Yesterday, while sitting in the DMV office I started to wonder:  Where do the Beautiful People renew their licenses, get their cars registered, get a RealID, etc., because they sure weren’t the people in the DMV in Winnetka.  There’s the first clue – it’s Winnetka — a town I never heard of before moving to the San Fernando Valley.

Shall we just say that Winnetka is not known for its tourist attractions?

Maybe the BP pay someone loads of money to do it for them, but then how is their picture taken? Of course, even I know that if you’re beautiful and rich, you can do almost anything or get anything accomplished.

To get our RealID, Larry and I took piles of corroborating evidence that we were indeed California residents.  I did all the work in preparation for this event and then made appointments for us, figuring this was really a smart thing to do.  I questioned that appointment making when I saw the people  without appointments running through their lines.

I noticed the couple ahead of us in the “Appointment and Disabled” line, chuckling.  I asked them, “Are you laughing because you made an appointment and you’ve been standing here for ages and now you feel foolish?”  “Yes,” they said.

Larry and I took turns standing and sitting.  When we finally got to the front of the line, his paperwork was acceptable.  I had planned for everything, I thought.  What I didn’t plan for was the fact that I needed a CERTIFIED copy of our marriage certificate.

I had changed my name from Acosta to Miller fifty-five years ago, but the faded and tattered church document declaring we were married was not good enough for the government.

“But,” I said, “I changed my name over fifty-five years ago, and I’ve had passports, driver’s licenses, social security documents and numerous other documents, and I don’t understand what’s happening,” as my voice broke.

The clerk said, without any sympathy at all, “You have to call this county courthouse and request a certified copy.  See, it looks like the thing on this document (pointing to my birth certificate).”

I told her that I knew how to get one, I just didn’t know why I needed one.  I guess I  missed that requirement on the list of things I needed to bring with me.

They were questioning my very identity even as I stood before them with tons of evidence of my existence.  Now I know how the suffragettes felt.

I didn’t want to be one of those people who melts down in a government office, so I took some deep breaths to calm myself and watched while Larry sailed through the process after I did all the work and was rejected.

Next time I apply for anything related to driving, I’m going to the Beverly Hills office.  Even if I get rejected, at least I’ll have some attractive people to look at while I wait my turn.

 

The End

 

 

 

T