A Brother For My Sister

Dave and I are mere days away from our three year wedding anniversary, and it’s been nearly eight years since this crazy love affair began. Things aren’t always easy, I am not the perfect wife. Sometimes I still think it’s all too good to be true, but Dave is my partner and loves me regardless of my failings. And while I now take for granted that he is a part of my family, the addition of my sister’s new boyfriend to our clan reminds of me of the gauntlet put before Dave when he first came to the Clark household.

Dave faced several roadblocks on the way into the collective Clark heart from the start. First, and probably least formidable, was the fact that my dad has an insider’s view into the life and minds of 19-year old hockey players. Dad tends to be an open an accepting guy as long as you don’t give him reason to be otherwise, but Dave’s participation in college-level athletics did make him slightly suspect. My dad was cautiously optimistic, as he tends to be, but I’m sure his eagle eyes were on high alert.

My mom, on the other hand, wasn’t subtle about her reservations. Not only was Dave an athlete, he was playing and studying at a school over 7 hours away from where I was studying, making her worried that my own spotless academic record (save for that one C- in Poetry while in university) would be compromised. And also, she likes to put up this tough-woman front to let people know from the get-go that she isn’t taking their bullcrap. I may or may not have inherited this particular quality.

But in addition to the standard meet-the-parents routine, Dave had to meet my sister. My sister and I are close. Very close. She’s my best friend, my biggest fan, my favorite topic of bragging. Despite having our own rooms, we shared a bed for much of our lives. When I met Dave, Alley was still in high school. So you may be thinking, what could a 16-year old cheerleader in braces whose most deviant behavior consisted of the occasional sips of Zima possibly do to intimidate my new boyfriend? If you are honestly thinking that, you don’t know my sister.

She doesn’t use threats. Or physical coercion. She just uses her incredible talent for drama to make things so uncomfortable that no one would want to continue to endure them. So, for her opening act in the Saga of Dave, she really pulled out all the stops.

Dave came over for family dinner, a six times a week occurrence in our family that would make anyone feel the heat of the interrogation lights. But my mom and dad, probably seeing the light of new love in my eyes, engaged in friendly chit-chat and get-to-know-you talk. The table was set, dinner was nearly done, and an extra place setting was added to our standard 4-person table. My sister, however, was nowhere in sight. We took our places, dished out some food, and my mom called up to my sister. Wanting to be polite, we all hesitated over our forks trying to wait for the final seat to be filled. But we did not hear her footsteps on the stairs. My mom called up again, smiling politely at Dave. “She’s on Greek time” she said as explanation. One last time, she shouted Alley’s name up the stairwell.

And then we heard it.

From the opposite end of the room, where her lair was located, we heard stomping. Angry, loud, teenage stomping. Down the hall, to the top of the steps and halfway down the stairs. Before you could see her face you could hear her growling, saying “I’m NEVER coming down. NEVER. Not as long as HE is here. I don’t want to sit at the same table as HIM!”

And the stomping ascended the stairs, back down the hall, and the door of her lair was slammed.

Talk about an awkward silence.

It’s hard for me to explain how I felt at that moment. Humilated. Horrified. Angry. And sad. Mostly sad. Because even though I knew how uncomfortable that must have been for Dave, I also knew his lighthearted nature would allow him to heal from this incident. But I felt sad that somehow my new relationship with Dave was threatening enough to my sister that she would put up such a protest. She LOVES dinner. She loves the chit-chat and the chance to have us as a captive audience for loud singing. And she never missed a chance to sit next to me for a meal, especially in those first few years when I was away at college and made weekend visits. I had had boyfriends before that she had liked well enough, so I was especially offended when she made such a scene in front of Dave since he was really special to me. And, some time later, I realized that that was just it.

From the start, there was always something different about Dave. He made me feel goofy and crazy and happy and spontaneous. I wanted things to work out despite the long odds of a long distance relationship. I wanted my family to like him from the start. And since Alley knew me so well, she already knew all of this. She knew that I had met someone for whom I was really willing to make sacrifices. Someone who loved me for the same reasons she did. And she was scared.

