For being fairly photogenic, my husband surprised us all with his two new pictures. For his passport. The dinky postage-stamp sized ones that uh, end up being somewhat permanent. But just for ten years or so. The kind you don’t take a sharpie to and give yourself a mustache or a couple of horns. Or even a smile.
Which is what the gal at Costco had told my husband to wipe off his face. “They don’t like it when you smile too much, “she said. So she’d snapped another pic. Only the double doozer she left him with may be the reason we never leave this country. Or never get to.
As now we have Thug Husband.
Who yesterday waved his newly arrived passport four inches from our daughter’s face and asked, “does this look like a guy you could trust?” And to which she’d looked up from her math, squinted and said, “no, not really.” And then asked, “is that you, dad?”
My point exactly.