But I Finally Have My Passport

Why is every trip to the post office excruciating? Really, I want to know.

Today I made a trek out to mail some packages - a postcard, something for a Frenchie and the first ever "mailed on time" birthday gift to my nephew - and to get my passport. Already I have postponed the task long enough. I'm "supposed" to be leaving in May for Germany. (But don't get me started on that.)

So I fumble around trying to find a box that is an adequate size for my nephews gift, addressing the box that ended up three sizes too big and cussing not so quietly to myself. By the time I have finally gotten everything together to send, I have somehow managed to include in my purchase international post card stamps, a roll of clear tape and the child of the woman in front of me.

Ahead of me in line a couple that looks like they might be in a band are sending an industrial sized laundry cart full of certified mail. I decide out loud that this should be made illegal. I look around. Which one is the passport line?

"Next!" the lady calls.

"I need to get a passport too," I call two hundred feet down the line.

Her: Did you make an appointment?

Me: What? Appointment? No, I need an appointment now?

Her: Yes, you come down here.

We are still yelling at each other. I step up to her window.

Me: Where does it say I need an appointment, does it say that on the window?

Her: Yes, it says it on the website.

Me: But, outside, does it say ONLY by passport? I thought that was a suggestion. As in "you can also make an appointment to get your passport, if you don't want to wait in line".

Her: Yes, you can only do it by appointment and it says it on the website too.

Me: Well, okay, can I make an appointment?

Her: The next appointment is in two weeks. You have to go to the courthouse.

Shaking my head and cussing some more I pay an absurd amount for my over sized box, small child and duct tape. And then I race to the courthouse, because I don't have two weeks to wait for an appointment and another three to get it processed.

As I am leaving the post office, though, I pass by the notice that supposedly told me I should have made an appointment. There, clear as mud, it reads "As of March 1, 2008, passports can be purchased by appointment Monday through Friday." Bastards. How dare they leave out the very important qualifier that tells me I MUST have a fecking appointment?

I take the sharpie that is stashed conveniently in my back pocket (one should ALWAYS carry a sharpie) and without hesitation write in capital letters "ONLY" after the word "appointment".

By the time I get into an office where I can actually pay money, and actually get the paperwork processed, I look like I have been picking cotton in the Alabama sunshine. I think, at some point during the day, I looked presentable knowing I would have a passport photo snapped, but by now I don't even care. My hair is flying in five directions, the makeup under my eyes has been sweat away to reveal the purple circles beneath and every single blemish is making a star performance.

The passport official shows me the photo, and I cringe.

For the rest of my life I will be eternalized in two inch by two inch form looking like some kind of watered down sun rat. I will not be able to forget what I look like when I lived in the South.

I have the Gret Stet of Texas to thank for that.