When I look back at the situation through her eyes, I can understand her fear. Until then, all my trips back to Marquette and all my holidays revolved almost wholly around her. We spent every night watching ‘Forensic Files’ or ‘Trading Spaces’ until we fell asleep in her bed. We spent the days doing whatever my mom wanted us to do, but together. I went to all her events, paraded her around in front of my friends, and generally kept her as close as possible at all times.

Essentially, none of that was destined to change. Sure, I do share holiday time with Dave and his family as well. And those late nights watching TV do usually end with me sneaking off to join Dave in bed rather than cuddling up with sis. We do what my mom says together, often with Dave in tow. I parade her around in front of my friends, some of whom are now her friends, too. When we see each other, my intent is still to keep her close. But at the time she couldn’t see the potential of adding Dave to our lives, only the threat of losing her sister.

The outburst was still unprecedented and unwarranted, but I’m just saying I see where she was coming from.

Flash forward to the evening of August 5, 2006. My sister, my maid-of-honor, gave a speech. A speech she never got around to planning or writing down due to a combination of anxiety and procrastination, a speech fueled by emotion and champagne. As my sister recounted her version of the story I just told you, she explained that despite her fears, she realized that she had gained more in having Dave has her brother than anything she could have lost by sharing her sister. And as we raised our glasses to toast, there were probably very few dry eyes in the house.

Thinking back on this story and the night 5 years later when Dave officially joined our family makes me smile. Makes me laugh. Makes me very nearly cry. Helps me to remember that my marriage to Dave is, at least in part, an extension of my family. My sister and Dave are now friends in their own right, my family is supportive of the decisions Dave and I make together even if they do take us far away sometimes.

Pitchforks And Birth Certificates

If you are into current events and/or American politics, maybe you have heard of ‘the birthers.’ The Birthers are a small yet loud and highly publicized group of fringe individuals who believe that President Obama was born in Kenya rather than Hawaii. This would mean he is not a ‘natural born citizen’ which is one of the requirements to become President of the United States. And despite the fact that both Republicans, Democrats and neutral parties have received and approved documentation from the State of Hawaii proving the time and place of his birth, these people charge on. What is fueling their frenzy, one can only guess, but I speculate it’s crazy pills and gasoline fumes. There are websites, blogs, and even stories on ‘news’ channels dealing with this issue. But my favorite coverage is a tape of a town hall meeting where one senator got more than he bargained for. Please watch this if you can stomach individual insanity followed by cult-like group insanity.




First of all, why is this woman waving her birth certificate around as though that document somehow makes her more qualified to be President of the United States. And I’m really glad she’s keeping it in a Zip-Loc bag for security. We wouldn’t want that thing to get wet. I also like how she is holding a mini American flag in her hand, very much like the kind that the Rotary Club gives away for free at the Fourth of July parade in Marquette. That really hammers home the point that she is a REAL American. I am now considering carrying a mini-flag with me everywhere I go. This lady ‘wants her country back’ and she is going to yell shrill threats into a microphone until she gets her way. Unfortunately, the frightening sight and sound of this woman accompanied by the cries of agreement from the pitchfork-wielding villagers in the background is overshadowed by the terrifying nature of an impromptu Pledge of Allegiance in which nearly everyone feels peer pressured and/or shamed into participating.

It probably seems obvious to most people who really follow politics that these people can be disregarded. This is not likely to become a bigger issue, despite the fact that reporters still are bringing it up in the White House press room. The President will face many challenges in the coming years, but even the most hateful Republicans who vow to stop health care reform based primarily on the principle of making the Obama administration seem like a failure (how very American of you!) don’t give any credence to the Birthers. What bothers me most is the larger issue that this woman brings up but that no one mentions.

