sometimes they don't want to give up the secret ingredient in their chicken and dumplings (chicken stock) because they have taken a long time to be famous for those chicken and dumplings and why should we have it easy? Still, all in all, most mother-in-laws are really not too bad.

I happen to be blessed with an exceptional mother-in-law. She shared her macaroni recipe right away. It's Kraft. Her chicken and dumplings recipe was an open book. It was just too big of a pain in the butt for me to want to fuss with. She spilled my husband's favorite dessert recipe without my even hinting or prompting. I just hardly ever make it. So we both win. I feel welcomed and loved and Lee still has to go home for her cut-it-with-a-fork roast beef.

My mother-in-law and I don't just get along, we love each other. My mom is about 18 bazillion miles away so it's nice to have a second mom about 20 minutes away. I call her when the kids are sick or when I can't get a recipe to work or I need advice about my job. She calls me to complain about her job or her husband and gossip about people we both know. We both like to garden and hate to shop. We both come from rural backgrounds. We enjoy each other's company. It's a nice place to be.

We didn't get here overnight. This relationship that we enjoy is the product of 12 years of hard work and tears and forgiveness. We've had our share of arguments and hurt feelings and pettiness. It's been worth it. Not only do I have a mother-in-law that I like, I have a friend that I can go on vacation with and actually have a really good time. I'm hoping that I'm sowing some seeds into my future here. I hope that I can have a good relationship with Conner's someday-wife even though there is no woman out there who is good enough for my little boy. And don't think I'm just going to hand over that chicken and dumplings recipe. Why should she have it easy?

The Epic Struggle

Ah baby weight. The bane of every mother's existence. Well, most mothers. Apparently my friend Payge is actually 8 pounds (at last count) under her pre-baby weight and it took her about the blink of an eye to do it. We'll talk about her behind her back another time. Those last five... no eight... no five... pounds just will not come off. Now, let's be honest here. I have no one to blame but myself. I like Coca Cola and Nutty Bars and home-made desserts and pizza and baked ziti and nachos and ...well, you get my point. Conversely, I don't like (and this is an understatement) broccoli and exercise. That which is good for me I hate and that which I need to turn my back on I love. I used to be somewhat quietly judgmental of obese people that I saw in public and now I just think "There but for the grace of God go I."

My dilemma is that I want to want to lose weight for the right reason. I want to want to lose weight so I can be healthy and live a good long life of purpose and have tons of energy to keep up with my kids and my husband and so on and so forth. The truth, however, is that I want to lose about 30 pounds so I can look smokin' hot in a pair of jeans. I want to watch my husband's tongue fall out when I walk in the room. I want us to go out and have other men think what a lucky bastard he is that he's with me. I want to wear clothes and have them fit right like they did in college. I want to lose weight so that I can like what I see when I look in the mirror. Unfortunately, right now I like what I see when I look in the fridge.

It's Not Fair!

Anybody who has ever been anywhere near another human being has probably heard "It's not fair!" and probably in a really annoying whiny voice. If you're anything like my mom you probably respond with something like, "Get over it. Life isn't fair." or "Newsflash! Earth to Dianne! Life is just not fair." We all know this is true but what would it look like if life really was fair? What does "fair" even mean?

First, let's just get this out of the way: We all know that fairness in this world just isn't possible. Why? Because fair looks like something different to you than it does to me. For example: There are people who think that it isn't fair that Mark Cuban has oodles of money when there are lots of families out there who can barely make it and are losing their homes. So, how do we make it fair? Do we employ a Robin Hood mentality and take most of Mark's money and spread it around? Would that make the world more fair? I doubt that Mark Cuban would think so. He would say that his money was made through hard work, ingenuity and savvy handling of his money. Why should the products of his endeavor be given to someone else who didn't work for them? So you see our dilemma. If we make it "fair" for one person, we usually make it "unfair" to someone else.

So let's take a deeper look into "it's not fair." What are we really saying? We are really saying that the scales are not tilting our way right now. Our human existence is not supposed to be uncomfortable, right? God forbid anything bad ever happen to me because I don't like it. When my mom told me to "get over it" she was really saying that trials and tribulations are a part of life. Sometimes the scales are just not going to tilt your way and no amount of whining is going to change that no matter how justified you might feel at the time.

Let's be clear, however. Fairness and justice are two very different things. For instance, according to a Yale University study in 2007, black defendants are 3 times more likely to get the death penalty than white defendants when the victim was white. That's not unfair. That's unjust. Taking all of Mark Cuban's money and spreading it around so that everyone has an equal amount might seem fair but it would definitely be unjust (i.e. theft.) Unfortunately, injustice is also a fact of life. I'm not too worried about the world being unfair but it does bother me a lot when it's unjust.

