Meltdown!

Yes, the meltdowns we've all been waiting for have arrived! I've lost my ever-loving mind (and not just when someone tried to take my fish soup bowl away before I was finished) and my poor husband is paying to price.

It began last night. You see, I'm married to a charming, intelligent, sexually astute, musically talented funny, earthy but alas somewhat grumpy man. He's a big bear of a guy, so when he's ready to eat, he gets grumbly. We got home from the grocery store (I had done the shopping, he picked me up), and I was exhaustedly putting the groceries away while he desperately wrestled up some dinner. He grouched at me in his hunger, and I felt very hurt and ran away into the study, where I shut the door and started crying softly. We eventually worked things out, but I realized that the hormones were finally getting to me. That and everything else this year has brought. I was exhausted and my resources depleted.

Then this morning, things got even worse. You see, I went to the BMV to try and finally get my driver's license. Do NOT EVER go to the BMV during the 2ww, if it can at all be avoided. My situation, as always, was a little odd. For some reason known only to the idiot state bureaucrats, you need to show your SS card, your passport or original birth certificate, and several other forms of id and proof that you are who you say you are. This, even after they have already issued you a state id with your date of birth, which requires proof of social security number (a nice post-9/11 addition to the process). So whatever you did to get that id means JACK if you now what to get your license.

Yikes. So I storm home, really, really pissed, after I pass the written exam but can't even get a lousy learner's permit. In a blind rage of tears, I scream to my husband that I hate my life and everything about the way it's going, that I hate that nothing ever seems to go right for me lately, and that I'm a complete and utter fuck up. Poor guy moves through begging, cajoling, reasoning, raging, but he can't calm me down. I tear through the house, ripping into untouched nooks and crannies, vainly searching for my long-missing passport, sniffling and weeping.

Just when I am about to give up, I take down this old dusty box of cassettes of bad pop music from Obscure Corner of the World. Suddenly, I see the PeptoBismal pink leather cover I used to keep my passport in flutter to the floor. Thinking that it was empty, I open it, and there's my passport.

But that's not the end of my brutal saga of banality. We go back to the BMV (conveniently located where you can only reach it BY CAR) and I triumphantly show my passport. But then, oh woe is me! They notice that my first name is off by one letter.

I have a very unusual first name, and it's almost always misspelled by people who aren't paying close attention. However, I have a very unusual last name, so any reasonable moron can see that the person missing that second consonant in her first on the passport is the same as the person with the social security card, university ID, mofo'in STATE ID they just renewed, the credit cards, etc. etc. No, I need to get them my birth certificate from Texas.

So I spent most of the morning raging and crying. My guy and I made up, I told him all he needs to do is show me as much physical affection and kindness as possible in those situations, and we resolved to have a relaxing evening at home with the first disc from Season 3 of Battlestar Galactica (my second obsession after mahonga).

Well, at least I found my passport and can flee the country if I can't take it anymore.