First, she claims that because Obama was born in Kenya that he isn’t a citizen. Even if these crazy people were right, being born there doesn’t mean he wouldn’t be a citizen now. He was, after all, born to an American woman regardless of what continent it happened on. She would have had to file some paperwork to register his birth with the U.S. Government, and poof, he is a citizen. Secondly, the ‘natural born citizen’ rule of becoming President seems outdated and unnecessary. In a few years Dave, in theory, could himself become a citizen of the U.S. And while it isn't likely that David with either become a citizen OR the President, it is highly probable that David and I will have children outside the U.S. And when that happens any hope they have of becoming President is gone. Even if we move back when they are two weeks old and live in the States forevermore, they could never aim higher than Secretary of State. In fact, my friends Liz and Abby have both recently birthed two very bright and adorable sons who are indeed Americans but who can never be the leader of the free world. Nell, a very responsible and civic minder person, is currently incubating a human who can never be called Commander in Chief.

The more you think of it, the less sense this rule makes. A child has no say where they are born. Furthermore, they have no recollection of the event let alone the geography. Additionally, a child who grows up abroad and eventually returns to the United States has a wider world view than even most adult Americans. Maybe it should be a requirement that you have been OUTSIDE the United States before you can become President.

Aside from the entertaining nature of this 'scandal', the bigger truth is that those reporting the news and those making the laws should have bigger fish to fry at this moment. Create some jobs, repair diplomatic relationships, end wars...you know, that kind of thing.

Lessons From Air-ee Paw-Tah

You already know how I feel about science fiction and fantasy as a genre, so you may not be surprised when I tell you that on a recent Tuesday night at 12:01am I lined up at the movie theater to see the newest Harry Potter movie at the very moment that it opened. You could tell my friends and I were excited as we walked to the theater and I made everyone within a 2 block radius feel embarrassed for me by yelling “Harry Potter” in an accent like “Air-eee Paw-tah” over and over again. I smuggled in some treats and purchased some popcorn and snuggled in between Kim and Scotti for over two and a half hours to get my fix. I won’t spoil it, but I’ll tell it was scary, and exciting and overall very entertaining and enjoyable. Purists say it wasn't close enough to the book, but I thought it did a great job of leading us into the final book/two movies of the series.

What I didn't realize until after I saw the film was that there is quite a controversy over Emma Watson's character Hermione Granger. Apparently some devotees feel that Hermione's physical appearance in the movies does not correspond with the way J.K. Rowling wrote her in the books. This sect of fans believe that Hermione should be dowdier, plainer and buck-toothier. Most importantly, her hair should be frizzier.

After reading these initial critiques, I took to the internet and did a bit of looking and I found that the cry for an uglier Hermione was met with an even more fanatical response by those who disagree. Entire message boards devoted many pages to this discourse. My favorite feminist website even devoted an interesting entry to this conundrum. I spent far longer than I would ever care to admit reading the arguments and the counter-arguments. I read cited passages from the book that seem to prove that J.K. Rowling herself wrote words that gradually brought Hermione out of her pre-teen awkward stage and saw pictures that show Emma Watson personifying that progression. At the end of this maze of mysticism, feminism, fanaticism and criticism I could only muster up two relatively clear thoughts.

1. What this argument really boils down to is our deeply ingrained societal law that leads us to believe that pretty and intelligent are mutually exclusive. The two can't exist in the same room let alone the same woman. Harry, despite being both described and theatrically portrayed as skinny and bespectacled with a facial disfigurement (ok, ok, it's a lightening bolt shaped scar that is mostly hidden by his man-bangs, but still), is considered both a hunky heart-throb and a wizarding genius. Hermione, on the other hand, has to be a non-threatening a-sexual counterpart to a couple of dudes who need her desperately to fix their problems with her superior intellect but don't notice her appearance until she wears a sexy dress to a party. Figures.

The irony of this controversy that surrounds this stereotype is that I sat through the sixth Harry Potter movie sandwiched between two women who embody what Hermione is being brought to represent. Kim and Scotti, both intelligent, educated, witty and well-read. Simultaneously, both total knock-outs when it comes to looks. Both a bit "nerdy" with a love for sci-fi and fantasy and an affinity for mathematics. Both know the importance of a bit of mascara and a properly fitting bra.

