So here’s something – you can’t just waltz into Canada without a passport anymore.
On Sunday, which was our last weekend day in Michigan before we head back to Colorado for a couple of days to vote, we decided on the spur of the moment to run up to Canada, eat some lunch, and get some weird Canadian money.
I may have told my kids that Canadians are very much like Americans, except they have three eyes and that I don’t want them to be rude and stare.
(I love Canadians. I have very warm feelings for Canadians. Don’t be offended. I like to harass my kids. They are gullible.)
At the border, the not-unattractive Border Agent asked for our passports. I said, “oh. I don’t have one, all I have is an American Driver’s License,” and he’s all, “what about your birth certificate?” and I said, “I keep those at home in a safe-deposit box like a normal person” except without that last part. Who carries around their birth certificate?
Anyway, he let us in eventually, after I assured him that I had been to Canada before and hadn’t started hardly any international incidents. I also promised to only darken Canada’s doorstep for only two hours.
We discovered there are ZERO businesses open on Sunday in Sault Ste. Marie.
We found a Wendy’s, had some “oh my gosh mom, Canadian food tastes GOOD” chicken strips, hit the duty-free store, and headed back home.
The American Border Agent raised his eyebrows when I told him we didn’t have passports. I explained that The Other Guy had let us in without them, but I could see that wasn’t the right answer. I copped to being born in California, remembered my date of birth, and rolled down the windows so he could peer at my children. I mentally reviewed everything I know about American football, and was preparing to disavow any knowledge of hockey when he decided to let us in.
The minute we got back in the country, Big accused me of lying about the three eyes.
But the Border Agent had not removed his sunglasses. So who knows?