That and I truly have no idea what bustle is. Maybe if I did, I would like Christmas more.
Because I’m a Scrooge, my husband and I go on vacation every year for the holidays and it’s delightful.
This year we decided to head to sunny Mexico, where the sun shines, the drinks flow, and it’s perfectly acceptable to be drunk and passed out by noon. My kind of place.
Around 9:00 the night before we left, I started packing, which basically means I threw random things in suitcases and hoped for the best.
I hate packing, and it’s kind of fun to open the suitcase when I get to my destination and see what’s waiting for me.
It’s like opening a present. if the present was bundled up clothes I already own and a half eaten Fiber One bar.
As I gathered the things we needed, I headed to the area where we keep our passports.
It’s right by where I keep the Grey Goose, so I got sidetracked. After taking a few delicious drinks, I returned to the passport area to retrieve the documents.
I located mine immediately but couldn’t find my husband’s anywhere. I asked him where it was and he told me it should be up there. Yeah, it should be…but it wasn’t.
There’s a lot of things that should be, and they’re not. I should be 120 pounds and dancing with the Rockets, but instead I’m fat and can barely bust a move on the dance floor at a reception at the VFW.
No, not a “Sexy time” look. It was the “Why can’t you do things the way that I do them” look.
I pointed to the area where his passport was usually housed, and asked him to locate it. I felt like I was engaging in a Where’s Waldo adventure, only I wasn’t looking for a creepy guy in a scarf who most likely was a pedophile and forbidden from going within 50 yards of a school.
He looked frantically for the passport but couldn’t find it. Duh. I already told him that.
He said it had to be somewhere in the house, which was his nice way of saying “Obviously you moved it.”
My husband is very particular and a bit of a neat freak. He has a spot for everything, and a routine.
Me? Not so much. I’m like a whirlwind of activity with no direction or plan. Kind of like Paris Hilton, but without the hollow insides.
I’m a mess and quite absent minded, so it wasn’t entirely unreasonable for him to believe this missing passport was my fault. I scanned my brain for any memory of seeing the passport, hoping I wasn’t to blame. Deep down, I knew I wasn’t.
We tore the house apart looking for the passport, while I watched our sunny vacation go down the drain.
In the frantic search, I imagined staying home for the holidays, with the cold weather and nothing but my burning anger about the lost passport to keep us warm.
I couldn’t let that happen. I knew I had to find it…our marriage depended on it.
We continued to search and although we didn’t find the passport, we found my lost iPod, Neil Diamond’s Greatest Hits and a gift card to Chili’s, so at least there was a silver lining.
Or more like a grayish one.
After searching in every logical spot, we agreed the passport was gone. Since Mexico isn’t in the United States, as any Arizona congresswoman would tell you, we knew we would have to cancel our trip.
I was getting more and more mad, and knew I was on my way to being as mad as I was on our recent trip to Naples.
It was then that he had an epiphany. He said the only other place he could imagine it could be was his office. Of course…because everyone needs their passport to go to their desk job.
Why didn’t I think of that?
I didn’t have high hopes for this idea, as taking your passport to work was about as logical as voluntarily attending a hot yoga class. It just didn’t make sense.
He left in a hurry for the office and I called the travel agent to see about cancelling our trip. I also made another drink. That Grey Goose was calling my name…it was actually screaming it.
Shortly after his departure, I received a call from my husband advising that he couldn’t get into his office because he didn’t have an access card.
He told me he didn’t need it. “Why would I need to come to the office after 7:00 at night?” he asked.
“Apparently to find your passport jackass,” is what I should have replied.
I was jolted back to the present when I heard him say there was no way he could get inside, and since our flight left at 6:00 in the morning, we wouldn’t be able to get it in time to leave.
No. No. No. There was no way I was letting that vacation slip away.
The sun, the daiquiris, the cabana boys. Okay, maybe there weren’t cabana boys, but in my fantasy there were. In my fantasy I also was an exotic Brazilian named Lolita.
I told him to figure it out, and call someone. He couldn’t let Lolita down.
He called a coworker who told him to call security, which he did. A painful 30 minutes later, and a few more drinks later for this girl, he called with joyous news; he located the passport. It was in his satchel.
I was happy he found his passport, but irritated that it took so long and ruined our night.
Thankfully, I had my good friend Grey Goose to assuage my irritation.
He came back home, passport in hand, and did everything he could to try to blow off this disaster as if it was no big deal.
Of course, when I put the water bottles in the fridge the wrong way, it was the end of days…but this? No biggie.
He resumed packing and I resumed drinking. We were able to leave in the morning as scheduled, and are currently in Mexico enjoying the sunshine.
I still don’t completely know what I packed for this trip, as I’m scared to peer too far inside the suitcases.
Hopefully there’s more vodka…or at least a gift certificate for a cleaning service, as our house is a disaster from the passport debacle.