Without going back and re-reading all the books, I cast my vote for appreciating the way Hermione is portrayed, as an ingenious and awkward teen transforming into an intellectual and attractive woman. The 13-year old me could have used the reassurance that such a change is possible. The 28-year old me can use the reminder of my responsibility to girls now that I've come through the other side.

2. Why is it always about the hair? If you take time to read the message boards (don't do it, but just IF you did) you'd see that most of this controversy over her appearance centers around her hair. See, it was frizzy and unruly before. Then when it was smoothed and straightened for the ball the first time that Harry and Ron and the rest of Hogwarts really noticed her, she was suddenly pretty. The younger Hermione in the first movies had poofier, crazier hair. And according to all of the most learned Harry Potter fans, you can tell by the fact that her hair is smoother and more tamed in the later books/movies that she is growing up and becoming more beautiful.

Before--frizzy and allegedly not cute

After--smooth and pretty

You know, it's always the same with these people. The straighter, sleeker hair makes someone more polished, more pretty, more sophisticated. Some of us just don't have that choice, unless my stylist moved in with me. Let the girl have some big, kinky, crazy hair and a giant brain and STILL be the pretty one, that's what I call a role model.

Even The Homeless Get Homesick

If I had to name the most serious ailment that I suffer from, I'd say homesickness, hands down. Considering the transient and distant nature of our lives, this seems impossible. But I am here to tell you that while I am in recovery, you're never fully cured of homesickness.

When I was a kid, I was totally the type to agree to a sleepover at a friend's and then have to call my mom crying once the sleeping bags came out and do the walk of shame out to her mini-van when she came to pick me up. Eventually I smartened up and began to be sure extend a pre-emptive invite for all sleepovers. It may have coincidentally and accidentally made me and my parents seem really cool since I wanted friends to sleep over so often. But I was a coward. And my mom was sick of picking me up in the middle of the night.

As I grew up, I came to my senses enough to realize that both myself and my parents benefited from a night with us out of the house. But the idea of being away longer than a weekend was still daunting. My first ever planned trip to Europe was an exchange with German high school students. Basically, a bunch of my friends from German class and our one very lax and naive teacher, Herr Ahlers, took off the Germany for a month. No real supervision, a European attitude towards alcohol, cute boys who barely knew what I was saying. I signed up, hosted my German counterpart for a month and promptly pulled out of the deal very soon before our scheduled departure. My parents were shocked and, in retrospect, probably out a few bucks. My German teacher made a visit to my home and tried to reason with me auf Deutsch. But I just cried and shook my head and missed my chance at a fully funded, unsupervised trip to Europe. If that's not a sickness, I don't know what is.

A year later, after committing to go to school in Ann Arbor about 7 hours drive from my home, that familiar cold feet feeling. Obviously there was no way I could back out of this. I had been all talk about getting out of that one horse town and going to a prestigious school for years. Maybe even a decade. But I started getting ill over it, thinking of myself so far from my parents and my sister without a car and without friends and without a clue. I really gave myself no credit, but as soon as I got there and everything was unpacked into the asbetos-ish dorm room, the sickness faded and I made some of the greatest friends of my life. I didn't even move home the next summer.

As time passed and I became more accustomed to life outside of the Marquette-bubble, my homesickness became more of a seasonal chest cold and less of a terminal cancer. I made the most of my visits home, my family and friends came to see me when they could, I found my niche in each new environment. Now that it has become the norm to go nearly a year between visits back to the nest, I've developed some coping mechanisms. Denial is a big part of it. Skype helps. Emotional eating plays it's role. And a good cry on Dave's shoulder helps a bit.

