Name Schmame

Leave it to me to wait until the last minute for important things, such as, oh, a passport. Yesterday afternoon I was going down my list of things I needed to get and do to be ready for our trip on Thursday. Laundry - check. Suitcase - check. Passport - oh crap. It seems that the last time I used my passport was on my honeymoon, and at that point in my life, I was still going by "Davis" as opposed to Bakdavi. (Holla, Higsley!) Lo and behold, I opened up my passport yesterday and there, in blazing black type: Davis, Margaret Elizabeth. Shite. That's not me! I'm Baker, Elizabeth Davis. Crap crap crap.

Cross your fingers with me, right now, that my birth certificate is sitting in my parents' lockbox down at First Citizens and can be retrieved after Memorial Day. Be ye not so stupid - change your names everywhere when you get hitched. You'll regret it if you don't. In the wise words of my mother, "Oh honey, just take your birth certificate, your passport, your driver's license and your marriage certificate - surely they'll just realize that you got married but that you are who you say you are." Uh huh.

So Friday night was a blast. Higsley talked me into going out (as in, out out) with her to meet Beth and Andy at White Collar Crime. My first trip to White Collar Crime was a little, well, trippy. Beth had a "Death to Beth's 20's" birthday party in February, and everyone followed directions to the letter - I thought I'd landed either in purgatory or some Goth version of a scary 30th birthday party. Turns out, as Higsley noted, that it's not so much that White Collar Crime is Goth, just that it happened to be that way for Beth's birthday. White Collar Crime is a mish-mash of people, as was evidenced by the half-naked teenagers standing at the bar. Overheard during a Phil Collins/Nine Inch Nails remix: "Ugh, what is this crap? My mom listens to this shit. I'm so over it."

Anyhoo, I feel a little guilty for giving Higs a hard time - she's in looooove with a nice boy named Mark, and she is in that fortunate honeymoon stage where the sound of his voice makes her heart race more than a little. They're all long-distancey and such, so her phone rang off the hook Friday night and maybe Beth and I weren't the most understanding friends ever. (Maybe I called her when I knew she was on the phone to tell her that I was feeling a tad neglected - but it was totally the Stoli blueberry talking.)

Saturday morning I woke up at my MIL's and we ate smoked salmon on rye and watched "Juno." Best. Movie. Ever. We had a cookout at BB's brother's house that night, and I must say that it wasn't nearly as painful as I thought it would be. The food was good, the kids were...not around me much...and we didn't stay late. Gotta love that.

Now if only I could will the bank to open so I can find my damn birth certificate...