Forgot to Declare
Thursday, April 26th, 2007
This week’s question:
Congrats! You survived another April 15th. Tell us about a time when you ‘forgot’ to declare something-to the IRS or anyone else…
Next week’s question:
Spring is in the air and the film fest is in Tribeca. What do you remember about your very first movie date?
I love boats. But I get seasick. In my excitement to experience boats, I often forget about the seasickness until I’m on deck, heading out to sea. Then my stomach begins to roil. I blame this nautical amnesia for the fix I found myself in many years ago taking a ferry from Bar Harbor, Maine to Yarmouth, Nova Scotia. I was so queasy I had forgotten I was crossing a border into another country, and that meant a customs inspection. When we disembarked, an officer pulled me out of line and asked if I was bringing any illegal substances into Canada. I was bringing illegal substances into Canada. Said substance was right in my jacket pocket. That’s how stupid I was. I shook my head dumbly. I was taken into another room, where my minute amount of contraband was instantly discovered. Threats (theirs) ensued, followed by tears (mine). Ultimately Mother Canada let me slide. Turns out Nova Scotia is a beautiful place even when you’re not high.
I bought a volcanic-stone mortar and pestle (molcajete) in Mexico shaped like a pig (and heavy as a prize-winning hog). Too attached to check him, I packed him in my carry-on, hoping no one would notice. (Post-9//11, pestles are weapons, and not just to avocados.) Alas, Mexico City security confiscated my precious pig. I arrived at my gate in tears. The agent said, “Senorita, you must have your pig.” She switched me to the next flight, buying me enough time to reclaim the pig and repack it in my suitcase. My guacamole, since you asked, is legendary.
My dirty little secret is that I’m totally, horribly unqualified for my job. I knew this when I got hired, but hell, it’s my dream job, and none of the people who hired me really bothered to ask whether I was qualified, so I sure as hell wasn’t going to tell them. Finally, about five months after I was hired, my boss and I were talking about what I’d done before my current job. The look of horror on his face was priceless, but I haven’t been fired yet.
When I was 19, I had a great boyfriend and no money. One morning he called to tell me he’d had the most vivid sex dream of his life. He was a civil war soldier searching a Tara-like plantation until he found me in nothing but a white ruffled nightie with tiny buttons. He unbuttoned; he ravaged; he awoke; I was insanely flattered. When I serendipitously found the very nightgown he’d described in a pricey boutique, I knew I needed to have it. Tags still attached, we performed our historical reenactment. Then I returned the used garment, and when the salesgirl asked if there was anything wrong, I declared it good as new.
I had a very serious boyfriend for two years. Then we broke up. Then a few months later we sort of got back together. On a trip to Paris a couple months later, I experienced the lethal combo of too many drinks, a dark club full of English speaking Europeans in their 20s, and a very hot Irishman whose travels to America only included Las Vegas. My ex-boyfriend and I, 3,000 miles apart, had yet to declare we were officially back together by then, so I didn’t think of it as cheating when I flirted and made out with Barry at the end of the night. I had to leave early the next day, so it didn’t go anywhere. After I got back to the U.S., my ex and I continued to act more and more like we were a couple, falling back into our patterns as boyfriend and girlfriend, but still would never officially declare our love for each other like we had before the break up. But two years after we were sort of together, we still had to go through an official re-break up for our unofficial relationship.
Are these supposed to be 100 words or less, or did I get that wrong?
They are supposed to be under 100 words, yes. But when bad counters are good writers, I’ve been known to let it slide. Naughty children!
From Ulaan Baatar to Beijing, on the Trans-Siberian Express, baggage included Mongolian fresh frozen mutton, dried yogurt and a sheep tail.
On the border, I ‘forgot’ to declare when asked if I was carrying prohibited goods.
Although the compartment was cramped, they started searching for this scent of fresh mutton in-between all the odors of smoke, alcohol, sweat and other unspeakable smells. The fat Mongolian mama sitting just on my luggage, smiled, didn’t talk and didn’t move. Not much they could do.
At destination, she smiled, nodded towards mine, and her luggage.
At the taxi stand she still smiled, still didn’t talk. Thank you big mama.
Nice. Glad I there there to “fall back into the pattern” when it was convenient for you. Unofficially, of course…
When I was 19 my dad and I were visiting Scotland shortly before Christmas.
It was 2001. Enthralled by the quaintness of holiday celebrating in Scotland
I bought all my Christmas presents there and some other Anglo celebratory
accessories like crackers those gift wrapped things that you pull at both
ends until it “cracks” open with a bang and reveals a little gift inside.
When my dad and I arrived at the airport to go home the man checking us in
asked, as they always do if our bags were packed by anyone else, if anyone
had given us to take on the plane with us or if we had any weapons. This
included anything with gunpowder, like the holiday crackers, he explained. I
piped up and said. “yeah, I have some.” “Uh Oh. That’s a problem” the man
said. “No, no, no.” My dad broke in, “She means like, biscuits. In the U.S.
we call them crackers.” “Oh, no I mean the holiday sort.” The man chuckled
and nodded at me and took our bags to be delivered to the plane. I didn’t
say anything because I wanted those holiday crackers for a perfectly
Anglicized Christmas. When we walked away I said to my dad in a low voice,
“Dad I really do have holiday crackers in there.” “Oh.” said my dad. The
entire flight I was worried they’d spontaneously combust and they were a
bust at Christmas, and not in the way they were intended.
Why didn’t you submit the “Simon story.” That’s a good one, too. Someone was kind enough to fill me in right after DC.
Hey, I thought you were an only child?