But the thing is, no matter how long it's been (10 years) or how happy I am (very), the homesickness never quite goes away. Ironically, going home only seems to make it more acute at times, because as soon as I'm there I think I could never bear to leave. Our recent visit lasted 21 days before we redeparted for Canada. That's quite a long visit, and I'm going back in less than two weeks. But I still had to bond over pre-departure preparations with my dad, stay up extra late having a cuddle and a laugh with my mom the night before we left and then have a tear as we drove away. I'm a grown, married woman, and even as we left for my other home, I had to convince myself that having a mental breakdown is not warranted. I had to remind myself that I'll be leaving for even longer to an even farther and much more unknown destination soon.

With a dose of Dave and some the help of two highly trained therapeutic dogs, I made it out of the city limits and into my mother-in-law's basement. The symptoms have subsided for now.

Click And Clack Crack Me Up

This post is dedicated to Lynn Soon Small, who is a woman after my own heart in oh so many ways. And my dad, who I only roll my eyes at because I am him incarnate.

Let me tell you about my ideal Saturday. I get up early. I wake up slow. I take the dogs for a walk and take myself for a run. I drink chocolate Silk soy milk and eat Nutella on three-grain sourdough with a banana on the side. I put on a mumu, turn on the radio, tune it to NPR and listen to 'Car Talk.' Yes, 'Car Talk.'

For those of you who don't know, 'Car Talk' is, at least in theory, a call-in radio show for people seeking helpful advice on problems with their automobiles. Much like the title suggests. But in reality, it's much more than that. It's an hour of life lessons and comedy served up by two brothers who know almost everything about cars and plenty about everything else.

Most of my friends know I'm a regular listener of NPR's programming. Neal Conan and Robert Siegel could talk me to sleep every night of my life for the rest of my life and I'd be happy. I think Steve Inskeep is hot. 'Wait, Wait Don't Tell Me' makes life worth living. But 'Car Talk' is sort of my dirty little NPR secret. My affinity for public radio confirms my status as a nerd. And I embrace that. But 'Car Talk' pushes me into an entirely new realm, where book smarts meets automotive and vehicular knowledge and East Coast wise-cracking. Perhaps this just makes me MORE nerdy, but I like to think it gives me some points under 'practical' and 'street cred.' Regardless, I'm hooked.

This 'Car Talk' revelation might not be that shocking to most of my readers. But I know my dad is incredibly disoriented right now as he reads this. I have spent years, even decades, trying to show my father my disdain for Click and Clack. On Saturday mornings, while we ate breakfast around the kitchen counter, my dad would be guffawing at these nasally voices and wheezing laughs saying things like "what do you want to bet they say it's the alternator? what do you want to bet?" I would roll my eyes (it was my signature move indicating parental annoyance for most of the 1990's) and say something sarcastic and beg him to turn off the radio so that I could watch 'Star Trek: The Next Generation.' I was nerdy even back then.

But my dad didn't give in. And why should he? Beginning when he married my mother and continuing with more intensity each time a daughter was born, my dad has been gracefully taking into account of the needs of the women in his life. In other words, giving in. Not because he had to under threat of death or anything, but mostly because he is smart enough and kind enough to pick his battles. And looking back, I can see he really only chose a few. 'Car Talk', however, was one that he was not willing to let go of. The last bastion of his foothold in the Clark Castle. He endured an hour of heavy sighing and teenage whining and enjoyed his program over the din of it all. But here's the thing...

I was listening. And laughing. On the inside of course, only internal laughing would do when I was trying to get my angst across on the outside, it was the grunge era after all. But I liked the show. I liked the jokes, the Puzzler and even the advice about cars. I liked to listen to my dad laugh at Tom and Ray laughing at themselves. I was then and continue to be a terrible driver. And if you asked me what kind of car it was that rear-ended me I'd probably answer something like "blue with a Jesus fish thing stuck on it." I know very little of the ins or outs of cars. But that show taught me a thing or two, namely that I don't have to know everything about cars but I do have to know enough not to get screwed around with when getting mine fixed.

