The road to hell is packed with families on summer vacation road trips

There is a list of the most stressful events people will encounter in a lifetime. It has things like moving, starting a new job, retiring (I don't get that one! I just got my pension statement and I think my earliest retirement date is like 2048. Now that shit is stressful. Isn't that the year the Jetson's were set in?) But I think we need to add two items to the list – vehicle shopping and family road trips.

In the last five years, we have done almost everything on that list (excluding divorce, getting arrested, and the death of a spouse.) But – the year is still young. We have moved (three times), changed jobs (for me - four times, for Anders twice), gotten married and had twins. But by far – hands down – the two most stressful things we have done in the last five years has been looking for a new family vehicle, and the family road trip which we are currently 39-ish hours into.

The car shopping thing started probably almost a year ago (and sadly, I am not kidding). It started with me saying I wanted a “run around” which could have also been said as: “I am so fucking tired of driving that van which basically screams I have given up on life, and am two minutes away from wearing my pajama pants to get groceries and forgetting I have a roller on the back of my head.”

Anders was with me for a while…we talked about a little Ford Fiesta (I was picturing me cruising in one in that super cute and sporty green color) or a little Golf, maybe even a little Volvo C30. I seriously didn’t give a shit what it was, as long as it didn’t have a built in DVD system and enough cargo room for a double stroller.

Then – and here is where everyone’s memory gets fuzzy – it turned into us trading in the van for a SUV. I think it was Anders, but he has conveniently lost all memory of conversations with me over the past 12 months.

So what started as me getting a fun little car for my daily commute (one which would let me feel like “me” and not the mother of twins for a brief and glorious hour each day) ended with the four of us on the Honda lot on Saturday. And just let me say – that day did not go well for anybody. Not Anders, not the kids, not me and definitely not the sorry-ass Honda salesman (who I almost feel like we should send an edible bouquet to or something. That guy definitely left work that day – shot a bottle of tequila - and gave himself a vasectomy on his kitchen table. No shit.)

I will spare you all the details, but it started with Anders stating he wouldn’t get the Honda Pilot as the dash dials (speed/gas/temperature) looked “rinky-dinky” and that the van was “more luxurious feeling.” This is where shit took a hard left. We own a VAN – a Honda van. How can that feel luxurious? Long story short – the visit ended with the kids crying/shrieking to go home and Anders and I trying to pretend it was “all good – totally good – no worries – we got this” for the horrified salesman while we did that scary whisper yell/hiss at each other. We did not talk for the entire rest of the day and I have a good hunch the idea of vehicle shopping has been put on the shelf for a while.

This brings me to stressful event number two - our current family vacation. Pre-kid – I loved road trips. In hindsight, this was probably due to the fact on these road trips I was always going somewhere fun with girlfriends and I chain smoked the entire way. We also spent the entire time singing at the top of our lungs to great music.

This road trip started off with Anders deciding his shirt smelled “moldy” and literally soaking himself in cologne. So, once my eyes stopped burning and my vision cleared – I came back to Max screaming he had to pee (this is like 30 minutes into the trip). There were no rest stops in sight so we pulled over and I tried to shield Max while he peed on the roadside, my hand and his shoe. Awesome. Molly then started screaming that she wanted to see her friend Morgan (who we haven’t seen in at least half a year so God knows where this came from) and there was no talking her down. The conversation ended with me telling her (and admittedly not my mothering highlight of the year) that I guess she should get out and walk back, as we weren’t turning around. 

All of this happened within the first hour of the six hour drive. At this point, I made the call to cut my losses and popped some extra strength Buckley’s Nighttime, and blissfully drifted off. (Before you call Intervention – I honestly do have a head cold so I can kind of justify it.)

I have fuzzy and vague recollections of the drive – Molly peeing in a parking lot, Max telling strangers he took a GINORMOUS poop, and Anders asking me to take about 1,000 pictures of him and the kids in front of various landmarks.



Anders and Max - somewhere between Calgary and Jasper. Max just
finished telling a nice couple in the parking lot about his bowel movement.

It has rained constantly since we got here, but tomorrow is supposed to be sunny, so maybe it will all start to look up. Or I can just get more Buckley’s Nighttime. It seems to just kind of take the hard edges off, and make things a lot funnier. (If I am still talking about taking Buckley’s in like a week – please do call Intervention.)

