They HAVE to card. It’s the law, dammit!

My Honey had a gig this weekend. We shipped the kids to Grandma’s house and I put a bunch of make up on. I was in a great mood, kinda full of vinegar, and ready to have fun. Since I don’t get out much anymore I was excited to see old friends and, in a moment of complete lunacy, I had three beers. Crazy, right?

Only some things went awry straight off. At this particular venue you have to show ID to get into the 21 and over area where the actual bar is. I approached the bouncer, ID in hand. He didn’t look at it; he simply grabbed my hand and marked an X on it.

“You didn’t look at my ID,” I said.

He shrugged.

“Hey!” I pointed at the X on my right hand. “This is an old lady X. I’m not an old lady. Look at my damn ID.”

He squinted at me but I shoved my ID at him and made him look, because being 45 sucks, and I like to pretend that I look under 21.

Good times proceeded.

Then just as I was about to leave, one of my husband’s oldest friends came up to me.

He touched my shoulder and smiled. “Congratulations on the baby.”

I blinked. “Which one? The 9 year-old or the 11 year-old?”

His face fell. Which was probably best because I was considering clawing it off.

“I must have you confused with someone else,” he said. He’d better be super, duper drunk.

At that point, I decided it was time to take my old, fat ass home. I probably won’t need a sitter for the next gig.