Scrapbooking Garage Sale
Tina Scissorhands

The Lone Star State

Why yes, I DO still exist, thank you very kindly!

In honor of my Aunt Linda, who, via her Facebook-savvy grandkids, has relayed the message that I need to update my blog already, I present . . .

a blog post!

*clap* *clap* *RAAAH*

I have lived in Texas just over a month now, and I can summarize it as follows:

WEEK ONE: Where is EVERYTHING?!!!

WEEK TWO: Where are MOST THINGS?!!!

WEEK THREE: We simply MUST purchase a new . . . (insert something here, like; table, entertainment center, couch, floor mat, bathroom hooks, etc., etc.) because our existing stuff doesn't . . . (insert something here, like "fit the space", or "match the colors", or "excite me") so let's go shopping! Also, did you record the World Cup game?

WEEK FOUR: CHA is (gulp) WHEN?!

I will be teaching a class at CHA on Monday, July 26th. I'm excited to teach the class, which combines some of my BRAND NEW pop-up dies with existing popular Tim Holtz dies and folders. The projects utilize some of his other branded products as well. The class is sold out, so I won't say much more about it, other than I hope to see you there. (If you already have a ticket, I mean.)

Just a few days before that class I will celebrate a birthday, or, more accurately, a death-of-my-thirties-day. And this is significant primarily because my Colorado drivers license expires on my birthday.

And I have to fly two days later.

Which meant that somehow, despite being overwhelmingly behind in my CHA preparations, I also had to fit in a trip to the DMV to get a Texas drivers license.

Yesterday was "Become a Texan" day.

I had hoped that it would be "Become a Texan" just-a-couple-of-hours, but no, it was a full day.

First I had to get my vehicle inspected, which went smoothly. Armed with my inspection report, which, according to the clerk at Kwik Lube, should not be "folded in half" or "crinkled in any way", I set off to find the county tax assessor's office, pristine inspection report riding safely on the dashboard.

The county tax assessor's office was duly located and I had all the required paperwork to register and title my vehicle! Whoo hoo! This was going so smoothly!

And then came the DMV.

*SCREEEECH!* (That, dear readers, is the sound of the brakes hitting my smooth "Become a Texan" day)

I knew there would be a wait at the DMV, but I expected it to be like Colorado's DMV - you come in, get a number, sit in one of the hundreds of chairs, that are currently occupied by hundreds of waiting people, and read a book. Then, an hour later when your number is called, you proceed orderly to the counter and conduct your business.

Not so much with Texas.

The office was tiny, hot, and the line was nearly out the door. There are no numbers, no chairs, no customer service agent to tell you which line to choose . . . you simply fended.

The long line was for renewals, as I was told by two nice ladies in the back of the line. The short line, they said, rather enviously, was just for out-of-state or brand new licenses. "I'm out of state!" I said, gleefully. "Well then you can use that line!" they said, momentarily excited for me and then suddenly depressed for themselves. "Brilliant!" I declared, moving over to the short line. "We're very kind in Texas!" one of the ladies called after me.

But the line, despite being short, was feeding in to just one person, whereas the long line had three agents. So technically, by the time I got to the front, the kind ladies were already at the counter.

The wait was insanely long. And hot. And boring. And you couldn't sit down.

I chatted a bit with the guys behind me. One of them was attempting to get a Texas license for the third time, each time coming without the proper paperwork. We all shuddered and hoped that our paperwork was in order.

When I was very next in line, and the lady in front of me had been at the counter for 20 minutes, meaning her departure was imminent, a woman and her teenage son suddenly appeared ahead of me, announcing "I can't believe it . . . we were in the wrong line!" and basically assumed that they could jump our line because they had "served time" in the other line. 

And I said . . . .

nothing.

I assumed that the guys behind me would tell her to go to the back of the line, but they said . . .

nothing.

We all just opted for politeness, in this hot, long, sticky, been-standing-for-an-hour line.

So the woman and her teenage son went next and I waited another 20 minutes.

I had to admire, on some level, the woman's audacity. In a million years I wouldn't have jumped a line like that. I daydreamed about how the scenario would have played differently if, say, I had a spine. "Excuse me, ma'am. You do not think you're going NEXT, do you?" "Well I waited in that line over there . . ." "And I waited in this line over here. The CORRECT line, I might add." And then, while she was still reeling from my zinger, fish mouth open and eyes blinking, I'd hit her with: "I tell you what - if you get permission from every person in this line, you can jump to the front. I'll go first . . . NO!"

Wouldn't that have been great?

Only not, because I would have felt guilty and rude. Oh well.

When I finally reached the counter and nervously presented my Colorado license, passport, social security card, registration, insurance card, heart, soul, blood, sweat and tears . . . I had everything I needed! YEEEESSSS!

After filling out an application, raising my right hand and swearing I didn't lie, passing the vision test, getting my picture taken, and paying my $25, I was just waiting for her to hand me my new license when . . .

She hands me a paper printout with my picture on it!

Printer paper.

An 8.5" x 11" piece of paper with my picture and license information.

In black and white.

"This is your temporary license," she tells me "And we'll mail the actual license to you in six weeks."

Seriously.

I had to fold the paper into tenths to get it in my wallet.

I highly doubt that the TSA will accept my "printed on a Laserjet" license at the airport next week. It looks like my kid made it.

Actually, Karl would have been ashamed to present something so patently fake-looking, so I should probably say it looks like my dog made it.

Do dogs have pride in their forgeries?

Thankfully I have a passport, so I will be able to fly, but I am definitely presenting my temporary license first, just to see if they accept it. If, that is, I can unwedge it from my wallet and unfold it in time.

However, at the end of it all, the bottom line is . . . I'm officially a Texan.

Yee-haw!

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