We have 12 days left on this vacation, but I think we are all hitting our stride. Max and Molly have figured out that I am drugged and exhausted and are loving this new state of anarchy. At one point today I looked over and they were jumping on the couch in our hotel room - both were holding a juice box in one hand and chocolate in the other. Their little chocolate smeared faces were the perfect vision of pure bliss.

A muffin, hot chocolate, salt and packets of
sugar for breakfast? Hell Yes!

Small town versus big city

My husband is an engineer who works on major construction projects – so his employment has always had a defined start and end date. As the major project he is currently working on starts to wind down, we have started to talk about what (and where) is next. Depending on the day – the answer to that question is quite different. One day we are packing it all in and heading for Australia, the next we are buying a new house in a neighboring area to our current home and are staying put, or some days we are moving to various locations across Canada. 

Long story short – we don’t have a clue what we are doing. For me - now that the twins are three - one of the biggest considerations is how we want to raise Max and Molly, where we want them to go to school and what we want their childhood to look like. And, if this was solely my decision, it would be easy. We would be packing up and heading to a small town.

I grew up in Cranbrook, BC – and when I was a kid it had a population of about 10,000. Since it is located at the base of the Rocky Mountains, it was kind of like growing up in a giant outdoor playground. We did lots of hiking and camping as a family – and the biggest feeling I can connect to my childhood is a sense of freedom. Some of my first memories are of cruising the ‘hood on my super awesome bike, hitting the local candy store by myself, building forts, riding my 50 cc Honda motorbike and trying to trap gophers in the huge vacant field behind our house. We did not have a care in the world – and judging by our lack of parental supervision – neither did my parents.

Anders on the other hand, is from Gothenburg, the second biggest city in Sweden. He had a good childhood, but from the stories I have heard, it wasn’t very free and involved a lot more supervision – meaning less gopher trapping and more music lessons.

In the middle of one of these “where do we go and what next” discussions, when I suggested we look at moving to the Cranbrook area, he said the sentence which almost brought down our marriage. “I don’t know…small towns are kind of…trashy.”

“WHHHAAATT! What do you mean trashy? And before you answer that – keep in mind I am from a small town and will not hesitate to go all kinds of small town on your ass!”

I get that everyone thinks the way they grew up is the best way – but people who believe growing up in a big city is the best are wrong. So – once we (I) calmed down, I started to ask questions about his childhood and some teenage milestones to try and understand where he was coming from and why he thought small towns were trashy. 

When did you have your first drink?
Gothenburg answer: I was about 12 or 13, and it was low alcohol beer. We had to drink like 15 or so to even get a buzz.
Cranbrook answer: Ditto – I was like 13-ish, and I got drunk on “shit mix” (for those of you from Gothenburg - “shit mix” is basically when you steal like a half inch of hard alcohol from all the bottles in you parent’s booze cupboard and mix it all together, usually in a two litre pop bottle). I shot a bunch of it, and pretty much don’t remember that whole week. 

When did you first try cigarettes?
Gothenburg answer: I think I was about 12 or 13, and it wasn’t cigarettes, it was snuff.
Cranbrook answer:  Same again! How can you say we are trashier! We lied to the cashier at the local Mac’s store and said we were buying the pack for my grandma. We bought menthol More brand smokes – those crazy long skinny brown ones - because my friend thought they looked classy. But in hindsight - I doubt we looked too classy like 20 minutes later when we were puking in the gopher chasing field - clutching our More Menthols in one hand and holding our hair back with the other. 

When did you first shoot a gun?
Gothenburg answer: What in the holy hell are you talking about? I was a kid – why would I shoot a gun? The only time I have shot a gun was during my service in the military – which was mandatory when I was 18.
Cranbrook answer: I was probably like eight or so. No biggie – just shooting beer cans and shit while my Dad and his friends drank us up some empty shooting targets.

When did you first do drugs?
Gothenburg answer: Do you realize you are just proving my point here? I have never done drugs – because they are illegal in Sweden.
Cranbrook answer: Listen tight ass – they are illegal here too! It isn’t like you can just run down the main street in Cranbrook screaming that you want drugs (to be fair – you probably actually can, I just didn’t want to add fuel to his fire) - you gotta be sneaky! When I was 17, my friend and I got a joint off a guy we went to school with, and we biked up into a popular backwoods area to smoke it. We brought all this food and art supplies so we could counter the munchies and let our creative juices flow. It didn’t go well. I ate pretty much everything in the bag while my friend cut my hair to look like a popular actress at the time. When we pedaled out of the woods about three hours later, she looked and felt totally normal; I was bloated and looked like I was wearing a mangy raccoon on my head.

