The Fixer has been fixing the Jeep for my long-anticipated trip to that ice covered hell I like to call "Ohio". Only, for once, he's not fixing so good. He's usually quite a good Fixer, but he's hit a wall of obstinacy that he can't overcome. So we get to shell out Christ only knows how much to have a "professional" do the fixing. The fact that The Fixer used to be a "professional" isn't lost on me.
I seriously considered just saying "fuck it" and leaving all of my and Stinkbug's clothes behind, and hopping a Greyhound. Then I remembered that California has screwed me out of a valid ID, and I don't have Stinkbug's birth certificate. These are obvious problems when taking a plane, well, the ID part, but the thing is that California (and the surrounding states) are sort of a hot-bed of contention right now, concerning immigration. This isn't to start a conversation about immigration. But the fact of the matter is that I'm Latina. In Middle America, at most people assume I'm Italian or possibly very light skinned Middle Eastern. I've got very unassuming features, and I pass for whatever is the average wherever I am, with obvious exceptions. But in California, black hair, dark eyes, olive-toned skin, and a Spanish last name equal...well, people assume I'm Mexican, because most Americans don't seem to know that there's a whole continent right below Mexico.
And, without fail, every time I've gone through an immigration checkpoint on a bus, I've gotten a ration of shit. In Texas I even got screamed at, "WHAT IS YOUR NAME?! SHOW ME YOUR IDENTIFICATION!!!! WHERE ARE YOU FROM?!?! ¿TU HABLA INGLES?" all while having a flashlight shined in my face in the middle of the night. Considering that child immigration is the hot-button issue du jour in these parts, I'm just not. I'm just not.
Hey Rachel, why the fuck don't you have a valid ID?
That's an excellent fucking question! As if people need more reasons to hate the DMV, they've graciously provided at least one more for me.
I went in for a regular state ID. Not a license. An ID. I don't drive. It's not that I can't, I just don't, for the safety and well being of other motorists. If I ever kill someone with a car, it will probably have been on purpose. I'm just saying. The last car accident I was involved in, I was rear-ended by some dumb schmuck who wasn't fucking paying attention, and I think I scared her so much she peed herself. Rage, I has it.
Anyway, I waited in line for over an hour, filled out the paper for a non-license picture ID, waited another two hours, payed for my ID, got my picture taken, and then was told to step over to the computers for my test.
My what now? So I was like, WTF?! I went back to the lady who processed my application, asked her what the actual hell? and was told, "Oh, gee, I can't fix it. I guess you'll just either have to take the test or get back in line and pay for another ID."
Are you fucking kidding me?
So I took the stupid test. But I can't have a valid picture ID until I take the practical test, which isn't happening because I'm moving in fucking three days! You have to schedule the test weeks in advance! All I have is a slip of paper that clearly states that it is NOT AN ID, and my old ID, which is expired.
The state of California wants to issue drivers' licenses to illegal immigrants (I sort of understand that) but I can't have a card stating that I exist?!?!!?
I think I'm really down-playing my hatred of California when I say I won't be sad to see that "Now Leaving..." sign. California is like that ex-girlfriend who I really loved. I loved her enough to stay for several years of her abusive bullshit, because I though she needed help and if I just loved her enough she'd get better. Until I woke up one day and realized that I'd either kill her or myself, and I was leaning toward her.
Living in California is like being in an abusive relationship. Also, palm trees.
|Fuck you Palm Tree.|