And so, it continues. When Dave first discovered this habit, he was highly annoyed. He couldn't believe I would make him listen to such dribble and just WHAT was I laughing at so hard...and suddenly he was hooked, too. He hears what I hear: two men who love each other, their own jokes and cars. Somehow they have combined those loves into a career and a cult-following that makes us all envious of those who can make money doing something they would probably do for free anyway. And in addition to all the technical vernacular, I'm sure that's what my dad loves as well.

Next Saturday morning think of me, holding my tea, laughing out loud, trying to think up a problem that would be worthy of calling and asking the Car Talk brothers. Think of my dad, holding his coffee, laughing out loud, trying to think of the answer to the problems of the callers to one-up the Car Talk brothers. At that moment, on Saturday morning, the universe is in balance. Or as close as it can get.

I Love Yoop

Everyone has a certain fondness for their hometown, the setting of their childhood, the haunts of their formative years. We all take pride in our regional affiliations, New Yorkers think it's the only city in the world, people in L.A. think the west coast is where it's at, people from Toronto think Canada ends at the edge of the T-dot suburbs, and British Columbians believe all other areas of the universe are hellish dungeons. Yoopers (people from the Upper Peninsula of Michigan) believe, scratch that, know that all the bits of Michigan south of the Mackinac bridge are rather useless. But for people from this slightly rabbit-shaped slice of heaven it's more than just bragging rights. Yoopers share a culture, a mindset, a lifestyle that brings us together even when we leave home. If you go to most major cities in the U.S., you'll find groups of us huddled together in shady bars. When we introduce ourselves, we subtly remind you we aren't from the mitten-shaped part of Michigan so please don't ask us to point to your hand because you can't find us on that map. Maybe what draws us so closely together is that unlike east vs. west rivalries or tensions that run along the Mason-Dixon line, our regional pride isn't in competition with anyone. Sure, we belong on one peninsula of a two-peninsula state. But even that doesn't put us in a contenst of northern vs. southern Michigan because a) they don't give a rat's ass about us and b) we know we have won by making them think they don't want to be up here.

I remember once my sister brought a friend to visit the U.P. for the first time. We were walking down the street on his first morning here when, after only a block or two, the friend stopped us and said “I know this is a small town, but this is ridiculous! How can you know ALL these people?” We didn’t know them, or at least not all of them. But here it’s normal to greet someone you pass on the sidewalk with hello/good morning/how are you today and while you’re at it, hold the door open for someone who is coming into a store behind you. Manners are important, but in the heart of a Yooper you’ll find more than that.

Here you find people who continue to thrive through very cold, very snowy, very long winters as though it is a just form of payment for the other three abbreviated but glorious seasons. In fact, up until May most Yoopers are complaining when there isn't enough snow. The weather here may be considered a drawback by outsiders, but natives know that the blinding blue sky in winter that brings the below-zero temperatures is the same sky that brings the glorious sunny days of summer. We understand that the weather in our climate makes this place unlivable for some, and for that reason we don't complain too much even in the longest winter because we fear overpopulation. We love snowsuits and long underwear as much as we love swimsuits and flip flops and we'll find a way outside regardless of the forecast.

We're people of the earth, and we like to glide, ride or stomp over the ground to commune with nature as often as we can. Some teenagers rely on parties at the home of a absent parent, but Yoopers simply take to the woods with tents, four-wheel drive vehicles and Boone's Farm or Pabst Blue Ribbon. We don't really mind being dirty or cold just as long as we're together on a beach/boat/porch/moutain sharing some stories and some spirits. And when the rest of the state making fun of us like we are hicks who just hunt and fish and say 'eh' while wearing camoflague vests while we ride snowmobiles to work, we take it with a grain of salt an often add our own punchlines. Because ultimately, the joke isn't on us.

We believe in the power of where we're from. Serendipity has made it so we were born in a small town with open minds. Big water, infinite trees, higher education and sophisticated medical treatment. Speed limits never to exceed 55 miles per hour. Hundreds of miles from a Gap or an Abercrombie or a Chili's, despite the invasion of Target and Walmart and Applebee's, our home seems to spawn a more original and interesting people than other parts of the country. For many people, a visit home means to visit those they love. And while most of us make the pilgrimage from where life has brought us back to where we came from in part to wrap our arms around those we love, none of us would deny that we also come to touch the water, smell the air and sit on the ground of a place that is as just as a part of who we are as any person ever could be.

