Getting caught up in the letter, rather than the spirit of the law

There is nothing better than being I.D.'d on a trip to the supermarket.

"You want to see my I.D.? That's the nicest thing anyone has said to me all day."

Until you forget your I.D. at home, you are at the liquor store because it will fit into the 7 seconds available today and you are getting ready for a party of 50 to celebrate your friends getting engaged.

Clerk: Can I see I.D.?
K: (while searching through the wallet) Uh, no. I don't have it.
C: Well I can't sell you anything if you don't have I.D.

You can only imagine how ugly this is about to get.

K: Isn't it your policy to I.D. under 30?
C: That's why I'm I.D.-ing you.
K: I am (insert age that passed 30). I was born in (insert year that is not 1976).
C: (with a head shake) Well you look under 30 to me.
K: Uh, yeah, no I don't.
C: You do to me.
K: Let's try a little realism then. Do you think I look under 21?
C: I think you look under 30.
K: Last time I checked, I have to be over 21. My I.D. isn't to prove that I am over 30.
C: Well once I ask, I can't sell unless you show me I.D.
K: You are joking right. Cause there couldn't be anything more asinine than not letting me purchase ORANGE VODKA and HYPNOTIQ because you think I might be under 30. Not that I'm under 21, but under 30. It's not like I'm buying a case of Busch Light Draft and I'm paying with change. I'm buying the ingredients for a Reserve Red Ruby Martini. That I am serving at an engagement party for 50.

I haven't been this mad since they cancelled "V" What a bitch.

Probably not what the girl bargained for

This morning my husband was filling out a recommendation form for a girl that took his class last semester. He mentioned that she was apparently trying to get into a study abroad program in London and she asked for a recommendation from him.

K: What's the program?
D: Hell if I know. This form is bullshit.
K: Does she realize that she has put her life/future in the hands of a total slacker?
D: This form even asks about her proficiency in English.
K: Do you even remember who she was from last semester?
D: I think so.
K: Is she a native English speaker? (a valid question for his class)
D: She's American.
K: Then why are you bitching about about the proficiency question?
D: I think I am going to write that she has excellent American English skills.
K: Why do you have to solidify Britain's poor opinion of us?
D: How do you spell "cultural?"
K: Oh Lord.
D: How do you spell "receive?"

This girl isn't gonna even be able to get into an MTV Spring Break party at this rate.

At least he'll have legroom and free drinks as he watches the baby

D called today with the news that his flight got ticketed and he managed to use his miles to upgrade to First Class (note the capitals--first class doesn't look as good as First Class) so he'll be joining us "up front" on our trip to Hawaii next week. I had already booked my First Class ticket on miles (his miles--that's why I married him) but his ticket is courtesy of the federal government and thus requires ticketing 20 minutes before departure and that he be seated in the middle seat on the last row right next to the lav.

After I booked my ticket, he said, "You booked a First Class ticket on my miles? You didn't even try for a Business Class seat? You went right to First? Was Economy available?" Apparently his memory is short regarding our last flight with The Boy. I'm going to need all the free cocktails I can get and please keep them coming.

I was going to feel so bad for him if he was stuck in peasant class with the baby while I was sipping cham-pag-ne in First Class. Now we get to be one big happy family. However this has presented me with a dilemma. If my husband is sitting beside me on the plane, it forecloses all hope that this man will be sitting beside me in 1B. Damn.

I hope the supermarket isn't my Magic 8 ball

It all started when the old lady in the produce section said to E, "aren't you so adorable" and then leaned over to me and said, "you are going to be fighting off the girls with a broomstick."

Was that a reference to me being a witch?

Then it happened again in front of the meat counter. We were approached by a 60-ish woman sporting the exact same bouffant hairstyle she wore to her senior prom in 1959. She went on and on about E's eyes, blah, blah, blah. She was telling him she loved him and was kissing his forehead. I know I should have been concerned but I figured that between the e coli and salmonella on the surface of the cart handle that he was sucking on and the afternoon at the rotavirus infested pediatrician's office, what the hell could this woman give him? And then the conversation went haywire...

Bouffant: Look at how long your fingers are...maybe you'll be a piano player. Wouldn't that be nice? You could be just like that Liberace.

She hesitated long enough for me to envision E, fastforwarded 50 years, wearing blue eyeshadow, pink lipstick and a full length fur coat.

Bouffant: But you don't have to be a faggot like him. You can just be a good piano player.

I looked across the meat counter in time to see the guy behind it double over and hide behind the counter in order to block anyone from seeing the hysteria that descended upon him.

K: OK, we need to keep shopping. It was lovely talking to you.

Sometimes it is just nicer to lie.

When I relayed this story to my husband, he took a twist that really could, once again, only come from a man.

D: I don't want him to be gay, but if he is, I sure hope he has better taste than Liberace.

Lord, help me.