What did you guys do for high school graduation?
Gothenburg answer: We had a ceremony at the school, and around that time there were lots of parties at people houses.
Cranbrook answer: Again - ditto! Only replace people’s houses with the bush and a stack of pallets on fire and we are totally even. Also – I don’t fully remember the graduation ceremony part. In high school we were lined up alphabetically and I had two good friends who had last names that started with the same letter as me so we all sat together. I smuggled in a two litre of Rock-a-Berry cooler and a giant bag of Doritos which I had strapped to my body under my grad gown – so we were pretty drunk about half an hour into the ceremony.

At this point I could kind of see where he was going, and that I was losing this battle quickly. I figured my best option was to stop talking. So we both sat there, silent, staring at each other. I was trying to figure out ways in which I could better explain how great it is to grow up in a small town and how it just seems so much safer and better for the kids.

I am pretty sure he was wondering how he ended up with such a shit show of a wife, and how he could get the kids out of the country before I noticed.

So, for the moment, I don’t think we will be making any major decisions. We have a few more months before his job winds down, which means I have three more months to convince Anders to move to the Kootenays…or Australia (how freaking cute would Max and Molly be with little Australian accents!). So as part of my revised and improved strategy, I think from now on I will focus more on the stories that don’t involve illegal drugs, alcohol and guns. I am going to continue to try and show him that "normal" isn't always better, and it sure as shit isn't more fun. A little bit of "trashiness" sure makes life more interesting and a whole hell of a lot more exciting. 

  

An open letter to all of Max’s future love interests, and any potential bullies

This morning, after I finished getting the kids ready for daycare, we had a bit of an incident. 

I had gotten everything together – the dog had gone out for one last pee, the van was loaded and the kid's stuff was packed and waiting at the door. The last challenge left was to pry the iPad from Max’s clammy, white-knuckled grip, and trick/bribe/coax them into the van to head to daycare. (I should add here that they don’t hate daycare – it isn’t like I leave them with homeless people behind the local grocery store or anything. Once they get there they are fine. They have fun, do crafts, play outside, watch movies, etc. They would just rather stay home most mornings. And really, who doesn’t want to stay in bed most mornings?)

So – as I climbed the stairs to tell them it was time to go, I was already anticipating the fight. I ran through all the good bribing and/or distracting material I had been stockpiling in my head all weekend. “Grandma is coming tomorrow, there is a truck video in the van for you guys to watch, we can give Rusty his snaggle tooth cleaning treat on the way out the door, tonight after dinner we can go to the park...” Basically whatever little distraction I can create to get them out the door and get them in the van will do.

When I got to the top of the stairs, Molly was surprisingly cool about the whole thing. When I told her it was time to go, she just nodded, packed up her toys and headed down the stairs. Max on the other hand was decidedly less cool about the situation and started to scream like someone face-to-face with the business end of a cougar.

Molly must have heard the screaming and spun around and raced back up the stairs. I didn’t see any of this as my back was to the door but I can confirm that Molly is definitely a graduate from the school of  “shoot first - ask questions later.” I guess the sight of Max screaming and clinging to his iPad was enough to shove her over the edge - because next thing I know, she mustered all the strength she could in her little body and punched me square in the ass. She then started yelling at me to “leave my brother alone” and telling me to “be nice and listen to Maxey.”

I am not going to lie – I was a bit scared. This little 37 pound ball-of-fury was pissed and was not about to back down.

There have been quite a few instances where we notice a protective thing going on between the two of them. When one is in trouble - the other is pretty quick to rush in to protect their sibling.  But out of the two of them - Molly is the only one is prepared to back the other one up with some real heat. Max will point his little finger at me and tell me he isn’t happy with whatever I am doing. Molly will lay a baby sized smack-down and be like “you like the taste of that onion, well I got another one waiting for action…and plenty more seasoning to bring to the party!”

Pretty much from the day they were born, Molly has been the boss and has run the show according to her schedule. If something wasn’t exactly how she wanted it – it wasn’t going to happen. Max, who is the polar opposite and is the most easy-going, good-natured guy around, learned pretty quickly that life goes a lot smoother if you just do what Molly says. Otherwise, there is a good chance she will rip you a new asshole.

Molly - seven days old and already letting us know that this shit is
not kosher. Max - mastering the duck and cover.

