You are currently browsing the monthly archive for July 2008.
Mere days after returning from an unsuccessful scouting trip to Calgary, we had to hotfoot it to Windsor, Canada, to get our work permits so Jason could get paid in a timely fashion.
I think it’s a universal truth that immigration officials have no sense of humor. You might find an exception here or there, but basically these people exist to make you feel guilty about things you haven’t done or even thought to do.
They look at you. They ask questions. They make you smile brightly and put on your ‘super-honest-face‘ while you inwardly squirm and talk faster than you normally do. They make you want to prove that you’re an upstanding citizen who eschews drugs and absolutely, under no circumstances carries meat or fruit in her suitcase.
So we cross Ambassador Bridge and wait in line behind a bunch of cars, careful to wait by the ‘STOP’/'ARRET’ sign for fear of being reprimanded and denied a work permit. Sort of like the soup nazi – ‘No permit for you! Next!’
The man in the uniform asks us: Why are you here. What are you going to do in Canada. How long will you be here. You’re working in Calgary. So why are you in Windsor. Are you bringing any money into the country.
Eventually he directed us through to a building which contained a glass-enclosed immigration office. A big sign on the door indicated one had to be summoned in order to enter. Woe to the three people behind us who thought they could just waltz in – they received a verbal lashing. One victim seemed poised to give the official a piece of his mind. Silly man – did he have no idea? These bureaucrats could obliterate his hunting weekend.
In order to go to the bathroom, you have to let an official know of your needs and then they buzz you into the bathroom. So much for privacy. But I had to go, so I let her know, with my super-honest-face to show her I had no intention of doing anything strange while in there.
While pacing the waiting area with the Hen (whose hands and knees were BLACK from crawling on the floor) I looked out the window and saw a man – handcuffed, being led into a white van. No idea what he’d done. I instantly stood up straighter. And then I noticed Mr. Canada-Florida standing at the counter with his dog on a leash. He was clearly agitated.
After some substantial, obvious, eavesdropping, I learned that he – a Canadian citizen – had purchased a Jaguar in Florida while on vacation. Because that’s what people do when they go on vacation. They buy expensive, foreign cars. He had driven said Jaguar all the way from Florida to Windsor. Accompanied by his dog.
Immigration was refusing to let his car into Canada because he did not have the title with him. He had a bunch of other paperwork. But he did not have the title. Apparently he’d called the office and no one had told him he needed the title. No matter. No amount of swearing or tantrum-throwing was going to change their minds.
The official concluded: ‘I can’t refuse you entry into the country – you’re Canadian. But I can refuse your car entry.’
No car for you! Next!
Permits secured, we eventually drove back to Detroit. The American official asked us: What were you doing in Canada. How long were you there. Did you buy anything.
‘Uh, just some chocolate-covered pistachios,’ I said, motioning towards the bag.
‘Have a good day,’ he smirked.
Salary: A random number, sometimes higher or lower than you think you deserve.
Paycheck: Salary divided by twelve. Minus 39.4%.
Oh. Canada.
We logged on to Expedia and swiped our credit card at great cost, and so we are the proud owners of tickets to Calgary. Though we do not yet have a place to live there. And we still have a place to live here. We also have a car we need to sell. And movers who are mysteriously unreachable.
If I were the kind of person who got stressed out about intra-country moves (don’t really feel right about saying abroad or overseas), and things that just don’t seem to be coming together in the way (or timeframe) I would like, I might stress out a little.
Good thing I’m not.
Or is that the wine talking.
G, sitting on the couch, remarked to me on Sunday morning: ‘I’m sad to leave. This is the only home I’ve ever known.’
Astounding, heart-wrenching maturity for a four year old? Maybe. Maybe not when you consider the following:
1. The sentences were ‘lifted’ in their entirety from a book we are currently reading about moving. So, really he was just borrowing someone else’s words – he didn’t come up with those sentences on his own.
2. He used the sentences in reference to going to Cincinnatti to a baseball game, not moving to Canada.
It is clear to me that he doesn’t really grasp the whole moving thing, but frankly who does. At least it is part of his ‘vocabulary.’ We went to the grocery store the other day. ’Bye house’ he cheerfully waved from the backseat of the car as we drove away. (Again, lifted from the moving book.)
‘We’re not moving yet,’ I explained, ‘we’re just going to the grocery store.’
‘I was just saying bye. I’ll say hello when we get back,’ he reasoned.
Ah, of course.
I came home last night from visiting my darling new nephew to a man cooking dinner for me and two boys who acted like they hadn’t seen me in a year. It is one of the top perks of motherhood – to hear ‘Mommy!!!!!’ screeched with great excitement when you walk through the door. The Hen lunged towards me like a lion at its prey. Aww, I was missed. And there was an entire turtle cake with my name on it.
I ventured outside to say hello to the newest member of our family. The station wagon. It looked good enough from the outside, if a little smaller than I’d expected. ’I think it’s smaller than your black car,’ my mom helpfully remarked. Surely not. How could a station wagon be smaller than a sedan?
We left on an errand and I pulled the wagon alongside the car – they appeared to be the same length. Perturbed, I consulted the ‘comparison’ tool on cars.com. (Of course, they don’t really let you compare a 1994 car to a 2004 car – they only go as far back as 1997. Snobs)
Sure enough, the ’97 sedan is actually longer (by 5 or 7 inches) than the ‘04 station wagon. And, bonus, LESS hip and shoulder room in the wagon seats. What? I thought Americans were getting larger, not smaller.
