Today I had a lot of things planned. Because planning is an essential part of any escape. Right now, I am looking to escape from my married name. I stopped using it online about a year ago, but I never really got around to getting it changed. Mostly, I was lazy. I admit it.
A week before I landed in the hospital, I FINALLY made it over to the Social Security office to get it changed back. It took a little while, but I went to one out in the middle of nothing, so I think there were only 6 people in front of me. Not too shabby for a government operation.
So, I planned to get up, shower, and get all pretty for my first new Driver’s License picture in 10 years. Then I get a call from a doctor who I needed to fill out some paperwork and he needed me to drive out there like immediately. So, I did. Then, he decided I needed to go into this therapy program again so he could wean me off all the meds the last doc jacked me up on. So that took a while. Then it was lunch time, so I had some yum-o Mongolian BBQ.
Then it was time. Time to head to the DPS (Department of Public Safety). Please note… the S is for SUCKS. I went to the closest office, which was weirdly in the middle of a neighborhood. It was kind of fun getting there… watching the little blue dot that is me travel down the busiest freeway in Houston to arrive at my destination. Recalculate this! So I pull into the building and I shit you not… there is a line out the door. Like 15 people out the door. No bueno. So, instead I head to an office in the boonies, figuring that method worked at the SS office.
First, I am an idiot for not having a map, or getting distracted by my own blinking blue dot, because I went the wrong way. Like 5 miles out of my way, wrong way. So, I backtrack that business and get onto the correct road. Paul had told me it was just past this street, so I was looking for that street. Blew right past it. Drove down another mile before I realized it. Turned around and drive through not one… not two… but THREE school zones in this 2 mile stretch. Crazy. I pull up to the biggest DPS office I have ever seen. No line outside, so that is a good start. So, I happily went inside, content that I would be getting my awesome maiden name back.
As I walk through the door, there is a smug little man handing out forms and pointing you in the right direction. He asks what I am there for. “I need to change my name.” “Ah,” he says, “Because of marriage?” “No. Divorce.” “Hmmm, well do you have your driver’s license with you?” “Of course I do.” (moron) “Do you have your divorce decree?” “Yes.” (again, duh idiot) “Is is a CERTIFIED copy??” “Of course.” “Oh. Over there” where he proceeds to send me to the longer of two lines. But it isn’t that bad.
There is an old man who walked in behind me and he is bitching from the time we left the parking lot and all through the line. Bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch! We get it, old man. You hate the DPS. Me too. Welcome to the club. He’s mad because they didn’t give him a pen. He is mad because the line is too long. He’s mad because someone soaked his undies in Bengay… I don’t know. But I am happily filling out my forms saying, “uh huh” every time he got enraged about something else.
I get to the curve to the home stretch and notice a sign on the wall.
“Money accepted: Cash, Checks, Money Order, Certified check: WE DO NOT ACCEPT DEBIT OR CREDIT CARDS”
Are you effing kidding me??? It is 2011!! Who doesn’t accept debit cards. It is the Twenty-first century, folks. And by the way, where is my flying car?? In the early ’80s, we were totally promised flying cars by now. But, I digress. So, I realize sadly that my checkbook was in my laptop bag and not my purse (because I write literally one check a month for rent), and I carry no cash BECAUSE THE WHOLE WORLD TAKES DEBIT CARDS! ARGH!!!
Defeated, I slipped out through the line divider and mope back to the parking lot. No name change today. I did think about punching Mr. Smug-Forms in the throat on my way out the door, but then realized that I probably do need my meds adjusted. Heh.
Tonight ended up being a raspberry margarita & fajita night at Chuys, followed by a little Valentine’s Day retail therapy for the nieces. We may have stopped for ice cream on the way home, but I have already blocked that sugary memory from my mind.
And tomorrow I will again make my pilgrimage to the Department of Public Sucks (which is probably what they should call the free clinic, come to think of it) to get my name changed. Hopefully, Mr. Smug-Forms won’t be there again. I might have to punch him in his junk.