I guess this is the part where I come up with a solution. I don't have one. We need to pick our battles. Let's not get our panties in a twist when life isn't fair. Our whining accomplishes nothing except causing the powers-that-be to tune us out. Let's save our voices for injustice and make them heard when they really count. I'm cynical enough to think it probably won't work but at least I will not die knowing that I encountered injustice and did nothing.

Is 7:45 Early?

It's funny how kids give you a lot of insight into how your life has been going lately. My son got up to find me already awake at the computer. He shuffled into the room to blink at me confusedly and say, "What are you doing up already? You couldn't sleep?" It's seven forty stinkin' five! It's not like he got up at three AM to find me madly knitting little sweaters for the dog we don't have. Apparently I've been sleeping pretty late as of late.

The other day he saw me mopping the floor and said, "Who's coming over?" oops. It's not like I was polishing the silver or making a meal big enough to feed Cox's Army here. The fact that our floor is actually getting mopped should not necessarily be a positive indicator that company is imminent. Maybe my housekeeping has been less than stellar lately.

I'm waiting with bated breath for him to make some comment about me needing to go on a diet.

I'm convinced that children are God's favorite flame in his refiner's fire. They so eloquently point out our foibles and force us to face (and laugh at) our most unattractive qualities. Thank you, Lord, that you love me enough to give me a smart &** child.

A Little Sarcastic Clarity

How clearly do we actually see ourselves? I know I don't see myself clearly but then I deceive myself into thinking that I see clearly because I know I don't see clearly, you know?

I asked my husband tonight if he felt like he couldn't talk to me about things even though I already knew that I'm the easiest person in the world to talk to because I'm so down-to-earth and level-headed. I found out something that he hadn't told me and I was hurt about it. It really wasn't anything big like cheating or anything but it hurt that I was the last to know and I felt that, as his wife, I should have been the first. He responded to my query with "Well, about things like this, yeah because I knew you'd be all mad and stuff." (He teaches high school so he tends to talk like a teenager, sometimes.)

I don't understand this approach. This was something I was bound to find out about eventually and was really no big deal so why would you just postpone the inevitable and make it worse in the long run? Now instead of being merely irritated, I'm mad and hurt to boot. And, while we're on the subject of me being mad, my husband is one of the most forceful personalities I know so since when does he care about me being mad? Me at my maddest is like a walk in the park compared to his temper. He would disagree but he doesn't see himself as clearly as I do.

It turns out that he doesn't see me in quite the same level-headed light that I see myself. I'm not one of those people who holds a grudge and makes you suffer for a week or twelve when you make me mad. I'm kind of a lazy person and most of the time I find by the end of about two hours that holding a grudge just takes too much energy. Could my husband really be that intimidated by my marginal irritation? Is it just possible my irritation would have jumped the ditch from marginal to pissed off? Probably.

So here's the dilemma: How do I make myself more approachable because I don't want to ever again be in a situation where half of Dallas County (slight exaggeration here) knows about some decision my husband has made before I do? Still, if he makes a decision that I disagree with or that I feel is not in the best interests of our family, I'm not just going to be a doormat and not express an opinion on the subject. If I'm hurt by something, those feelings are real and denying that they exist would be swinging the pendulum too far the other way and counterproductive.

I'm convinced it's all in the approach. I just don't know for sure what that approach is yet.

My Montana

It's not my Montana -- with the dry martini crisp air that hurts lungs that have grown accustomed to city smog and Texas humidity. It's not the clear lakes that are so transparent you wonder for a split second if they are truly there or just a fairy tale. It's not the thrilling snow-capped dental crags that seem to desperately stretch for some unknown goal in the endless expanse of blue. It's not the camera flash of snow that leaves you half-blind in a sun-drenched instant in late January. It's not the ski hills crawling with wealthy adventuresome ants slipping downhill in search of excitement only to ride up to find it again. It's not untamed and serene wildlife calmly staring out of forest shadows shaming humans who live purposeless busy lives. It's not pristine forests of green varying in shades from emerald to jade to gold.