In seeing their personalities develop, and seeing how they interact with other kids, Anders and I have talked quite a bit about how gentle Max is, and how the world is going to be hard for him as he is such a sweet and sensitive little guy. But then we realized that in order to hurt Max, chances are good you have to make it through Molly, and as I learned this morning – that shit ain't on. 

In the overall big picture - it is kind of a comfort actually. We know that they both will always have a champion, an ally, a friend and most likely when they are teenagers - an accomplice. For Molly – she gets the absolute blind devotion of her brother, and for Max, although he gets his ass kicked daily – he also gets Molly’s fierce protection and love.


Almost two, and Max is getting better at taking direction.

So, to all of Max’s future love interests, don’t even worry about trying to impress Anders and I. Anders is Swedish, so really, even if he hates you – he is going to be really nice to you. I am pretty sure it is physically impossible for him to be anything less than civil and polite. As for me, I may seem like a potential problem as I am pretty protective and opinionated, but I am also flighty as hell and can be distracted easily. Show me something shiny and pretty and there is a good chance I will forget to hate you. Plus – Anders and I will both eventually die. 

Your real problem is going to be one Miss Molly Anne Catherine. True - she rides Max like a rented mule and a lot of the time it can seem like he is getting the short end of the stick. But if you try and get in there and defend Max, both of them will turn on you like a pack of hyenas (I speak from experience). Or if you are thinking of hurting him, intentionally or otherwise - then sweet baby Jesus – I hope you have an exit strategy in place because Molly is going to Fuck. You. Up. 

And to all of those bullies that I know will be in Max’s class...when you see this really tall, super sweet, good-natured kid who you think will be really fun to bully? Don’t forget about the sweet and innocent looking girl beside him. She will not hesitate to go Chernobyl on your ass and trust me – she doesn’t need much provoking. What is more embarrassing then getting bullied? I can tell you. It is getting your ass kicked in public by a girl.



The dynamic duo - Max taking direction,
and Molly calling the shots.



Rusty and Anders - a love story

I adopted Rusty as a puppy in early 2003. When I got him, he had some health issues which the vet attributed to the fact he was found as a newborn pup next to his feral mother – who by best guess - had frozen and/or starved to death. Not the ideal start in life. He had seizures and some stomach issues, but he outgrew both and turned into quite the scrappy and spunky little guy.  He also happens to just be a little bit “off”. 

You can’t really put your finger on it – but you know that something isn’t right and suspect it has something to do with not all the lights being on. He is really kind and gentle, but you would never confuse him with smart. My vet explained that if the mother doesn’t get proper nutrition, the puppy’s brain doesn’t form correctly. Rusty could be the poster child for this medical phenomenon. 

He used to do things like jump off the couch and not put his legs down to catch himself. He would just kind of hit the floor, bounce a bit and skid to a stop and then look around all shocked like "What the hell? What just went wrong there?” He finally figured out the mechanics of jumping – but he still – after almost 10 years of trying - has not mastered "sit" and sometimes forgets how to work the stairs.


This is the nicest picture of Rusty ever taken -
he actually looks like a normal dog.

The rescue group I got him from listed him as a terrier/Pomeranian mix on its website. I kind of figured he may be a bit more of a mutt when my vet politely – and with a straight face – asked "what in the hell is that?" when I plunked Rusty down on her exam table.

Her best guess was a terrier/spaniel/coyote/meerkat mix - with a possible side of opossum thrown in for good luck. Rusty has a pink nose on this super tiny head, long skinny legs, a fat sausage body, a rat-like long skinny tail and his back-end is higher than his front-end. When he runs he usually ends up going ass over teakettle as his shorter front legs can’t keep up with all the rear power generated by his long hind legs. When his fur grows out, he gets all these crazy irregular clumps of long white silky fur on random weird places, and then he has other places where the fur stays really short and is wiry like a terrier. His teeth – despite yearly cleanings, specialized dog food and teeth cleaning treats - are basically rotting out of his face, and his eyes don’t quite line up. In short - the guy is a total fucking mess. But again – he is a super good, sweet, gentle and kind – total mess.


Rusty - sporting a hunting cap.

When I met Anders in 2005, he had never had a pet. His sister had a gerbil named Bob when they were kids, but Anders gets all twitchy and weird when I ask what happened to Bob. I think Anders may have been directly involved in Bob's demise, or he may have been involved in the cover-up. Either way - the point here is the guy wasn’t used to animals in his house.