I turned to Jason. ’I'm going to have to roll down my window so my shoulders can fit,’ since I do, after all, have broad shoulders. He looked at me with a mixture of bemusement and exasperation, ‘I think your shoulders will fit’ he sighed.
I mean, what good is improved gas mileage and cargo space if your person won’t fit in the car?
We left this morning for a baseball game. ’Look,’ I lamented, ‘my shoulders ARE wider than the seat.’
‘No they’re not,’ he disagreed – even though they are.
I guess I’ll have to start binding my shoulders at night.
‘Daddy, I bite myself when I was sleeping yesterday,’ G informs J while we’re driving in the car.
‘Really? You bit yourself?’ I asked him.
‘No, I bite myself.’ He corrects me, apparently not yet clear on the past tense of bite.
‘I made teeth footprints on my arm…..but they melted away.’
Then he proceeds to bite himself on the arm, again, to revive those impressive ‘teeth footprints.’
A self-mutilator at an early age.
I’ve fallen for another man. I will call him Bam-Bam even though my sister probably won’t let me.
A contractor guy stopped by last week and mercifully put an end to the year-long endeavor that was the dismantling and reconstruction of the dining room ceiling and roof.
I went in for a hair cut today. Mostly because I’m tired of the boys pulling on it and mostly because I didn’t have the energy to wash it at home (today). Since I only cut my hair 2, maybe 3 times a year, I hardly ever go to the same place or use the same stylist. I just go with whoever’s available at the time.
When I got to the salon, the stylist looked at my hair and said: ‘So, are we just doing a trim today?’
Because I like to get my money’s worth, I indicated I wanted it about shoulder length, or just above. So she led me to the hair washing station where she dutifully washed my hair with sloth-like enthusiasm.
Back at her station, she started cutting. She asked me one question – had I been in before. I had, once. I asked her one question – how long had she worked there. Two years. And we didn’t speak for the remainder of the time. Which is fine by me, because I rarely get the chance (other than when I’m sleeping) to have some semblance of quiet.
But when she started cutting my hair, I had a flashback to that Friends episode where Ross gives a massage to his would-be-girlfriend’s dad. I can’t remember the exact plot line – or why Ross was the one giving the massage – but I recall he may have used kitchen implements or toy cars. The girl later questioned Ross’ actions saying: ‘my dad said you gave him a really weird massage.’
And that’s what I thought of as she lifted chunks of my hair and cut them with her scissors. I had to suppress a giggle. She went about cutting my hair with the same level of confidence I had when I cut J’s hair with kitchen scissors in 2002. The results weren’t pretty, but he didn’t complain….until I said he looked like Lord Farquad (from Shrek).
The stylist cut four plus inches off my hair and then asked if I wanted layers. I said ’sure’ because I didn’t want my hair to look so homogeneous. But I told her – ‘just as long as it looks good without having to blow dry it, because I usually (read 99.99% of the time) let my hair dry on its own (read: put it in a pony tail until further notice).’ Then more strange cutting ensued.
She started drying my hair, and kept drying it, and kept drying it. After what felt like 30 minutes passed, she announced, ‘you have a lot of hair.’ Okay. Finally the drying stopped – not sure if she lost steam or if it was actually dry, but I didn’t care because I needed to get home.
Now keep in mind I don’t wear my glasses when I get my hair cut. But even with diminished visual capacity, I could tell my hair looked bad. Really bad. Like a clown…who cut her hair in the dark. And though I’ve never actually cried about a hair cut, I could have cried today. But I channeled my energy instead into toning down the expression on my face from ’severe shock and horror’ to ’slight displeasure’.
She must have sensed my unhappiness. ’Do you like the layers?’ She inquired. I didn’t know what to say – obviously I didn’t want to make her feel bad, and I was due back at home in 5 minutes. ’Uh…..yeah…..I think it will work.’ That was the best I could muster. Better than: ‘NO, I don’t like my hair. I look like a freaking clown!’ ’
‘It looks a little severe right here’ and I timidly pointed to an area where there was a differential of about five inches from one ‘layer’ to the next. Sort of like Rachel’s hair in the first or second season of Friends. Aren’t layers supposed to be graduated; to blend?
More snipping ensued and by this time I had probably been relieved of half the hair with which I entered the salon. She put some gel on it and flattened it with one of those iron gadgets.
And then it looked okay. Only problem is, as I pointed out earlier, I don’t dry my hair (or gel or iron it), which means my hair will look horrendous in about two days.
So, if you see a clown walking around town later this week, It’s just me.
We were on our way to Target when I thought I’d broach the matter of the upcoming car switcharoo again. [After all, it was only a couple of weeks ago that we were driving in the black car and G said: 'Could you turn on the radio?' 'It doesn't work,' I replied. 'Yes it does,' he insisted. 'No, it doesn't. See?' As I vigorously turned on the power knob and nothing happened. 'Should we get a new car?' I asked, figuring we might as well start talking about it. 'No, this one will be fine,' he assured me.]
‘We’re going to have a silver station wagon,’ I told my oldest, ‘are you excited?’
‘Yeah,’ he replied ‘and we should get a tow truck too.’
‘Why do we need to get a tow truck?’ I asked, confused, blindly stepping into a trap.
‘Because the car will be broken’ he replied sagely.
Paranoid and half convinced my oldest is clairvoyant I pressed for more detail because just maybe he has knowledge of some fatal flaw in the Volvo V40 station wagon: ‘Why would it be broken?’
‘Because we might hit a car and then it will be broken.’
I swear. You SKID into one delivery truck because there is ICE on the road. And you never hear the end of it. I love being a mother.
