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I had to toss my liquids today, thanks to some crazy folks who want to blow up planes. Because of this, the security line at the airport wrapped around four times, taking people outside. This made me nervous. Not because of terrorism or missing my plane. (It’s a work trip. Who cares if I’m a little late.) I was biting my nails because I knew full well that my non-drivers ID had expired in February.

“Why didn’t you renew?,” you ask.

I did, actually. A couple of weeks ago.

“Why didn’t you bring the little paper receipt they give you?”

I was planning on it. Then I couldn’t find it.

“What about your passport?”

Ugh. Don’t even go there. I have no idea where that is.

My scatterbrainednes has certainly been cranked up a notch. So has my emotional reaction to said scatterbrainednes. It’s quite embarrassing. This morning, I sat on the floor painstakingly sifting through the recycling looking for that dang receipt while quietly crying.

My solution: Take my social security card, a photocopy of my passport, and look as pregnant as possible. So on went an empire-waist shirt and soon came the public belly rubs.

It worked! I’m now in New Orleans, complete with newly purchased fluids.
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