Wednesday

I have found something more confusing and daunting than quantum physics:
United States Immigration Law.
Having read an eye swelling assortment of websites, links and links to links, I have determined a few absolutes:
1. Either the Canuck or I need to be millionaires
2. She needs to record a platinum CD on an American record label
3. She needs to earn an immediate medical doctor or registered nursing degree
4. I need to turn my little business into a multinational corporation with NAFTA ties
5. We need to befriend an altruistic immigration attorney who will trade legal work for haiku
6. She needs to learn the business of restaurant table bussing or domestic labor
7. One of us needs a sex change operation
8. I need photos of an influential politician screwing a chicken or sheep
9. My sister needs to switch her law practice to immigration and be nicer to me
10. I need to start watching hockey, drinking copious amounts of beer and ending every sentence with "ey?"

If we could just accomplish one or two of the above, we'd be on easy street.
Leave it to me to fall in love with a gol-dern foreigner.
All I know is this house is not as fun with her being gone. The bedroom no longer smells like a warm pastry cart.
The bathroom looks empty without 75 jars, tubes and bottles of mysterious girly potions.
The cats are constipated, no longer having the thrill of making her squeamish after depositing their stinky kitty tootsie rolls.
Nope, this ain't fun at all.