Coming To America.

After eight years of looking like Americans, working like Americans, and paying our taxes like all the rest of you Americans, we finally have the very official-sounding status of Permanent Residents! We have ARRIVED, my friends (aside: wasn't Coming To America just the best movie evah? "But where in New York can one find a woman with grace, elegance, taste and culture? A woman suitable for a king? QUEENS!")!

Behold, my Fancy-Schmancy Uber-Terrific Ultra-Deluxe Green Card Extraordinaire (with accompanying booklet that helps me settle into my "new" home of nearly a decade. Hilarious.):

 

We're from Canada, so it's not like we had much of an adjustment to go through when we moved here back in 2002 (Just two weeks after we got married! How young and naive we were then!). We only gave up a few immaterial things, like socialized healthcare, simple and drama-free public education, marriage equality, gun control, and kick-ass parental leave. Oh, and Celine Dion. That last one hurts the most. 

We have to carry our Green Cards ON OUR PERSON AT ALL TIMES OR ELSE, and the lovely government officials over at the Department of Homeland Security were kind enough to provide a protective sleeve to keep our cards glistening. Or at least that's what we thought they were for:

You know how when you're a little kid and your mom tells you not to never ever upon pain of death stare at your uncle's wandering left eyeball? And then all you can do when you see that uncle is anything but? "Hi, uncle EYEBALL, I mean - I haven't seen you in EYEBALL - uh, so the weather...EYEBALL EYEBALL EYEBALL."

Yeah, that.

I didn't even know that my uber-fancy Green Card extraordnaire could communicate. I wonder what would happen if I tried to hold it up to my ear like a seashell...would I hear it whispering secrets? EYEBALL EYEBALL EYEBALL. 

Is there like, an app for that?