This was the year that my wife, Sugar, had to renew her Colorado driver’s license, so I accompanied her to the appropriate government office.
Sugar took a number at the door, #341, and awaited her turn. She made friends with another lady there, who said it took her three hours to get her license. She must have been exaggerating. I made a mental note to counsel Sugar about choosing her friends wisely and to beware of pathological liars. It was apparent to me that we would not be there long. They were already up to #297.
In order to renew one’s license, one must bring documentation other than one’s expiring license, which documentation must document one’s current address. So, when it was Sugar’s turn to go to window #8, she showed the young man our electric bill from REA mailed to our P.O. box. She also had her Colorado Teacher’s Certificate, which had been mailed to the same P.O. box. The young man, trained to ensure that no imposter be granted a driver’s license in Sugar’s name, disapproved these as documentation because they only showed our post office box number.
Sugar called me to the window, asking if my driver’s license, which is in good standing, had our county road address or just our P.O. box address. Mine has both, I proudly showed the young bureaucrat.
“Sorry,” he said, “I can’t accept your husband’s license as documentation of your current address.”
Apparently, others have tried to pull this stuff, using one’s spouse with an identical address to prove one’s own address. And who is to say that I am her spouse? See, we did not bring in our marriage license, so I might have been an imposter that claimed to be married to her and to have the same P.O. box AND physical address, yet really only had the real husband’s driver’s license, by, say, picking his pocket. Since my photo is on my license, this scheme would only work if the imposter looked like me, which, I might add, would be virtually impossible because very few members of the general public are as photogenic as yours truly. Nevertheless, the guy behind the counter was wary. Perhaps he has seen many frauds sit in the waiting room with women for hours, pretending to be married, so as to present a stolen license with an altered photo in order to meet the requirement of proving a current address. And if some people did go to all that trouble to provide a false address — what would be the purpose? I am guessing that most of us want our correct address on our driver’s licenses.
We showed him our checkbook. The checks have our P.O. box as our address. He suggested I go to the car to get our vehicle registration. Sugar told him that it probably only has our P.O. box. So I went to the car, got the registration, and, sure enough, it only had the P.O. box.
Sugar explained that we get our mail delivered at the post office for the reason that the U.S. Postal Service does not deliver mail to our ranch. Truly, you cannot use Mapquest or Google Maps to find our ranch. Once we called the Sheriff and he could not find us at the very address assigned to our place by the county. Apparently, our road address was incorrectly entered into the world of G.P.S. There are satellite photos of our ranch. You can see it from space, just not from the local Post Office. It is easy to find, just not by sheriffs or mailmen. Therefore, all categories of documents suggested by the state as identification showing one’s address, such as utility bills and bank statements, are mailed to our mailing address, which, if you still are with me, is our post office address. This is called circular logic.
I was thinking of going to the courthouse to get a copy of the deed to the ranch, which has a physical address with a road number and a lengthy legal description, but by this time, Sugar lost her place in line.
I went back to the car. (I had plenty of time to kill.) Digging through the glove box, I found no gloves, but I found our temporary registration when we bought the car years ago. That piece of paper, issued by the State of Colorado via the dealer, who probably asked for our address and relied upon merely the spoken word, happened to have both our P.O. box and OUR PHYSICAL ADDRESS. Yippee! The problem was, there was a sticky sticker stuck on the temporary registration from years of close contact within the glove box, which was the sticker with the price and options. I tried to remove the sticker from the temporary registration but quit when that action appeared to be ripping the registration at the place where our “street” address was written. I brought the registration and the attached sticker into the State of Colorado, Department of Revenue, Division of Motor Vehicles office.
As I said, Sugar had lost her place in line. We got there initially at 10:30 a.m. Now it was 12:30 p.m. I decided that Sugar’s new friend might have been accurate in her report of time spent there after all.
After a wait, the young man at window #8 had mercy and called us back up. I presented the temporary registration where you could kinda see the county road number if you barely pull back the sticker. He told me he could not read it.
Then Sugar smiled her beauty pageant winner smile and told him that it was her birthday, which is why she came in to make sure she did not drive on an expired license for even one day.
The state official asked her to tell him the address that he could not read, so she did, and he put that on her new license.
I guess I did not smile charmingly enough. The guy at window 8 took a chance that Sugar was not fooling about where she lives.
We still had to wait for her to get her photo taken and fingerprints taken.
The photo session went fine. It seems they believed that was Sugar’s real face.
The finger print guy could not get a print after four tries. For some reason, perhaps a trick she picked up from the Mafia, being of Italian heritage and all, Sugar has fingerprints that do not show up. Maybe she burned them off using some bad stuff as an art teacher. She would have an advantage as a burglar. When she renewed her teaching license, we had the same problem.
So the nice fingerprint guy checked something on the computer showing she had no criminal record and that her prints from before did not show up either.
So, the fingerprint guy compared her lack of prints in the past to her lack of prints in the present and said, “As far as I’m concerned, it’s a match.”
Sugar is supposed to get the license in the mail within 30 days. I sure hope they mail it to the P.O. box or we will never get it. Like we told the guy at window #8, they don’t deliver mail to our ranch.
If the mailman is attentive, he does not return mail addressed to the physical address on the county road, he puts it in the P.O. box with a note: “Please inform sender of P.O. box address.”
We tried to do just that.
I got my hair cut today. Randy is my barber. He is about my age. We talk about sports and local news. It is usually uneventful.
There was a young teenage boy in the next chair. I learned, from eavesdropping, that he is in 8th grade.
Personally, I don’t recall ever crying in the barber chair, or at all as an 8th grader, so I had zero empathy when that 8th grader had a hissy fit.
Apparently, his haircut was not turning out as he wanted. I could tell because he said that was not what he wanted, threw down the cloth thing they put around your shoulders to keep the hair clippings off your clothes, got up literally crying, and went outside, followed by his mother and the lady cutting his hair, who attempted to placate him, one of them bringing him water.
Randy and I shook our respective heads with shared disgust.
The placating was “successful” (although not something that would be my goal as his parent) so he returned to the chair.
The young lady to whose chair he returned asked if he was okay when he continued to pout. She asked if he wanted to go wipe his teary eyes in the bathroom, an idea that he rejected.
Instead, the misunderstood teen shouted that she “did not understand” his feelings.
Neither do I. Neither does Randy. Join the club.
His mother understood that her son’s needs were not being adequately met. She agreed that he could have his hair dyed. That is a great idea, because a thirteen year old with an earring looks stupid without dyed hair.
So, after his unsatisfactory haircut, the stylist/colorist mixed up the old dye pot and brushed a potion on the top of the kid’s head.
I probably hurt the sensitive young man’s feelings when I joked with Randy that I wondered if I needed highlights in my naturally whitened hair. Randy did not think I needed any highlights. I take that to mean that my hair is such a beautiful color that is impossible to improve upon.
The crybaby’s mother brought to his chair a book for him to read while waiting for the dye to kick in.
I hope the hair dye cheered him up. I got a feeling that he is going to have much more to cry about when Mom isn’t around to respond to life’s disappointments.
I fear the kid has been spoiled. That isn’t all his fault.
Somebody should have told him long before now that big boys don’t cry and that crying to get your way won’t work. It is getting almost too late to teach him what most of us learned at age two.
But there is still hope. Maybe he will join the Marine Corps someday. They provide haircuts without a guy’s mother butting in.