I tottered into the DMV on extremely high heels after a brief panic at home when I couldn't find my pearls. That was my biggest concern before getting to the DMV - accessories. When I got there, I was told that I would need my Social Security card to get a license. Suffice it to say that I was told this after walking through the world's longest velvet rope maze to get to the counter in the world's clackiest shoes. I thought it was extra whimsical that I clicked and clacked my way all the way through the rope maze to get to the counter when I could so easily have bypassed it. It was not. Thwarted, I drove home to retrieve my Social Security card which I didn't bring initially because I keep it in a wallet that was too big for my tiny, cute purse. Accessories. Again.
When I got back to the DMV, I clicked back through the maze to find out that the two pieces of mail that I was required to show as proof of address could not be hand-written envelopes, which nixed the envelope from my mom's Valentine's Day card, or any kind of solicitation mail, which excluded the credit card offer from citibank. I rifled through the garbage dump that is my car to find pieces of mail that were acceptable, running inside at intervals to check with the supervisor. "How about my insurance card? No? How about my copy of 'Martha Stewart Living' magazine? No? Are you crazy? If Martha says I live there, you better believe that I LIVE THERE!" Finally, I had the required pieces of mail. Then, I learned that the DMV didn't take Visa cards...
Clickety clack, I went down the street to an ATM. Honkity honk went the cars driving by. Plinkity plink went the bobby pins leaking out of my bouffant as I hobble-jogged back to the DMV.
When I sat down with one of the clerks at the DMV, she looked at the insurance policy that I presented as proof of residency and declared that it wasn't good enough because the policy had since expired. I started to cry, putting my luxurious false lashes in imminent peril. "I don't get official mail at my house! The bills are all in my husband's name!" So yeah, some parts of my life are as early 60's as my outfit was today. The woman took pity on me and told me her supervisor could sign off on it and she'd pass me through. "After all," I said, "Jesse White once gave me a hug!" I thought that might help as I was in the Jesse White building of the Department of Motor Services. The woman didn't look amused. "He called me Miss America..." Silence.
Three counters and one supervisor check later, I was all set to get my fabulous, whimsical, Mad Men-esque driver's license photo taken. Something happened between "get ready" and the camera's click and my new license looks like that one elementary school librarian that looks like she never quite changed the calendar after Dec. 31, 1963. Or maybe like a very pleasant maiden aunt in her late fifties.
Next time, I'm wearing a fake beard. Whimsy fail.
