What!? Two posts in one month?! Get outta here. But no, no, my readers, its true! For I have some things to share with you. Stories, really- a suggestion made by my mother. So I apologize to my mother and to one of my followers (who is also my dear friend), Vanessa, because I shared these stories with them yesterday, so this blog post may not be as exciting for them. But, there's still hope for you.
So the stories go something like this:
Pulling into my driveway on my way home from work on Monday, I see a huge package on the front porch. I think, “Hmph. Weird.”
I get out of the car, walk up to the front porch and attempt to pick up the package. Its heavy. No. Make that, ridiculously heavy. So instead of carrying it, I drag the package through the front door and into my house with all my might. It says: "To Amy Burns". So, naturally, I begin to open it- it is for me, after all. Inside the package, sitting on top, I find a plastic Ziplock (I believe it was the off brand, but I'm not really sure what to call it- its that "tissues" versus "Kleenex" complex) bag with a set of blue gloves and a folded note inside. I open the bag, unfold the note and read: "Hi Amy, hope you enjoy this- you don’t owe us anything for it, just send us some signed poetry.” I think- “What?!” I put on the blue gloves and begin to further open the package. There are packing peanuts flying everywhere. This package opening ceremony began to turn into an archeological dig- or perhaps even a treasure hunt. Finally, under all the packing peanuts, I find... another box. I open that box. More packing peanuts. Ugh! Under that layer, I then discover a white plastic bag. I rip open the bag and I see the top of a black object with a label reading, “Royal.” I squeal. I am grinning so large, I almost embarrass myself. I am now ripping the plastic bag and removing packing peanuts in an accelerated rate- anxious to reveal my... typewriter. (The gloves were for the typewriter itself- it had a protective finishing oil on it or something.) Inside the box was a fully restored and very old classic Royal Typewriter from Stephen’s aunt and uncle who own their own typewriter restoration business. (They were found by the Discovery Channel and their business will be featured on TV this fall!) I have always wanted a vintage typewriter, but could never afford one. Still, I hoped to have one someday. That day, was Monday. So, needless to say, I will be typing away on my... haven't picked a name for it yet. But you get what I'm saying.
Okay, that is the first story.
I realized I was in the area for the very first time since I had left my credit card at a Mexican restaurant (you know, from after having one too many margaritas.) So I begin my driving journey to the restaurant to retrieve my credit card. I turn to my purse to grab my wallet because I need to present a photo ID to prove my identity as the cardholder to the manager of the restaurant. You can guess where this is going. I can’t find my wallet. I dig and dig and dig in my purse looking for it. I think, “Where the heck did I put that thing?!” I remember. My brother. I left my wallet at my brother's house. So, my wallet, with my photo ID, is at my brother’s house- which is 30 minutes away- and my credit card is at a Mexican Restaurant, which I cannot get without my photo ID, which is in my wallet... which is at my brother's house. Sigh. But, I drive to the restaurant anyway. Telling now, but should have at the beginning of this story, and don't feel like making the grammatical corrections, my husband, Stephen, is also with me. I tell Stephen to go in to get my credit card- he has his photo ID and his last name matches mine. Easy right? So, Stephen goes in to the restaurant, and Stephen comes out- and quite unhappy, not to mention unsuccessful. He was so mad in the restaurant, he apparently called the manager “ridiculous”- saying this to the manager, of course. So, I think. “Well, what have I got to lose?” I thought. “Worst they can do is say no and I go back another night.” I hesitate. Realizing that what I will do next is really not like me at all. But then, I grow excited and anxious to do it. (I am now considering this as a turning point in my life. I, my readers, was almost assertive!) I walk in to the restaurant and firstly apologize for my husband’s behavior. I then tell the manager that I am the cardholder but do not have any photo ID on me. He refuses to give me the card. So I begin to talk louder. “I really need my card, sir- I know I am to have a photo ID but I do not have my wallet- I just need my card!” He stares at me. “OK, how ‘bout this?" I continue and now displaying my Iphone, "I have a Facebook- I can show you my picture and my name and you can see that it’s me!” People dining at the restaurant are starting to stare at me. For a moment, I feel as though I am in an old western movie- you know, the scene when I walk in to the bar through the swinging doors and I say, well, something western-like and probably insulting to someone- making the room intensely quiet? Yes. That was me in a Mexican restaurant. So anyway, the manager says, “Ma’am, we really need a photo ID” “OK OK OK OK OK," I go on, "how 'bout this: I have a photo of my passport on my phone, can I show you that?” His expression changes; he’s pondering. “Okay” he says. (I had a photo of my passport because Stephen sent me a picture of it to my phone when my passport arrived in the mail last month.) But then I quickly realize I probably don’t have the photo anymore, that, or it would take entirely too long to find it and I likely don't have that kind of time with this man's lack of patience. So, I instead say, “Look, here’s my Facebook!” Not even giving him a choice to see my passport photo. He takes my phone and is passing it around to four employees. I am now standing trial before four Mexican jurors for my credit card. Three employees say, “yes, yes- that’s her! Look- she’s wearing a scarf in this picture.” I laugh because I happen to be wearing a scarf at this moment, too. So I say, “Yep, I’ve got that whole scarf thing going- it really is me.” The fourth employee, juror, looks at me and says, “Is this your twin?” So I take it lightheartedly and said, “Psh, I wish!” Laughter follows. The manager, or judge, still looking hesitant hands over my phone with the card on top. I say, “look, I won’t look at the card, take it back and I’ll recite the number to prove its mine” All five of them at this moment say, “yeah, yeah ok. ok! Say it!” So the manager (Judge) and 1 other employee (juror) look at the card and I begin, “xxxx- xxxx-x“ (I'm not going to give you this information- hah!) Before I can finish, the manager says, "OK, you can have your card," and the employees clap and cheer. I say, “I’m in here all the time and your margaritas were really good that night. Thank you so much!” And I leave the restaurant triumphantly- no, victoriously. (I am really just not sure which word is better for this story.) I get in the car and Stephen’s face said it all. What I take from this? Facebook is a form of ID AND it pays to have your credit card number memorized.
What a world.
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