As I mentioned on Friday, last weekend me and four lovely ladies headed up to Solvang, CA for a weekend of wining, dining (though not really, more on that later), and laughing. Saturday was our big day of activity and we had a wine tour planned! You know, one of those over 21 only activities.
Cute Apartment and I headed out mid-day on Friday for the trip, while the other girls met us up there Friday night. We got a bit of a late start, but by 3pm we were deep into our three hour drive. We decided to make a pit stop in Santa Barbara to hit up a happy hour and maybe waltzed around State Street (a must do if you're ever in the area).
We picked ourselves the most adorable little happy hour venue, with an outdoor patio fit with miniture fire pits on the tables and one bit one that we grabbed some chairs in front of. Cute Apartment ran to the ladies' room while I persued the drink menu and decided on a classic margarita (it was a Mexican restaurant afterall).
When our waiter approached us, he was accompanied by his trainer, and we found out he was a newbie. Being that CA and I waitressed together, I think we were both excited to see the new kid do his thing. His spiel was adorable in the sense that he sounded sort of ridiculous, and so nervous. After ordering our margs, he started to walk away but before he could his trainer whispered a little something something in his ear about asking for our IDs.
Being that I'm way past my 21st birthday (though I'll be celebrating the 4th anniversary of it this year, a lovely tradition), I was happy to oblige and reached into my small crossbody bag where I've kept my license for months lately. It wasn't in the front pocket, so I assumed I must have shoved it in the main opening at some point after a quick booze purchase. Nope.
Imagine my shock and dismay when I realized it was no where in my purse. Cute Apartment and I hightailed it out of there in a hurry to double check the rest of my bags in her car, hoping maybe it was at the bottom of another bag. Nope.
No, this girl here had managed to make it Santa Barbara on her way to a wine filled weekend sans driver's license or any form of identification for that matter. Fudge.
Our later leaving LA ladies (try saying that 5 times fast) ended up being quite the gift from a wine-loving God because as I sat in CA's passenger seat trying to figure out how I'd be able to go on the damn wine tour, I realized my passport was at home. And so was my husband.
After a quick call (and maybe some..favors promised), he agreed to drive my passport from South Orange County all the way to Los Angeles...in rush hour. And then back.
And that is how I managed to go on the wine tour, sans driver's license.
Moral of the story? Make sure you've got a passport, even if you never leave the country. And get married to a man who loves you a lot.