I was in the gas station a couple of weeks ago, purchasing something or another that required ID to prove that I wasn’t under 18. A lighter? A Lotto Ticket? I don’t exactly recall. I do recall this, however.
Straight-Faced Lady Behind The Counter: “Can I see some ID?”
(rifles through bag)
Lady Behind The Counter: (inspects the ID thoroughly for a good minute or five)
Me: (confused) “…”
(aside: I am not ALWAYS confused. Just normally).
Sea-Hag Lady Behind The Counter (suspiciously): “Your license is EXPIRED.”
Me: “Uh, no it’s not.”
Lady With A Face Like A Melting Candle Behind The Counter: “YES IT IS.”
Me: “Turn it over.”
(in Illinois, safe drivers get a sticker to put on the back of their cards to renew it) (we all know I’m Captain Motherfucking Safety)
Sea Hag (even more suspiciously): “Well, the picture doesn’t look ANYTHING like you.”
Me: “Okay. Since when do license pictures EVER look like you? In my last one, I looked like a dude.”
Sea Hag (tries to stare me down): “Is this REALLY you?”
Me (OMFG): “YES. Like I would pretend to be a thirty-year old to get a lighter.”
Grumbling, she did ring me up, her eyes wide once I whipped out my Big Girl Credit Card.
I walked out of there, giggling. Who would voluntarily PRETEND to be me?
Now is the time on the blog when we LINK!
My friend wrote the most amazing story about Amelia. I’d love it if you gave it a peek. (she made me cry)(I love her for it)
I wrote on CafeMom about being excluded from the Mommy Clique.
And again about Barely Surviving The Plague.