It Gets Worse Every Time

It was that time again.

Time to get my driver license renewed. 

Oh, how I dreaded it.

This time, I had to prove I ain't one of them illegal aliens that has everbodys britches in a wad.

I've only had my driver's license since 1971, so I can understand the government's suspicion.

So I took a week and managed to find all the documentation required. 

(Do you get the feeling I am slightly irritated about this? You are wrong. I am VERY irritated about this.)

So I  haul my suspicious looking rear end up there and wait in line. And wait in line some more.

Then I have to show all my precious documentation and answer questions like, "Are you a twin?"

Then, of course the worst comes. They take my photograph.

Which has not been changed on my driver's license for seventeen years.

The last time my picture was struck at the DMV, Daughter was a little kid.

At that time their building was the size of a wide hall. Everyone was crammed in there like sardines. When it finally came my turn, the state patrol had noticed Daughter was curious, so she said, "Come around here and you can watch me take your mama's picture."

When the photo was snapped, Daughter shook her head and said, "Oh, Mama, you're not gonna like this."

Everyone in there burst into laughter.

But this one?

I look like a vanilla Moon pie with yeller hair.

UGH.