Who's That Girl

Hey-Ho, Reader! I've been gone for what seems like months, when in fact it was only half a month. Which is a really really long time to be away from home for me, by the way. Even while I was off doing Fun Things, it was still a long time gone. 

I'm spending the day making to-do lists, laundry, unpacking, making appointments and doing general catching-up shenanigans. In between all that, I thought I'd share a few words with you here because you've missed me. Don't try to deny it, I know you have.  At least that's what I'll tell myself so I don't hurt my own feelings. 

And because you've missed me so much, Reader, I'm sharing a somewhat embarrassing little tale with you here today. Consider it your vacation souvenir, only you don't have to put a ten-cent sticker on it and try to sell it in a garage sale two years from now.  

This is not the story about how my skirt rode completely up past my undies in the bar while on vacation, and no one had any common decency to pull it down, instead they just took a picture of it (at my drunken insistence, but still, they suck as a wingman or whatever a skirt-puller-downer would be called). That's not the story or photo I'm sharing with you here. You're welcome (for skipping that photo, which is a little horrifying rather than titillating). 

This story happened yesterday evening. After traveling for half a month. And having an erratic sleep pattern, consuming mucho alcohol, wearing not enough sunscreen on my frecklie-face, and was in the heat just long enough to convince myself I looked fine without make up. Because the heat fried my common sense. 

Reader, I do not have a wash-and-go face. My face is a face that benefits from a little attention. My hair, too. 

Because last night while going through security at Orlando International Airport, the TSA guy spent a longer-than-usual amount of time looking at my passport and boarding pass. 

I thought maybe he was in love with me and trying to figure out how to ask me on a date. 

Finally, he looks at my passport one last time, holds it up to eye-level to better compare it to my face and says, "I guess that's you," before stamping my boarding pass and sending me on my way.  

True story.  And no, it wasn't because my passport photo was so bad he couldn't believe the goddess before him was the same person. It's the opposite reason.

In the spirit of giving, I'm showing you the picture of me just moments after this happened, which is totally embarrassing, even more so than my panties-clad vagina having a drink at the bar in Florida. Because that, I barely remember. This? I remember quite vividly. 

So yeah. Sweaty, matted-haired, baggy-eyed, no-make-up'd Me vs. Passport Me.  

So bad, I confused the TSA agent. At least now I know what to do when I'm famous and need to travel incognito. Just be myself.