Saturday I traveled south to Rosarito , Mexico . I drank tequila, sipped on margaritas, encountered various suspicious looking individuals who tried to sell me things I was not interested in purchasing, and basked in the warm Mexican golden sunshine. All in all a good day. Making my very best attempt at grown up adult responsibility, I brought only the necessities in my pocket – minimal cash, a California ID, and one debit card. Several times throughout the day I noticed my things slipping out of my pockets. Certainly not enough concern to put them anywhere else - just enough concern to complain about it. Later that afternoon (in another attempt at grownup adult responsibility) I decided to pursue admittance back in to the United States before dark. I'd enjoyed my stay, but it was time to bid Mehico a very fair adieu.
It could have been the booze talking, but I felt lighter, airier, freeer. Or it could have been the things missing from my pockets. One of those.
Well, when is a legal form of identification important? I was done drinking for the day.
Oh yes, and getting back in to the country. There would be that. Of course.
Shit.
It was ok, I had a plan. At the border when asked for identification I'd provide the friendly, helpful customs border agent with my school ID. I would also only ask the questions I was asked. I wouldn't give over information. I would be calm and collected. I would charm my way back in to the US. I'd have this under control. That was the plan.
As I waited in line at the border for the two hours it takes to get to the front I proceeded to get more nervous. I searched for the silver lining. If denied admittance in to my home country I'd take up residence in Mexico . I'd be ok. I'd scout full-time Mexican baseball players. I'd sip margaritas and sell things to tourists they didn't want. But by the time I got to the front of the line and it was my turn, I didn't want that at all. I just wanted to get back in and sing Toby Keith songs. I'd vote every election, I'd kiss babies, I'd eat apple pie, wave flags - I was desperate.
That friendly, helpful customs border agent...he wasn't so friendly or helpful. And all the sass, all the cleavage in the world, was not going to make that man my friend. "Where are you from? Why were you here? What are you hiding in this car? What are you trying to bring back? Where are you a citizen of? Where were you born? Who are you?" I don't know, I don't know, I don't know. Maybe this would be the time to mention just months ago I was involved in a US presidential campaign. Or not.
It was an ordeal. And after quite the interrogation, I made my first steps back to the good ol US of A. Yes, that's right, I was back. Back to blog another day. Back to get the lecture drafted a decade ago.
The next day I called my mom. I don't know what I expected. I did think the lecture was the most likely. I don't think she even paused after I was done telling the story when she started speaking:
"So I had a date today", she says.
"Oh really, that's, um, great."
(Had she heard anything I'd said?)
"Halfway through the date he said, 'I like your tits'," she says.
"Oh my gosh Mom that's awful."
"It gets worse."
"Worse?"
"Yes."
"How so?"
"He walked me to my car and…"
"Oh no…"
"And told me…he's Catholic!!"
Nevermind my father who she was married to for 25 years was Catholic. Nevermind she would much rather be objectified by a dirt bag than date a Catholic man. What really gets me is this is prime cut-top of the line-top shelf-hand crafted-as good as it gets-Mom material. I was careless, I lost my ID, and I was temporarily trapped in Mexico . Isn't this what Moms live for?
"So there's going to be no lecture?"
"Did you hear me Rebecca, Cathlolic!!"
Click.
