A new license to live

Well, it’s harvest time. And I might’ve forgotten to write a post here or there. Yikes.

Eventually, I got my truck in and Bob was indeed there. Finally.

We shoot the breeze, talking about why I need a safety done and yada yada.

‘Leave your number and I’ll send ya a text when she’s ready; if she doesn’t need fixin’ or parts ordered first,’ Bob said. Of course.

My handy dandy ride steams into the parking lot, I hop in and off we go back to the farm.

I spend the day doing what any good farmer wife does, bookwork. I’ll admit, balancing entries and numbers makes my world go round. I have a soft spot in a little corner of my heart for bookwork and numbers that add up every time. Well, when they don’t I’m a hound dog (Elvis Presley anyone?) until they balance.

Four o’clock in the afternoon I get a text from ol’ Bob saying my truck was ready. Problem was I now have no ride to get there. Unless I wanted to hike myself into town and get it but I wasn’t feeling the urge for a double handful of miles of hiking. (I refuse to lower myself to kilometers yet. Maybe I'm just being stubborn but so far it works for me.)

With a sad sigh I replied back that I’d be in the morning to pick it up and pay him.

Even when you don’t want to go to town or anywhere and you’re perfectly happy to be a hermit in your farm bubble, somehow you still feel stranded when you have no vehicle. It makes no sense but yet there it is.

I roll in bright eyed and bushy tailed, as they say, to pick up my truck. I also get my fancy schmancy piece of paper detailing that said truck has been safetied and meets all requirements of said country.

Next stop, the place of insurance and registration!

I grandly park my steed perfectly between the lines and sweep into the building.

(What can I say? I felt the urge for a bit of theatrics. When you’re the one typing the words, you can do that.)

People come and go while the tedious process of paperwork sorts itself out. Questions such ‘Where is x on your drivers license?’ or ‘Where does it say your birthdate on your passport?’

I’d toyed with the idea of getting personalized plates for my truck but when it came around to the price seven dollars beat out the hundred and ten dollar price tag. Seven dollars. SEVEN! I felt that was a little ridiculously low considering my new country is ‘all about that bass’ I mean, all about that tax. The regular schmo plates might’ve also won because my thrifty, very Dutch husband was there too. If he hadn’t been there, who knows, I might’ve indulged a little. Just a little, mind you.

Ahh, well.

‘Oh and we need to get a new drivers license for this country too.’ Yup, I nod in agreement.

‘You do know you can’t smile.’ Eh? Yes, sadly, I know this to be the case. Mug shot anyone? Ha.

‘Oh and I’ll have to take your old license. This province doesn’t let you have more than one.’

Wait a minute! Wait, just a minute! It’s one of the last pieces of SoDak I have. I’d been hoping to keep it as a memento (not to mention, I had a great SMILING photo on it too). Nope, no can do. She practically had to peel my fingers off of it one by one.

Well, dang it.

‘Here’s a (pathetic) temporary paper license till they mail yours out to you.’

Mail? Temporary? Did we step back in time here? Where I come from, you go in, fill out a sheet of paperwork, wait, get called up for a photo, it prints and boom! Done.

Yeah… this mail thing, so does not work for me. Sigh. What else to do? Wait. Two to three weeks they say. It’ll be fun they say. Four weeks later. Four. I finally get my (ugh) new license. Yeah, I don’t like it or love it but I’ll tolerate it.

I need more coffee. 

Life is work.