Thanks to my obscure last name, I’m pretty easy to find (I think I’m possibly the only me in North America, if not the world…). Add to that the fact my parents couldn’t pick a first name for me, so picked three, and then called me the short form of the middle one, means that me, Jason Bourne, and most monarchs, have a lot in common. This also means I can probably kill off one of me and then the other me can collect the insurance. But most importantly this means I kind of don’t exist legally, which I only recently noticed.
Friday night I attended a jolly pre-drink party at my friend’s place, where I may or may not have drunk an excessive amount of rye and gingers. I then followed that up by taking my tail-feather to Dance Cave for a good old fashioned shake. I loathe bringing a purse to a bar. You can’t dance with something slung over your shoulder. I also loathe girls that bring giant purses to bars (unless, obviously, they are girls I’m with who are kindly storing my shit) and dance near me, which inevitably results in several very intimate moments between their purses and my body. So I ditched the purse and crammed my passport in my back pocket. COS THAT’S A GOOD IDEA. Anyway, I obviously lost it. Like a drunken tool. I gave the barkeep my name, and then all my other names, and my number, he held my hand empathetically and swore he’d let me know if it was turned in. It wasn’t. I went back the next night to double check, and sadly none of the passports behind the bar contained, what I had lovingly deemed, my mafia-princess photo.
On a side note, being sober and on a mission in a dance club is a weird experience. I mean, I’ve been sober in a club, but not on a mission, and that’s fine. And same with being on a mission but not sober, that usually ends wells. But the combination of desperately needing to find something AND being stone cold sober, surrounded by dancey boozehounds, while actually looking nice and wearing 5inch heels at 1:30am is just awkward . The smell of booze and sweat is putrid, and drunken advances that normally wouldn’t phase me as much seemed excessively uncalled for.
Anyway I’m down a passport, which is never a good place to be. I spoke to passport Canada and the police (you gotta file a report) and I’m now in the process of filling out the official documentation saying that, indeed, I am a tool for losing my passport. The form even has a box asking you HOW, I carefully used statements like: “fallen off my person” rather than “drunkenly shaking my groove thang”. Regardless of future travel plans I need a new passport, though I am hoping to get my groove thang to NYC for the end of August, so the nice passport lady said I can submit my application alongside my declaration of loss.
So my plan for this week is to: get a new passport, and if I’m feeling particularly frisky, get a new license. Then you know, one day I will be able to drive a car. Maybe. One day. Or something. It’ll fit into my bra better than a passport at the very least.
The thing is because it’s not a “simple passport renewal” I have to start from scratch. And thanks to my charming parents the name on my birth certificate is sadly not the same as the name on any of my valid government issued ID. For some reason my passports and driver’s license (all expired and unusable, except for my UK passport, but that brings up a whole other barrel of WHY DO YOU HAVE 2 PASSPORTS YOUNG MISS?) all match the name on my birth certificate, which you know, makes sense. But my social insurance number and my health card have a different name, I mean it’s still PART of my name, just you know, not the name on my birth certificate. Great for tax and insurance fraud, I’m sure, but not so great when you are trying to avoid the no fly list. Why this happened? I have no idea. But man oh man, I hope that my wiggy last name will help in identifying me as me.
I guess I’ll find out soon enough!
All I can say is thank jeebus my last name isn’t Smith.