Passports

Working for the government doesn’t make me feel nearly as dirty as does working with the government. I applied for a passport today because my cousin convinced me that going to Mexico would be a lot of fun. After first ensuring that BP hadn’t destroyed the beach we are planning to stay on, I agreed. I mean, what isn’t appealing about Mexico?

The men down there love them a fresh American woman. It’s really a nice change of pace seeing as how American men find most of us irritating, demanding and spoiled. No, Mexican men find us to be beautiful mythical creatures of whom they can’t understand a single sound we utter other than, “cash” “margarita” and/or “boobies” – I rest my case – they love us and we all know why.

Secondly, when you are from the rainiest corner on the planet, it is nice to be near the equator every once in a while. This is when I most appreciate the holes in the ozone layer, pollution, and global warming. All I can think under that hot sun is “HELL YES! MAKE ME BROWN!!!”

But I digress... I applied for a passport. The part that makes me cringe in the application process is that they want to know how many different times you have been married, how many different last names you have had, and if you are currently still married to the person you listed in box 1 (this is after you have filled out all the other name issues and are on box 84). What can make a woman feel dirtier than having to list every worthless person they have ever wed? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. That’s what.

So after listing my first 18 husbands and name changes, they ask about your parents. They want names, birth dates, places they were born, etc. THANK GOD I KNOW WHO MY DAD IS! That saved a bit of embarrassment to say the least. However, I still had to call them to double check where they were from and everything. As I picked up to call them (of course I called my dad because he would be more understanding of the loop hole of mental retardation when it came to remembering dates) my palms got sweaty…. Thoughts raced through my head, what if my parents were illegal and I didn’t know it? I mean, not ALL illegal immigrants come from south of the border. After some reassurance (somewhat – I mean I was talking to my dad), and correct information intact, I was ready to submit it.

A flash of nervousness swept over me one final time. I quickly Googled, “America’s Most Wanted” and double checked that I wasn’t needed anywhere in the U.S. for something I couldn’t remember (refer to last post – beer is a sport). After searching the database of American criminals, I felt comfortable enough to submit my application. I hit send.

The next page said that I needed to have 25 pieces of identification proving who I was (my social security number is apparently not enough for them), two recent color photos (does Girls Gone Wild try-out photos count?), and oh yes, of course they want: ONE HUNDRED AMERICAN DOLLARS for me to prove to them who I am so that I can visit a third-world country and get lice, sunburned, drunk, disorderly, and stimulate their economy.

With the way things are going here – I’m in. Here’s my Benjamin...