My American Life

Take your best shot

Times change. Now that I have that cliché out of the way … Back in the day, we had to get accredited to take a camera into a concert. We’d wear our dorky press passes around our necks and lug any amount of gear into the arena, entering through a door reserved for VIPs.

It’s time for a chowdown!

The first frost is coming. Soon. Yet my garden is teeming with tomatoes. Some are red, a lot are still green. It’s been a kick not having to buy certain vegetables for the past couple of months: zucchini, tomatoes, cucumbers, beets, carrots, chard, lettuce … and herbs, so many herbs!

Digging deep

I am in a rut. And it’s deep. Oh boy, is it deep. This is not a personal-life rut. No, in fact, today is the six-month anniversary of the day I married My American. We said our vows in front of a handful of friends, pledging to hold each other’s hand along this journey called …

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Today is my last day driving for a couple weeks. My B.C. registration and insurance expire at midnight, and I’m not ready to be a full Washingtonian just yet. Oh, I’m ready ready but I don’t have all my ducks in a row, which feels strange for me. I went to the local SSA office …

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A new definition

I’m already starting to struggle. It isn’t my new hometown, although that brings with a collection of challenges. It isn’t sharing residential space with my soon-to-be husband. I am not allowed to work. No job, no freelance contracts, no contentcheap labour farms. I am not allowed to work. Say that out loud, slowly. Not. Allowed. …

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Breathing deeply

Did January even happen? One day, I woke up and it was February. And here I am, living south of the 49th and fully ensconced in My American’s house in Spokane, Wash. With a deadline of April 25 to get married.