Eventually, Anders figured out that Rusty and I were a package deal. If he wanted to keep me around, he got the little snaggle-toothed freak too. He did start to warm up to him, but he also started trying to give Rusty away as some kind of weird parting gift to people as they tried to leave our house. “Hey thanks for coming – great to see you guys too! Hey - speaking of goodbyes…you know who likes car rides? Rusty – that’s who! You guys got room in there for one more?”

At first, I (and our friends) thought it was a joke. But it kept going, and on a few occasions when people took a split second too long to answer, Anders ran out of the room and reappeared with Rusty’s shit all packed up and ready to go. It was like he had a “just in case tonight is the night” jump bag packed for Rusty so he could shove the dog and his belongs out the door before the people had a chance to change their minds. 

Anders finally admitted that although he loooooved Rusty, (yeah – he sounded that convincing in real life too) maybe we wouldn’t have any pets after Rusty died. I love dogs – and will always have a dog, but in an effort to pick my battles I humoured him and went along with it. I basically thought that since “to know Rusty is to love Rusty” - Rusty would eventually work his screwed up, snaggle-tooth magic and win Anders over. That plan is not working out. But the two of them ended up coming to a truce of sorts where basically both sides agreed “you don’t fuck with me and I won’t piss in your shoes,” or something along those lines.

Then flash forward a couple years, and we had the twins – and I gained some allies. Molly is seriously some kind of animal whisperer. She can walk up to almost any kind of animal – and they just flop over and basically beg to be petted and rubbed. It is actually a bit unsettling and looks like a scene from a Disney movie (if the Disney movie had a crazy overprotective mother come running into the scene screaming at the princess to stop touching that dirty filthy wild animal/cat/dog/whatever – you don’t know where it has been and it could have God-damned rabies and your whole arm could rot off!)

Max isn’t quite there animal whisperer wise, but he does love animals. If I yell at Rusty to stop barking or to get down from the couch, I get a stern glare from Max and he points his little finger at me and says in a low and angry voice, “Momma – I am not very happy with you! You don’t yell at Rusty!”

So, I think Rusty is now officially safe from ending up as a door prize or parting gift at one of our parties, and I will probably always be able to have a dog. At least until Max and Molly move out – and then we will have to renegotiate.

Rusty rolling in freshly cut grass clippings.

Salty Junior - or Molly for short

We make a pretty concerted effort to not swear in front of our kids. The inevitable “shit”, or “damn”, may sneak out – but we try to keep a pretty tight lock down on the f-bombs and other more colourful phrases.

So, in light of my kids – particularly Molly’s - language, I am starting to believe salty language may be a genetically inherited trait. Max got my reddish hair and pale complexion, and Molly got my vocabulary.

Molly has always had really good language skills. She was saying three to four word sentences by just over a year, and full sentences by two. She already has a pretty impressive vocabulary and is using inflection and pacing in her story telling.

She could also out cuss most long-haul truckers and make a seasoned logger blush.

I don’t encourage it, I try to reprimand where possible, and I try really hard to not react as once she sees that something gets a rise out of me, that will be her new favourite word or phrase. But some of the stuff she says, I can’t help but laugh. 

When Molly was just over two, I was driving with her and Max in the van and they were watching a Baby Einstein video. The video showed the growth of all kinds of animals from newborn to full grown. Max was happily babbling about something when Molly shouted excitedly “Jesus Christ! Look at the size of that puppy!” There was a slight pause, and then she added in a slightly disbelieving, almost muttered tone “This is bullshit.”

That story is quickly becoming legend in our family. My dad told the story to some of his coworkers, and before he knew it, the whole job site was saying “Jesus Christ! This is bullshit.”

We have been extra vigilant on the language since then, but she still managed to pick up a few phrases. One time, not long after the JC bomb in the van, she tripped and hit her head on the cedar chest we use for a coffee table upstairs. She stood up and loudly let me know that “Shit snacks! I just hit my head!”

Then, it seemed that our vigilance started to pay off. Aside from a few minor slips, it became pretty quiet swear wise on the home front. She occasionally still says “shit” – but since she uses it correctly I just don’t have the heart to correct her. (She will - and only occasionally - quietly mutter “shit” when she drops something, or stubs a toe. I totally agree – it is a pain in the ass when you drop something – and stubbing your toe sucks!) And there is this kid we know who can be a bit of a shit, so when Molly told me in a very matter-of-fact way a few weeks ago that the kid was an asshole, I didn’t correct her then either. If you are an asshole, you are an asshole. How do you argue that? She calls ‘em like she sees ‘em. 

