Yesterday my daughter and I went to the Department of Motor Vehicles. It was our third time. The first time I thought that since I had all my North Carolina stuff and my NJ insurance that the 6-point thing and the mail with our NJ address on it didn’t apply. That was my bad. The second time was because the Monday lady said a copy would be OK for the birth certificates, but this one wanted holograms and waxed seals. They also wanted me to fill out the info about the insurance on the form instead of giving them the insurance card. I had so many papers flying around that were important that it was making me nervous—rushing and stuffing social security cards at the podium. There were nice, roomy tables that were too official to be worthy of. We were allowed to use the table that had two ball-points with pieces of notebook paper taped around them telling us not to steal their pens. It sure was tempting to take them as a matching set, so we left the near occasion of sin and completed the forms at home since I had to get the original birth certificates anyway. Later in the day, which was our third time there, my daughter finally got her NJ license. Woo-hoo! But not me, and the cars (in my name) can’t be registered yet. I am a sandwich with my married name as the filling and my maiden and present name as the bread, so suddenly they wanted my divorce papers even though I had my thousand points of light 6 points of documentation. So, without our NJ plates, we’re still dealing with Civil War road rage.

Of course they want the original divorce papers, and I misplaced them because divorce is upsetting. You have to keep the back-and-forth stuff between the lawyers in order, and when you read what your ex has signed the sobbing can impact your organizational skills. So today I had to get a cashier’s check for $3 made out to the Clerk of Court in the county that divorced me, because it sure is tempting to write a bad check for $3.

Now I wait.

My fourth time will be my last time. I will have everything. The flyer from ShopRite with my address, the exact date that I got my period, the VHS tape of my wedding, and the 27 eight-by-ten color glossy photographs with circles and arrows and a paragraph on the back of each one explaining what each one is to be used as evidence so I can finally get my friggin’ license and plates.

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