I Married A Female Impersonator!

Andy & his friends set off for their Canadian canoing adventure on Labor Day. Why didn't I go with them? I love Andy with all my heart, but while I have faithfully promised to love, honor, and cherish him for the rest of our lives, no part of that involves 10 days away from indoor plumbing. We all have our limits.

The trip was going fine--they were seeing lots of the country, neither car had any problems, no big road construction--then Thursday Andy sent me the following text page:

"The passport I grabbed was yours! Fortunately, they let me into Canada anyway. Not sure if I will make it out again in ten days. Andy"

Canada must be a lot more relaxed than we are in the States, or perhaps gender-confused canoeists are high on their list of desirable immigrants. I text-messaged Andy back suggesting that he tell the border patrol that he went to Canada for a sex-change operation, and that the passport HAD been valid when he left. We'll see. So far my impression of the US Border Patrol is that they are singularly without a sense of humor.

I don't think I'm really a "worrier," but I am a double- and triple-checker. I would have checked to see if I had the right passport in, say, our own home. Maybe again on the outskirts of Boise. And probably one more time before getting to Minnesota. Definitely before Canada. Actually, I wouldn't have needed to check, because Andy's passport is a little creased, has stickers on it, and has obviously spent lots of time being carried around in back pockets. Mine is pristine. When I applied for a passport before our honeymoon to Cancun, mine was delayed until after our return because my first photo was rejected as being too "washed out." (One could actually argue that if I am THAT pale, there are only so many countries I could really belong to, which should lessen my need for a passport, but I digress....) By the time Kinko's took my picture a second time, assuring me that they had never before had a picture returned, and we resent my application, we had already traveled to & from Mexico with the aid of my birth certificate and driver's license. So, my passport is (was) without a crease, fold, sticker, or mark of any kind. I had rather assumed that I would be the one to use it on its christening adventure, but maybe my husband & passport will send me a postcard from Canada. Or several, as their stay may be indefinite!

Achieving the Perfect Tan for the Wedding

A few weeks ago in a VERY loving conversation, the man I am going to spend the rest of my life with pointed out that I look like Casper the Friendly Ghost's twin sister in photos, and suggested I might want to consider getting a tan to bring me to the skin coloring of Caucasians who DON'T glow in the dark for the wedding photos. He does have a point--in any pictures involving flashes I look slightly paler than death, and am so pale normally that doctors regularly insist on testing me for anemia (and those who know my great fear of having blood taken can guess what THIS does to my alabaster complexion....and my vertical hold). So Friday night my brave MS of Honor and I (without the aid of alcohol) ventured into a tanning salon. In the past I have had some success with self-tanning lotions, but have always been afraid to use it on my face after a very nasty episode of wearing long sleeves in 100+ weather to cover my new striped appearance, so tanning lotions were out. I have always been a little leary of tanning beds, which has now been seriously reinforced by my experiences with Andy's toaster oven. So, aside from trying to give myself skin cancer, the only option remaining was to go get sprayed (ala Ross in "Friends"). Getting painted by a machine was daunting enough--it turns out that our tans were to be applied by a human--a man, to make it even more unnervinging. Call me old-fashioned, but I think the only man who needs to be that close to me while I'm in a swimming suit is Andy, or possibly a lifeguard if I have come close to drowning.

The process must be similar to what it feels like to be a backyard fence. The spray is sticky, somewhat cold, and tinted brown so one can see immediate results. I would have forgone the immediate results to have not spent the rest of the evening leaving brown smudges on everything. Granted, when I walked out of the studio, I looked great. As the evening wore on, however, I started looking stranger & stranger as the brown tint wore off & the "permanent" tan hadn't quite taken effect. I looked a bit like a Guernsey cow, to be honest. To give the dye time to "stick," you can't shower for 8-10 hours after being stained, so the sticky brown smudging experience was destined to last the entire evening. For the first time in my life, I actually watched paint dry.

So, the results? Supposedly the "tan" can last for up to two weeks, although that might be referring to the part that has caused my toenails to look like I have jaundice. With people like me who have incredibly dry skin, I'd give it 5 days at the outside. Still, it is sort of fun to have the first really good tan I've had since the sun went from being healthy to the instrument of skin cancer delivery. Out of sheer perverse curiosity, sometime later this summer I'll have to attempt the automated booth shellacing for comparison. Sue has wisely declined to be part of the further tanning adventures....Maybe I'll bring along part of our fence for company!