My Montana was the ever-present and pervading odor of cow poop that invades nostril hairs and permeates dreams. It's the stunning crystal lakes full of giardia and other possibly deadly and definitely uncomfortable and embarrassing bacteria just waiting to strike the unwary hiker. It's exhausting 14-mile hikes to the tops of those snow-capped mountains so we could have "family time." It's the sparkle of pristine snow from which you have to dig out the half-ton pickup that somehow managed to get stuck despite having four-wheel drive. It's the exhilarating and award-winning ski hill that injured my knee so badly in the seventh grade that it still aches when it rains. It's the fathomless depths of the doe's eyes staring unseeingly at me from the back of a pickup during hunting season of my brother's twelfth year. That was my Montana.

Now, it's the unreachable dream. It's the promise of livable summers that don't include scorching heat and unbearable humidity. It's the mountain views that still take my breath away without even trying. It's the unbearable beauty of cool shadows and sun-dappled fields that reminds me of why it's called God's country. It's the thrill of sinking into a river flowing with glacial water that was snow eight hours before. It is my past and my children's legacy. I wish it was my Montana again.

Violin: A memory

The tiny arm moves clumsily
Over the noisy strings
Yet no squeaks or screeches
Are remembered

Sound is shrunk down
To a chest full of chuckles
A grandfather's pride in
His favorite

How secure to know
To feel you are the beloved
The pride and joy
The favored

Love shared through playing of
A treasured instrument
That no other can touch
The Violin

What pride was mine
To tread that sacred ground
To enter the secret club
A musician

To be like Grandpapa
the highest calling there is
The reader, the poet, the pilot
The musician

He is naught but dust
His soul has been returned
Sound and feeling all recalled
Remembrance alone

the violin still lives
In the corner of my bedroom
Beside a forgotten guitar
A reminder

Heroes are often introduced
When we are young and small
They are often abandoned
And forgotten

But some bring lasting pressure
And through our lives hold sway
He is not forgotten
or abandoned

I am now a reader
A teacher and a poet
He would be proud of me
The musician

The Blond Polka Dot

I have a green card. I don't know why they call it that. It isn't green. It's an invaluable card issued by the federal government of the United States of America that says I get to live here without being hassled and I get to keep my job. I am an immigrant.

We all have perceptions and ideas about what an immigrant looks like. I picture the lines of youthful Europeans entering Ellis island in the late 1800's, their faces line with work and worry but shining with the hope of a new beginning on a young continent. Those of us in Texas also think of Mexicans, desperate to come to America to escape unimaginable poverty. I also imagine the Asian parents of my students who cam to this country to give their children a better life and stringently remind their children of this sacrifice whenever a "C" comes home on the report card. The one thing that does not come to mind is a blond three-year-old from a middle class family who is fluent in English and didn't need to come to American for a better life. Yet, here I am.

Green cards must now be renewed very ten years. This means that once a decade I get to be reminded how weird I am. (I'm sure my children will start reminding me more often when they get a little older.) I dutifully place myself at the end of the four-hour line outside of the United States Citizenship and Immigration office at 8101 North Stemmons Freeway in Dallas. I don't notice at first how out of place I am until I become aware of the strange looks from my fellow line-mates. After a quick glance to my left and a momentary peek over my shoulder, I come to the realization that I am one of four white people in the entire line that has grown to three football fields in length. (They cleverly bend and twist the line to hide the true wait time in the Texas heat.) I am a blond polka dot on the brunette dress that clothes the outside of 8101 North Stemmons Freeway.

I admit that I don't tend to think of modern immigrants as white people. I forget that I myself am an immigrant until I'm reminded by the need to produce a green card in order to get a new job or cross the Canadian border. I know I am not the only person with these preconceived notions. A friend recently asked me why I was talking about being an immigrant. When I reminded her that I was a Canadian, they were startled for a moment before admitting that they don't think of Canadians as immigrants.

So, I am forced to ask: Is this because the majority of Canadians are white or because Canadian and American cultures are not outrageously different? I once had a friend describe Canada as "America Lite." I confess that I was fairly offended by this statement. You don't hear Canadians calling the US "South Canada," after all. However, both labels do make strange sense. Both America Lite and South Canada stemmed from incredibly similar roots a relatively short time ago. These countries have an unprecedented amount of trust between them as a result of these comparable cultures and values. They share the longest demilitarized border in the world.

Society's perceptions of an immigrant are no longer valid in this ever-shrinking world. Immigration has more to do with lines on a map than with culture, race, and hair color. So, I'll keep carrying my green card and I'll be one of the blond polka dots outside of the immigration office on North Stemmons every ten years but I don't feel like an immigrant. I did not come to the US on a crowded steam ship to Ellis Island and I don't think my parents had any thoughts of a significantly better life when they moved from Saskatchewan to Montana. I am an immigrant because I happened to be born on one side of a border and now I happen to live on the other. No more. No less.