More Life In Oklahoma

So I’ve been in Oklahoma for another month and, as you all probably suspected, the adventures continue!

My latest adventure?

My incredibly futile attempt to get my Oklahoma driver’s license.

You would think this would be a relatively simple task…I mean, when I moved to Missouri from Illinois, it was a huge pain in the butt…but that was only because I had foolishly let my Illinois license expire and therefore had to take the written test which I assumed would be easy and instead had questions like “When driving at night in the fog, for how many feet should your lights be visible? 300, 350, or 400?”

Let me just close the curtain on that particular disaster and assure you that I learned my lesson. Not only did I go to the Oklahoma Tag Office before my Missouri license will expire, I also actually got online, checked the website and carefully assembled all the documentation I needed.

And I was so incredibly pleased with myself that the ridiculous line at the Tag Office didn’t even phase me. I smirked at the different people getting turned away for lack of proper paperwork and lost myself in near hysterical self-congratulation.

Until, of course, it was actually my turn.

I walked confidently up to the gum-chomping, vacant-eyed, twenty-year-old clerk, handed over all my stuff and she, if possible, got even MORE vacant. “You can’t do that here.” She said.

And I sad “Do what?” meaning ‘What is it that I can’t do here?’

Unfortunately, this is Oklahoma and she thought I meant “Excuse me, I didn’t hear you.” So she said “YOU CAN’T DO THAT HERE.” Louder.

Which I, of course, took as a challenge to see who could actually be the loudest. “WHAT CAN’T I DO HERE?” I shouted back.

“Trade in an out of state license. You have to go to the Department of Public Safety to do that. To, you know, get a copy of your driving record and stuff.

“Wow,” I said. “That would have been really helpful information to have on the website.”

Unfortunately, sarcasm is clearly NOT covered in the Oklahoma Tag Office training so, she looked at me terribly confused and, of course, said “Do what?”

And I punched her in the face.

Ok, not really.

In the fantasy I was imagining in my head, sure, but in real life I just heaved a huge sigh and said “Never mind. Can you tell me where the Department of Public Safety is?”

“Oh, sure!” She said, perking up for the first time. “It’s in the Old Eastland Mall.”

And when I said “I don’t know where that is.” She said “Do what?”

And that's when I punched her in the face.

Ok, fantasy again…instead, I summoned up my best “You’re kind of an idiot but I’m a teacher at heart so I will put up with you” voice and explained that the whole reason that I needed to go to the Department of Public Safety was because I’M NOT FROM HERE so directions with landmarks—particularly OLD landmarks aren’t terribly helpful.

It only took about 5 more minutes to make her understand and get somewhat coherent directions.

And her directions were good but it would have been better if she had told me to drive north until I was afraid for my life, turn right at Murderville, pass the abandoned neighborhood in which EVERY window was boarded over, and turn left into the mall. Then drive around the entire mall lot twice until I knew for sure that the Department of Public Safety is the only office with no sign on the outside of the building…and I was there!

And you would think that the Department of Public Safety would inspire people to feel safe but the thing is, they themselves are clearly so creeped out by the environment in which they are located that you have to take a number off the door and they won’t even let you in the office until it’s called. Instead you have to wander around the lower lobby of the old Eastland Mall, dodging water from the leaking roof and making small talk with gang members.

Nice.

So there I was, with the 9 and 1 already dialed on my phone, primed to press that final 1, when I finally get called inside.

I take in my old license, my wedding license, my new social security card, and a postcard that proves my residency to the window, hand it over and the guy says “You also need your birth certificate or passport to trade in an out of state license.”

Newsflash, this is more information that would have been helpful ON THE FREAKING WEBSITE!!!!

Which I was more than happy to point out to this guy but, as we have already seen, my sarcasm is not universally appreciated.

“I’m not in charge of the website,” the guy said.

“Clearly, no one is.” I agreed.

Oddly, this didn’t endear me to him…nor did my sweet inquiry that perhaps he was just making this up to irritate me , like some bizarre newbie to Oklahoma hazing ritual.

He wasn’t.

So I immediately stormed out of the office, grabbed the first gang member I could find, pointed out the Oklahoma official and said “You wouldn’t believe what THAT GUY just said about you…and your mom.”

Ok, kidding again..because if anyone is going to lose it and attack an Oklahoma Department of Public Safety employee, that person is going to be me….possibly this week when I attempt once again to get my license. Stay tuned for a news report featuring me and the Department of Public Safety, liberally sprinkled with the phrase “Lunatic rampage!”


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