If you’re reading this post on Wednesday, CONGRATULATIONS!  It’s Canada Day!  (If you’re reading it a bit early on Tuesday night, go ahead and stop.  Just come back tomorrow.  Or stay.  Either way works for me.  I’m not bossy, right?  Say I’m not bossy.  SAY IT!  All RIGHT, then.)

In honour of Canada’s 142nd birthday, I would like to recognise this song (wait at least 10 seconds before you shut it off—it gets better {I’m not bossy}), because nothing gets me in the mood for a national holiday like a good, old-fashioned rap:

My favourite line:

Our national mascot’s a d@mn beaver, oh Canada, we love our beaver! He rhymed beaver with beaver, and I’m kicking myself for not thinking of it first.

I mean, how can this song not make you smile?  Plus, the horrible singing of the national anthem at the beginning and end of rap—that’s just endearing.

Also, I have a few things to say to this country that is not my own but has graciously let me marry one of its citizens…

Dear Canada,

First of all, happy birthday, you son of a gun!  One hundred forty-two—eight more years and you’ll be one fifty, and that’s when the party can really begin.

I’d like to thank you for letting me live here, despite the fact that I’m an American by birth.  I know it’s hard for you, letting me across your border when you think I don’t respect you, but really, I do.  Respect you, that is, and I appreciate the fact that you’ve allowed me to live here so graciously.  (Although that one immigration officer in Calgary could have been a little sweeter, but he was probably just having an off day.  All’s well, eh?)  Actually, come to think of it, you haven’t really been gracious at all—I sort of get the feeling you think I’m beneath you or something.  I mean, making me jump through all these ridiculous legal hoops just so I can work here, and subsequently pay taxes to your government?  That’s just rude.  Canada, I’m an honest tax payer—I’ll pay!  I promise.

Plus, my status as an international student has caused me a lot of heartache—paying $1,000 per class, Canada?  Just to get my dadgum English degree?  Is that really necessary?

Ah, well, I’m sure that’s just the way things go.  It’s probably not your fault so much as it is the university’s, but if I could just become a legal resident…  Think about it, will ya, Canada?

I don’t mean to be only negative.  It’s your birthday, after all.  Oh, I know!  Thank you so much for the generous tax rebate you gave to Poor Kyle this year—we’re going to wait until your money is on par with the U.S. dollar, and pay off Tamra Camry!  What a great feeling that will be…now, if only she was still running.  Too bad your icy roads made me wreck her this winter.  She hasn’t seen the light of day since February, poor thing.

And what’s with that, anyway, Canada?  I mean, winter this year?  Were you for real?

That was totally absurd.  It nearly made me lose my mind, going so many days driving soooooo slow down those snow-packed highways.  Even in Thor, it wasn’t any fun.  I actually yelled at you kind of a lot because of it.  Sorry ’bout that.

I will admit, though, that you made up for winter with a glorious summer.  Just don’t let that snowy nonsense happen again, okay?

Another good thing about you is your willingness to pay me for recycled cans, since I can’t legally work for my money any other way.  That’s quite thoughtful, really.  I’m becoming one of those crazy bag ladies who wanders the street with a garbage sack, searching for cans (ten cents a piece!) under trees and rocks.  So thanks.

Anyway, the point is, even if you are a frigid country who doesn’t like me much, I still like you.  At least, I like you enough to wish you happy birthday.  Happy birthday.

Sincerely,

Camille