When Your Claim to Fame Involves the DMV

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Let’s talk driver’s license photos, shall we?

Note: Oleander, you knew this was coming.

I love to talk about my driver’s license photo. In fact, when a cashier asks to see my photo ID, I pull it out, almost gleefully.

No, let’s make that actually gleefully.

 

 

Because, look:

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Holy Moses, I am a Goddess!

 

Right? What is happening here, people? This is the DMV! When did the DMV become a veritable Sears Portrait Studio? I even suggested to the photo-taking employee that she should consider a position at Glamour Shots. (Please tell me that place still exists. Or is it now just a sultry, dimly-lit corner of the bedroom and an iPhone?)

So, I get lots of responses to my photo, mainly because of my gleefulness, ranging from “Wow, that’s a really great photo!” to “Wow, that doesn’t even look like you!”

Note: Heck, yes it looks like me.

But a few days ago in the Pharmacy refill line, the tall, somewhat big-bellied, 50ish gentleman behind the counter asked for my ID.

I gleefully produced it.

He looked at my ID. He looked at me. And then he ruined it. He ruined my gleefulness with two words.

Well, technically one word, repeated twice, with a little bit of sweat on his brow.

“Hubba Hubba.”

Hubba Hubba? Is this what single women in my age group deal with? Is this where years of self-help and empowerment and breaking barriers has brought the fiftyish woman? Hubba Hubba?

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Note: Oh dear. I think I may have just died a little inside.

 

Hey! Let’s have a little fun.  Run on over to our Bacon and Oleander Facebook Page and post your own Driver’s License photo! (with personal information removed, of course!) Maybe I’ll even give you a little Hubba Hubba of your own …

IKEA INSIGHTS: And is a Lingonberry a real fruit or something made up by Cap’n Crunch?

anigif_enhanced-buzz-3800-1389317397-13When I was growing up, we didn’t have an IKEA. We had a SEARS catalog that came every year in the mail, full of dreamy items but with normal names like couches, sleeper sofas, bookcases, curtains and cabinet handles. And sometimes, when life got fancy, we went to Sears. To see the dreamy items. And well, dream.

Note: That Mike Brady. Such a hunk.

But I grew up, yes. And I graduated from Sears to IKEA, a place where Americans go to pretend to live frugally and with less stuff. But ironically, IKEA is a place to buy stuff that probably nobody really needs in order to live small, but we Americans are an eager bunch. And so we buy KLIPs to sit on and FAGELBOs to sleep on and EXPEDITs to organize with and MERETEs to hang at our windows and GODMORGONs to open our cupboards, which overflow with stuff from IKEA.

But that’s okay because you can buy actual cabinets at IKEA to hold even more IKEA stuff and make you feel even more EUROPEAN as48d36b7558452e26509904ffbb65ea97 you wrangle with the tools and the cabinets and knobs and try to put all of this stuff together in your living room, because for your convenience, it comes in flat boxes to conveniently tie to the roof of your Prius and fly down the freeway, perilously.

And all of those Swedish names come in handy as you wrestle with the ropes and the tools and the boards and the instructions without words because all Swedish words sound like solid swear words, so you can express irritation without using the actual words in front of the children.

For example: What in the FRYKEN world! (Boxes with lids, if you’re wondering).

So, I pretty much love IKEA. I love the words and the products and the daring of the perilous driving and the lingonberry sauce.

And the meatballs. Please don’t forget the Swedish meatballs.

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–Bacon

Oleander: So, go sit outside in your IKEA POANG and tell us what really goes on backstage during a musical theater production.