9 surprisingly painful things about living in the United States as a Canadian
Sometimes, it comes down to the little things đšđŠ đșđž.
Canadian girl takes depressed selfie: Right: Americna border crossing.
I've lived in America for almost a decade now, which is a scary sentence to write for a number of reasons, but mostly because you'd think by now I'd have gotten used to it.
And for the most part, I have. But then there are some strange and funny reminders that I really have not, in many ways.
Now look â there are obviously some very real and obvious challenges that come with moving from Canada to the U.S. â but we're not talking about those today. I don't have the emotional bandwidth, and you probably don't either. That's another article for another day.
Right now, I'm talking about the surprising little things that you probably wouldn't think of. Funny and somewhat inconsequential observations that come about just from driving across the border. These aren't the big topics, but the little inconveniences that somehow have the power to send you over the edge (along with all the other things).
These are the things that make me stop, ten years later, and think: Oh, right. I'm Canadian.
Apparently, you can take the girl out of Canada, but you cannot make her postal code work in an online form.
Finding random loonies and toonies when you're looking for change
I've lived in the US for ten years. TEN YEARS. And I still randomly find a loonie or toonie in my car's center console when I least expect it.
Does it work in the parking meter? No. Has it ever worked in the parking meter? Also no.
Do I still try it every single time?
Obviously.
Having your driver's license treated like a fake ID
As a teenager who spent many snowy Saturday nights outside the LCBO and BCL looking for a "boot," I can assure you: I do not look underage. But whenever I try to get into a bar and I see the eyebrow raise and that black light come out, I know we're in for a conversation.
And the conversation normally goes something like this:
"Columbia, hey?"
"British Columbia."
"Are you British or Colombian?"
"I'm Canadian."
"Sure you are. Full name, address and star sign."
Our postal codes not being recognized
There is quite literally nothing worse than trying to punch in your postal code to verify your card and realizing the machine will only allow you to enter five numbers.
Literally nothing.
Okay, maybe a few things. But I'm not trying to get political right now, guys. That's not what we're here for. We're here to complain about stupid sh*t and act like it's the end of the world.
I've kept my Canadian BMO debit card because, for whatever reason, I like using it. Unfortunately, if you're a Canadian who lives in America â or even one who's driven across it â you know Canadian cards have an arch-nemesis: the pay-at-the-pump machine.
YOUR A** HAS GOTTA GO INSIDE.
And somehow, it's always when you're already running 10 minutes late and have been driving with the gas light on for the last 10 miles.
The streaming services that haven't gotten their sh*t together
As soon as I cross the border back home, I get charged $0.50 for texts, and Hulu ghosts me. So does her hot friend, HBO Max.
Suddenly â like every side chick ever â when I need them most, the streaming services I've been paying for every month act as if they've never seen me before in their lives.
And before any Canadians come for me: No. Crave is not the same as HBO Max. That's the Stockholm syndrome talking.
Everyone thinking you can't spell
I've been a professional writer for most of my adult life, and yet, according to every American I've encountered via text, I still don't know how to spell.
Colour. Favourite. Neighbour. Centre.
Red line. Red line. Red line. Red line.
Me: "Wanna go to the theatre tonight?"
Them: "It's spelled theater."
Me: "Oh my bad, Akeelah and the Bee â can you spell Free Health Care?"
Hearing the same two jokes every time you say you're Canadian
Telling someone I'm Canadian used to get me, "Oh, I love Canada!" Now it gets me one of two responses:
"So, how do you feel about becoming the 51st state?"
Or:
"I'm moving to Canada."
No, you're not.
Nobody is moving to Canada. Nobody has even looked at an apartment.
They really do ask you to say "about"
All the time.
They love to hear us say it in our little accents. They can't get enough.
But I'm a man of the people, and I give them what they want. I'll even throw in a "sorry" if I'm feeling generous. It will have them ON THE FLOOR.
E-Transfer v. Venmo turf war
E-Transfer might be the thing I miss most about Canada.
Someone owes you $50? E-Transfer. Your mom wants to send you birthday money? E-Transfer. You need to move money between accounts? E-Transfer.
Until you move to America.
Now, if someone in Canada wants to send me $50, suddenly we're discussing international wire transfers.
Never knowing what to do with my grandma's Christmas money
Deep cut, but over the last decade, I've slowly accumulated a small collection of Canadian bills from my grandma that I just don't have the will to take to a currency exchange and convert.
Every Christmas, I get another $50 or $100. Every Christmas, I think, I'll exchange all of this when I get home.
I never do.
At this point, my inheritance is in a Ziploc sandwich bag behind the toilet tank.
The opinions expressed in this article are the author's own and do not necessarily reflect the views of Narcity Media.