We are not Canadians.  We have to get on our hands and knees and beg re-apply annually to live here.  Someday, they’re going to get wise to us and throw our asses out.  Because of this, because we know it’s coming eventually, we hold on to our Americanismness with clenched, white knuckles.  We celebrate the FOURTH of July, it’s currently 41 degrees outdoors, not 4.  You know, American.

When nameless Canadian friends who live mere minutes from me but fear getting outed as a closet geek *ahemzoeyjane* say things like “You will be assimilated,” we just laugh and go right on with our Yank ways until one day, we’re on the phone with an American friend and we try to say that we’re pr-ah-cessing something and then we stop, stutter, backtrack and say pr-oh-cessing something….”

Oh, fuck, we’re totally Canadian, eh.

Since we’re now all a bunch of hosers, we’ve decided to apply for Permanent Residency.  That means we get to live here for 5 whole years before I have to start flashing immigration officers we have to re-apply again.  That means that it doesn’t matter where we work, because my husband’s job will not be the only reason we’re allowed to be here.  That means that I will not have to answer 5,000 questions every time I have to cross the border into or out of America.

That means we’re making a commitment for the first time in our adult lives.  And it’s scaring the crap out of us.  It’s like buying a house, except instead of “house” it’s a “whole freaking country.”  Which still won’t let us vote.  Bygones.

We’ve been talking about what that entails, becoming permanent residents with capital letters, and aside from the shitty things (re-importing the cars, etc) we have to start thinking about some medical business.

If we’re going to try to get 5 unconditional years here, there’s a chance they’ll say Hell No and then not renew us when we’re up next.  This kind of puts the pressure on us to get some things done that are covered under our MSP (the dreaded socialist health care...oooooo) before they get the chance to kick us to the curb.  And by “things”, naturally I mean “balls.”

We’ve officially decided that we’re not having any more kids.  We’ve officially decided that The Donor drew the short end of the stick on this one, mainly because now he’ll know when we get a dude for a mailman.  We’ve had several long, drawn out discussions about whether or not we’re really really sure we’re done, and in the end I said that I was done making babies and he said “Good, because I’m so done with you making babies.”

No ladies, he’s not available, thanks for asking.

Maybe we’ll foster a child someday when we have a bigger house, but daddy’s getting the old snip-snip.  Soon.  Before he chickens out soon.

We were talking about it last night and he was saying how he was nervous (naturally), how he didn’t think he could make the appointment.  I tried to make it all about me reassure him by reminding him that someone’s ass once came out of my vagina and a few minutes on ice was nothing compared to that pain, and of course he countered with “You’re not going to make me feel bad about that; you were built for it.  My boys weren’t built for razor blades.”

And no, he doesn’t have any brothers either, girls.  Sorry.

Then he mentioned that he was afraid of something else, too, and I asked what.  He said he was afraid that he would lose the, um, desire, after the procedure.  That he’d be afraid to test out the re-vamped tool kit.  You know, like Peter Griffin did in that Family Guy episode.  I kindly reminded him that I gained 105 pounds carrying the seed of his over-zealous loins, that I incurred the wrath of the Frankenvulva pushing his son’s big, beautiful, perfectly round head out, that I was afraid to sit down for two months after our son was born, and that if he wanted to know about losing your will to fuck, I could tell him all about it.

13 years later, I can still take his breath away.   It’s a beautiful thing, really.  But he’s still getting the damn vasectomy.