With the number of silly things I do, and the predicaments I find, or put, myself in, I could be a slap-stick actor in a sit-com.
The latest are my shenanigans at the Department of Motor Vehicles, or as they call it here in New Mexico, the Motor Vehicle Department. Don’t ask me why.
Okay, you can ask. Santa Fe is called The City Different. I guess that means everything is different, including official names. And that’s not just when they’re in Spanish or Dinè.
When I moved here, I misplaced my Social Security card and my passport. That gives you an idea of my general lack of organization and typical screw-ups. No one who knows me was the least bit surprised.
I’m not planning on leaving the country soon — although I’m prepared to at any minute — so I wasn’t worried about the passport. Yet.
It had to be here SOMEWHERE.
I turned over every stone — literally, because New Mexico is very rocky — my back yard is all rocks, which make baby rocks which become dust which makes it’s way into my house — looking for my passport and the Social Security card.
I was wrong. They were NOWHERE.
Who knew I’d need one of them to get a driver’s license here? I have a Texas Driver’s License and two proofs of New Mexico residence. The Texas license should prove I’m a real person with a REAL ID.
To be clear, I could get a license without Social Security card or passport, but not the REAL one. The one that is now required in order to fly anywhere in the U.S. If you don’t have a REAL license, you also can’t vote. Well, you can, but the name on it better match another document, such as your SOCIAL SECURITY CARD OR PASSPORT.
Which I couldn’t find.
The very nice and attractive young man at the Motor Vehicle Department was most helpful. He said if I couldn’t find them, to simply come back with my marriage license and divorce degree from the man whose name I kept after divorce nearly half a century ago.
Did he think that since I misplaced my Social Security Card and my passport that I was the type person to know where documents from my tender youth were stored? If I even still have them SOMEWHERE.
When I expressed doubts of having those documents, he said,
“No worries. Come back when you find your Social Security card and passport.”
Yeah, right.
He did proceed to give me a license, but one that says in dramatic and foreboding letters at the top,
“Not for Federal Government Use.”
So, no flying or voting for me. The “no flying” thing is new as of May, 2025. Not new to me, as I was selected for “Random Extra Security Check In” for years back in the Bush era. If the SAVE act passes, I won’t be able to vote either. (See links below for those stories).
if your name has ever changed and you don’t have two or three supporting government documents to show the same name you currently use, you won’t be able to vote either if the act passes. So, toss the spouse if you must, but keep those marriage and divorce papers. FOREVER.
Dig them out from under your pile of papers, take the divorce decree out of its gilded frame from its altar, and put them in a safe place. Maybe where you keep your Social Security card and passport.
Or not, if you’re me.
The sweet young man, let’s call him Eric, then directed me to the camera for my Driver’s License photo, for which I had spent the morning in the mirror preparing. Perfectly coifed clean hair. Understated makeup, but with cat eyes that took careful application. The shade of lipstick and face glow gel that makes me look younger. Or so I believe, and do not disillusion me.
Eric took several photos of me for the license, letting me reject the first few. I didn’t know they could do that, and I was thrilled. No more being stuck with whatever janky pic came out under ugly lighting and a weird angle.
As he shot pic after pic, I adjusted my stance and face angle to highlight my best features and camouflage my worst. If you must know, my worst is my under chin, which I had carefully hidden with contour, and stretched out by poking my head forward. Mother always told me you have to suffer for beauty. She didn’t say I’d look like a turkey, neck out, racing for the border.
We eventually got one I approved, he handed me the basic, temporary, “not to be used for Federal purposes”, license, and told me I to come back when I found my Social Security card and passport, and get the REAL license. More time in purgatory. At least Eric was nice, so my suffering was minimal.
Two weeks later, my basic license arrived in the mail, and I congratulated myself again on the photo. I also, by then, had located my Social Security card and passport, and was on the home stretch, once I made an appointment to return to the Motor Vehicle Department. (I can’t call it the MVD. Sounds like Weapons of Mass Destruction).
Where were they, you ask? In a logical place. In a multi-pocket plastic file folder along with other important papers, and a collection of credit cards I had been glad not to find earlier, so I wasn’t tempted to use them. Buying a house in another state without an inspection is expensive. That’s another Carol foolish decision for another story.
The folder was on top of my new washing machine, under a stack of other papers and some cleaning supplies. Because of course it was.
Now, confident and ready, I made the second appointment. I got up late on the appointment day and didn’t wash my hair, and couldn’t find my mascara. The ever present lipstick in a weird color was in place, but that’s about it. Thank goodness they already had a good photo of me from two weeks earlier.
Feeling very organized, I also requested to change my registration during the same session. I’d hoped to get the same sweet young man, Eric, for the appointment, but I was called to Derek’s station. Eric and Derek. I know. And both nice guys.
This time, I was fully prepared.
First, Derek had me drive my car to an inspection area. He circled the car making notes. He noted down the VIN number. He asked if I had the title, and I puffed out my chest proudly and said yes. We returned inside.
I pushed all my paperwork through the plexiglass hole onto Derek’s desk. He picked up my Title — and said,
“This isn’t the Title.”
I insisted it was, as it clearly said “Title” at the top, to which I pointed several times.
He won the debate, showing me and example of the official blue Title form, and told me I had to request the actual, real (there’s that word again) Title from the leasing company, not the photocopy I’ve always carried in the car assuming it was the actual title. I presume it’s the registration, but I’m afraid to ask.
Still awash in my new confidence of organization, I called the leasing company while he entered mysterious information on his computer, and got the address and the fax number for him to send the request for the Title. While not overtly grateful for my expeditious behavior, he accepted the information.
I guess most people meekly leave to call or email their loan company and then bring the information back to Derek or Eric, wait weeks before Derek or Eric receive the Title, and then go back again. New Mexico, like its forebear, Mexico, is a mañana state. We Texas women are a “Get it done now” species.
There will still be a delay as I wait for Derek to request the Title, and then for him to receive the Title, which means I would have to to back One. More. Time. Sigh.
Derek then turns to my license issue. He had me fill out EVERYTHING again I had filled out two weeks before, including registering to vote. This would make my third time to register to vote in New Mexico. They made me do it! I swear I will only vote once. No matter how many voter registrations I may or may not eventually receive.
By now, I’d been there over an hour. I signed the final declaration, and sighed in relief.
Derek stands and says,
“Okay, now let’s take your picture.”
Oh Derek. Sweet Derek. You unleashed the Fury.
I sputtered. I protested. I told him in no uncertain terms that in TEXAS they used the same photo for renewals, and this was nothing more than a renewal of the basic, two-weeks-old license to transform it into a REAL ID. He was not impressed or moved. We former Texans aren’t that popular in New Mexico. The first time I visited, a thousand years ago, there were bumper stickers saying,
“Texan Go Home!”
I would almost rather move back to Texas than have him take my picture the way I looked that day.
My tantrum didn’t deter him, and I flounced over to the camera. To his credit, he took four or five photos, all of which I rejected, and I finally said,
“This isn’t going to work!”
I would have to come back and start all over. I pouted my way back to his desk, where he quietly told me,
“Come back tomorrow at 8:00 a.m. when we open, and come straight to my desk. I’ll retake your photo.”
If I could have reached through the plexiglass surrounding his desk to hug him, I would.
I did laugh and say,
“I’m not positive I can look any better that early in the morning, but I’ll be here.” I was. The photo isn’t as good as the temporary one, but it will do. How much trouble do you get in for cutting and pasting a different photo on a REAL ID. I swear it’s still me.
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This post was previously published on MEDIUM.COM.
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Photo credit: iStock.com
