I have to tell you all, I've never been so stressed about writing something ever in my life. Not writing a story about Steve Mariucci, Garrison Hearst or any other handful of professional athletes and coaches that I've dealt with in my life. This guest blogging thing is quite stressful.
Jennie did an awesome job yesterday. And now I have to follow in her footsteps. On top of that, she was supposed to give me an idea about what to write. Seeing as my mind was as empty as Britney Spears' underwear drawer.
So then she went and wrote about fabulous vacations. On her honeymoon. And I'm all "well, just great. Because I have neither a husband or go on fabulous vacations." Because all my vacations involve drinking so much I don't remember them. Nor do I take photos. Because that will really deter my efforts for running for public office one day. Not really. The drunk photographs on my blog have sealed my fate there.
And while I think I am fabulous and all but DEMANDED that Katie select me for this guest blogging thing, my readers don't expect much. Because my mom is basically the only one that reads it. And she's a nice mom. And tells me everything I do is good. Even when I tuck my skirt into my underwear. On those occasions she tells me that I embarrass myself better than anyone else has ever embarrassed themselves. And then my mom thanks all that is good and holy that her daughter isn't Britney and is actually wearing underwear to tuck her skirt into.
(Dude, what's with the two Britney references? I should really watch more CNN and less TMZ.)
So instead, I must regale you with a fabulous tale from my youth. Because that's all I have. And it involves drinking. And Katie would expect nothing less from me.
My birthday is in September. (It's September 14. And I'm always willing to accept gifts. So please, Le Petit Chic readers, mark it on your calendars. I'm not too proud to pimp myself out on other blogs.) Anyway, with a late birthday, I was always the last to celebrate momentous birthdays. Last one to become a teenager, last one to get my driver's license and last of a group to turn 21, the legal drinking age in this lovely country of ours.
On top of this, I worked with a lot of people who were older than me when I was in college. And when I say older, I mean they were all able to drink the sauce. And I? Was a thousand kinds of jealous. It tastes so good once it touches your lips.
I finally decided that I? Must have a fake ID. And I was going to go about it the best way. I wasn't going to find someone who looked like me. One, because I was fat and six-feet tall and looked like I was 12.
No. I decided that I was going give a big middle finger to the Department of Motor Vehicles and go down there with all the proper paperwork, albeit for someone who wasn't me, and get myself an Arizona state ID card.
Around this time, my brother was engaged to my now-sister-in-law. In an act that I can only think was desperation to please her future sister-in-law, she gave me her birth certificate and social security card. So I took it and ran! And I marched my fat, happy ass down to the DMV.
Turns out, though, those two forms aren't enough. I needed something with a signature. No, not something with a picture. Because that would make the most sense. Just another form of ID with a name and a signature. Like a credit card. I made some lame excuse about losing my wallet and that I would need to come back when I found something at home. And I'm sure I looked guilty as sin.
(Side note, is it any wonder terrorists have such an easy time getting identification in this country?)
So I frantically called Kim, my brother's betrothed. She said she had a credit card she had no intention of activating, and I could have it. So she mailed it to me, I signed the back NOT as myself, and marched my determined ass back to that DMV.
I got in line and filled out the necessary paperwork. Or something. All I remember is that I was so nervous I wanted to wet my pants and tell everyone next to me that I was BREAKING THE LAW! Me! The perfect student who didn't even drink until college! In your FACE DMV!
As I was patiently waiting my turn and twitching nervously, the power went out. At the DMV. With hundreds of people waiting. Hundreds of people who were already pissed off about waiting eons at the DMV.
God was apparently looking out for me and had pity on my social life that would suffer as I waited months, long, dry months, after the rest of my friends were all 21 and enjoying the lovely libations at Fat Tuesday on Mill Avenue. Because this power outage put a fire under the ass of the DMV employees. Once the power was back on, they shuffled people in and out as fast as possible. I don't think the woman even looked up from her paper when I got to the front of the line. And thank gawd because my face was redder than an Irish drunk's. And that eye twitch can be quite a tell.
So I got up there, took three times to sign my name correctly in the little box they gave me, and prepared to have my photo taken. To commence with the drinking. I had the biggest shit eating grin on my cherry-red face. And Arizona is none the wiser.
Although my sister-in-law can now never move to Arizona without raising a few eyebrows.
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Well, lovely readers, thank you for having me! It was fun. So, if you wouldn't mind, please go on and tell me all sorts of lovely things about me and my post. Because my fragile ego can't take mean things. And Katie would not approve.
I'm Kristabella and you can find me here, if you'd like to stop on over and say nice things there too. My mom would really appreciate it. Her blowing sunshine up my ass can be tiring work and sometimes she'd just like a little break.
