The husband and I took a trip across the border - no, not to Taco Bell. Across an actual border between the US and Canada. Times have certainly changed, in that when we used to cross the border, we only needed . . . nothing, really. Now, we have to be sure to bring our passports, which, I think, is the reason that EVERY SINGLE TIME WE COME BACK TO THIS COUNTRY, the border guards search our car.
Because my passport photo makes me look like a member of the Gambino Crime Family. And not like some widow or stripper or even a low level prostitute. No. I look like a MALE member of the Gambino Crime Family. And for some weird reason, that was the best photo we could get when we went to get our passports. Seriously. I have no idea the confluence of events that occurred when we went to take our photos at the post office, but the poor lady kept retaking my photos because for some reason a photo ghost/poltergeist/monster kept making me look . . . unstable . . . or as if I had no discernable eyes . . . or just weird. So, instead, I look like some vaguely sweaty, oily, man's mug shot. To the point where, you know how when you send in two photos with your passport application and then they send you back your passport and extra photo? THEY KEPT MY OTHER PHOTO.
Which I think they made copies of and distributed to every border crossing so that when I venture outside this country, on my way back in I am sure to be stopped and my trunk inspected [and NOT IN THE GOOD LL COOL J WAY], so that the husband and I are sitting in the car, listening to a strange man root around in the detritus of our lives ["Oh, that must be the bag of books I keep forgetting to donate to the library" and "Shit, is that the pile of reusable grocery bags? Why is he rooting around in there? So he can shame me about the onion skins that have been floating around in there for about 2 years?"] wondering if this is the time they are going to bust us for trying to bring back some cooked chicken that my relatives foisted on us.
It is exhausting being me.