Personal Time

Here’s how my day went.

Around 7:30 this morning, as I was settling in for my first day back at work after a week of “vacation,” I remembered the note-to-self I’d tried—and failed—to remember last week: I MUST get my driver’s license renewed. Today. I never got it changed when I got remarried, and I have to fly in three weeks—with the new name. So today was the already-too-late absolute latest day I could do it.

Pressing my luck, I requested to leave at 2 p.m. for personal time. It was approved. (Thanks, Dan!) So I let everybody know I was leaving early and started preparing. Things went relatively well. I was out of there by 2:15, which was earlier than I expected.

I went home to retrieve my marriage license. I knew right where it was, but I was stopped dead in my tracks by the absolute MESS in my living room, courtesy of this wild animal who lives with me. Her name is Macy, and she’s a little bit thick-headed. She’d eaten a pencil. And the mate to the shoe she ate yesterday. (OK, I was fine with her eating the shoe, but you should see the mess!)

Off to the Texas Department of Public Safety. I knew right where it was, because I got married right next door and remember thinking, “I’m going to need to remember this.” I walked in, and there were a few people waiting. The information lady helped me out, and I went through the door to get in line. The line went through the doorway and stretched down the hall. I uttered an expletive and took my place. An hour later, I was straining to interpret the thick accent of an extremely soft-spoken Hispanic woman. I’m already a little deaf, and by this time I was more than a little irritated, so you can imagine how that went.

I’m almost tempted to scan in my temporary driver’s license to show you the picture. Nowadays it prints out so you have instant gratification. I was not gratified.

Anyway, it was 4 p.m., an hour and a half before Scott even got off work. My goal was to replace the shoes Macy ate, but the library was beckoning from next door. After cruising the parking lot for 10 minutes, I found NO parking spots available (damn after-school kids!) and left.

On to DSW. Or not. Flat tire. Expletive.

So, here I sit at Firestone. It’s 5 p.m. The obnoxious kids who were here an hour ago are gone, and replacing them is a darling little girl named Gabby and her mommy. Gabby has a couple of gray stuffed cats; their names are Audrey and Audrey. (Mommy says all Gabby’s animals are named Audrey.) She also has purple tennis shoes and long, curly blonde hair. Adorable. Her mommy has been on the phone since about three minutes after I walked in. Not so adorable. Mommy looks like she’s about 20 and, much like her adorable daughter, like she just rolled out of bed.

Anyway, it’s the second time in a week I’ve been a Firestone patron. I wasted half a day of my vacation here last week, getting tires for SCOTT’s car. Answer me this: Does this man take care of ANY of his maintenance issues himself? Wait, I have the answer: No.