Showing posts with label hats. Show all posts
Showing posts with label hats. Show all posts

Wednesday, March 21, 2012

A License to Pick Up Narcotics


I’ve seen my husband through a few surgeries over the past few years, the latest—last Wednesday—being the repair of an inguinal hernia. He’s suffering a slight complication today, which required a new prescription for pain killers.

When I dropped off the script for Tylenol #3's at the pharmacy, I was told that under new regulations I would require two pieces of photo ID in order to pick up the drugs, as they were deemed narcotics. Seems like a good policy; one that is simple enough to comply with, for people who possess the required documents.  

Today I used my passport, but as for fulfilling the second obligation by producing a plastic card that reveals both my photo and my current address, I came up short. It's not like I can show them one of my hard-cover books with the author's photo on the back (although I did try that at the border once).    

My health card is one of the early ones with no identifying photo—there’s that age thing again—so there is no picture of me (pink-haired, behatted or otherwise) to prove my identity. Just the iconic, Canadian, red and white markings and a bunch of numbers. It looks like I’ll have to get a driver’s license, if only for the credentials.

I know. I can hear you screaming, “You don’t have a license?” I do not. Any of you who have heard my husband recount my driving exploits, know why I gave the practice up. I admit to my shortcomings. I was a terrible, inattentive driver, continually thinking of hats or dreaming up fictional plots in my head, while entire legions of angels kept a lookout for my safety.

Once, in the 80’s, I was involved…Strike that, I caused an accident that prompted me to ask the constable, “How many cars did I hit?” She answered, “You only hit one, Dear, but you struck it twice.”  

Tomorrow I’ll bus it to the Motor Vehicle Bureau, or whatever they call it, and tell them I want to apply for a license to pick up narcotics. Do you suppose they’ll take my picture and hand me a card?  




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Monday, March 5, 2012

Back to the Future

Norma at Six Months 
I've decided to take a look back before going forward. Check me out. This was me at the same age my granddaughter is now.

There are no props to look at, no context really. This diaper-clad cutie is not surrounded by hats and books, cameras and computers, dolls and dresses, as I am now. Just Norma; just her, just me.

I recognize the eyebrows, the lips, and the long waist.  I've still got the cleavage, and can pick things up off of the floor with my curly toes. All good stuff. The pinch-able upper arm flesh is kind of back, though, so I'd better get to those push-ups.

As babies go, there's not much of a bum there. Still isn't. In our family, we call that particular genetic trait "The Thomas Bottom". Distinguished sounding, don't you think? It comes with great legs, so I've never really minded not being able to properly fill out the ass of my jeans.

That's a happy-looking baby, with no idea of what lies ahead for her. I think I'll try and recapture some of that, starting today.

It's hard to believe I used to inhabit her little body. Is reincarnation just a gradual process?  What do you see when you look at your baby pictures?