But, I think maybe we have all gotten a little light and loose with the language lately and it might be time to clamp down again. This morning, after I got Max and Molly dressed and finished their hair, Molly caught her reflection in the bathroom mirror and loudly proclaimed “Son of a bitch I am cute!”

Again – she is pretty damn cute, so technically she is right, and she had the inflection nailed! I was busy muffling my laughter into my shoulder so I didn’t say much, and I also didn’t want her to run around daycare all day screaming that phrase at the top of her lungs.

I have no idea why I find it so funny when she swears. Maybe because she looks like a perfectly sweet little angel baby - so it is just so totally unexpected. Or maybe it is the fact she swears like a pro in this teeny tiny little voice.  

Either way – the girl has skills. And I am apologizing now to everyone we know as I am pretty sure when you child drops the JC bomb, or tells you that he or she is sweating like a hooker in church, Molly was somehow behind it.

Now picture this little, adorable, innocent,
angelic face dropping the f-bomb!

Why I love teenage girls

My husband thinks I need to update the photo of me on this blog since it is about four years old. His photo on his facebook page is like six years old - but apparently the rules of out-dated photos don’t apply to facebook.

So - valid point - I started going through recent photos to use - and made a seriously shocking discovery.

Have you seen that movie "The Ring"? It is from like 10 years ago - and scared the living shit out of me. I used to love scary movies - then I saw that one, and no word of a lie, I haven’t seen a scary movie since. Anyway - the point here is that in the movie there is this fucked up little girl whose mom shoves her in a well to die because she has crazy brain powers or something. Somehow - with her mind, she creates this super creepy little movie and anyone who views it gets a call right after that says they will die in seven days.  Now - here is the key part - in any picture they take of themselves after that point they show up all crazy distorted. And then the dead little girl crawls out of your TV in seven days - moving all hurkey jerky super creepy style - and then somehow scares you to death.

In typing that - the movie sounds pretty lame. But, to prove how scary it really is, when I saw it in the theatre with my then boyfriend - he literally got so scared he farted. It was THAT scary. He went to lift his legs up onto the chair and in the process - he farted. Normally I would have been horrified, he would have been embarrassed - all sorts of apologies and excuses would have followed. We were so scarred, neither one of us said a word or moved. We just sat there, in the stink, being horrified.

Okay - so back to the point. Watch that movie if you haven’t, and I think that having kids does something similar to your face.

I haven’t been able to find one decent-ish picture of me since having kids. Not one. It isn’t like I have packed on a ton of weight, changed my hair, or had severe facial trauma. My only theory is that having kids is like watching that fucked up little mind trip video and then from here on in all your pictures are a total mess that leave you asking what in the hell just went down here? Do I really look that bad all the time? 

Below are some pre-kid shots where I think I like look I should.

Shoveling snow in early 2008 - looking pretty normal...

At a friend's wedding in 2007 - again, looking normal...

And then this shit started to happen. Below is my driver’s licence picture from 2010, and my community association membership card from 2011. Based on the downhill trend - I should be a full-fledged goblin by 2015. 

What the fuck? Seriously?

Just by looking at that picture, if I worked at the community association and was sorting through membership files and came across this beauty - I would definitely call America's Most Wanted. I look like a homeless crack head. They should be arrested for letting me in repeatedly to use the facilities! How can you let someone who looks like that into a place with kids? Seriously - shame on you community club!

Yesterday we went to a local museum and rented strollers for the kids. We had to leave a piece of photo ID, so I left my driver’s licence. When we returned the strollers I asked for my licence back and the girl went through the ID bin once...twice...then looked kind of panicked and started asking her coworkers where my licence was. She gestured towards me and sort of half whispered "you guys - we gave this woman's licence to someone else. Her licence is not in here."

One asked my name and looked again and found it based on name. All three of the girls looked at the picture, looked and me, and where like - "Wow - that does not look like you at all! You should get a new picture - that is horrible! You are way prettier."

I almost started to cry. Not from getting that scary ass licence back - but because I had proof that maybe I hadn’t morphed into a goblin, or a body double for a crack head. God bless those teenage girls. They have made my year.  And, no Anders. I will not be updating my blog picture.