Dangerous Crossings

Over the years Dave and I have crossed many international borders together. Most frequently and most obviously, the United States-Canada border. And when we head towards the glorious wheat-city of Brandon, Manitoba, we usually cross at the most geographically convenient spot also known as the International Peace Garden along the border of North Dakota. As Caitlin or Abby or Liz or Nell could tell you, sometimes getting past immigration officials, even when you are totally legit, is a bit tricky.

For the first couple years of our marriage, we weren't full-time residents of either of our native countries. We weren't full-time residents anywhere, so this made answering questions about our permanent residence a tad confusing. And when I say confusing, I mean terrifying. Various border agents at various times have made us very nearly shit ourselves with their thinly veiled threats. I fully realize they have a job to do, but I also have to believe that we are in no way the biggest immigration concern. Regardless, we made all kinds of effort to avoid these stressful encounters. We traveled separately, had friends drive Dave across the border, and pretended now to know each other in line at the airport. And crossing at the Peace Gardens involves the most elaborate of planning, since they seem to have too many staff and too few vehicles rolling through.

Thinking and planning these palm sweat soaked crossings was exhausting, but several months ago we filled out thousands of papers (not literally) and paid thousands of dollars (literally) to make this process so much easier.

Dave got his green card. Which isn't green and is actually called his Permanent Resident Card. And no, this does not make him an American, but he is a Permanent Resident Alien. He has the right to work and reside here for the foreseeable future. In 2019 we will have to fill out more paper and pay more money to continue this hullabaloo, but I am banishing it from my mind until then. And so, as we returned from Canada to the United States this week all my fears were assuaged. I knew we would breeze through by simply flashing our passports, that magical card and my endearing smile. So you must imagine my surprise when, after nearly an hour inside the customs/immigration building while my car was emptied and searched and my dogs were tied to a post where I couldn't even see them, I was still being asked questions like this:

Officer of Customs and Immigration Law: "Do you have any tobacco products?"
Lane and Dave: "No."
Officer: "None?"
Lane and Dave: "None."
Officer: "You don't smoke?"
Lane and Dave: "No."
Officer: "Really? No pipes? No papers? Nothing at all? Nothing?"
Lane and Dave: "No?"
Officer: raises eyebrows skeptically

By the end of that line of questioning, I was actually confused. Do I smoke? Did I buy a carton of cigarettes on some kind of sleepwalking excursion? And the Tobacco Inquisition of 2009 is only one example of what that 90 minutes held for us.

Now of course I realize that these people have a job to do. I get that. But at the border crossing between Bossevian, MB and Dunseith, ND there isn't a whole lot happening. It's not like crossing at a major city or through an airport hub. Others who crossed (without inquiry or search, I might add) while we waited included elderly people in a Lincoln, families in campers and a semi-truck full of giant hogs. We didn't carry any booze, our dogs have more papers than most humans to document vaccinations and I did not pack citrus fruit in my lunch. I've had one too many orange confiscated, I don't play that game. And yet still, there we sat, under suspicion and adding moments to our 9 hour journey.

When we were finally allowed to return to our car, we found it in a state of disarray. I have inherited my packing sense from my father. Packing a trunk is like a game of Tetris, and these border guards clearly never owned a Game Boy. Everything they couldn't fit sat on a very surgical looking stainless steel table and several guards wearing rubber gloves and wielding high powered flashlights watched with what I can only describe as bemusement as we repacked the car and reunited with the dogs.

We drove away, silent at first as we sulked about the time lost. Then laughing, more like nervous giggles, at the irony that our first search after getting the green card was the most aggressive yet. Then, not laughing anymore, we searched the atlas for an alternate point of crossing next year.