The first time I noticed it was on vacation. One maple leaf on a bag, cool. Two, three, seven, ten, maple leaves and then it hits you. The message isn't: I'm Canadian. It's: I'm not from the US.
Armed with subtext, I was indignant! I returned to home where I'd prance around like Homer Simpson shouting:
"Oooh, look at me. I'm Canadian. I have socialized health care and a low crime rate!"
"Ooooh, check me out, I'm from someplace pretty and clean!"
Okay, so it was faux indignation. And it was quite easy for me to tap into. I was living in San Francisco at the time. San Franciscans feel the same way about people (like me) from Los Angeles as Canucks do about Uncle Sam. It's sort of like, "We're cousins but I wish we weren't because you're a moron and more popular than me."
Flash forward some years and guess what happens? I fell madly in love with a Canadian. After he married this popular moron, I told him once we buy a place, he can hang a Canadian flag in front. If you can't beat 'em...
Now that I'm forever linked to the Great White North, I get to regularly enjoy wonderful things such as smoked meat, Propeller Lager, the Amherst Shore, loonies, toonies, and Patrick Watson and the Wooden Arms. This Polaris Prize winning band from Montreal are playing a bunch of dates in the US and if you care to be mesmerized, check them out, okay?
Have a Leafy Weekend!