The calendar says it's Tuesday, but I think it lied
Topic: Things in life that suck
I got in bed at roughly 1 am. I woke up at roughly 5 am. And it was roughly, to say the least. 4 hours just wasn't enough last night. I got around and started getting ready and by 7:50 my two oldest kids were safely on the school bus and my husband and I were driving down the driveway with our youngest and Chandler strapped into the backseat. We were headed out on our trip to Tahlequah to get a Tribal tag on the truck. This was the trip that was supposed to have happened last week, but we postponed due to weather that really wasn't that bad as it turned out. So we embarked on our journey armed with a bag of goodies to keep the kids occupied, a book for me to read, the truck title, the bill of sale, my blue tribal card, insurance verification, driver's license, directions to Tahlequah courtesy of my friend, The Internet, and quite possibly lurking in the backseat was a shaved opossum and four small leprechauns. It had promise of being a good trip. Knowing that, even though we were dragging 2 small children out on a cold, foggy, dreary January day, we were going to save about $800 on the truck tag can kinda make days promise good, right? Wrong-o.
Firstly, let me just say that the road to Tahlequah via Oklahoma's "Scenic" Highway 10, is an adventure in all things related to carsickness. If we had had Abby and Sam with us, there would've been barfing. And you know how well I've handled that lately. Tiff
and John took the kids to Tahlequah awhile back and if I had KNOWN what that road was like, I'd have armed them with Benadryl, biohazard suits and many, many WalMart sacks to catch flying puke. Of course, they didn't barf for them - they save it for us, their parents, the ones who created them.
We drove and drove for what seemed like ages, plunging further and further into what reminded me vaguely of the scene in Deliverance where the dirty, toothless man tells the fella he wants to hear him squeal like a pig...yeah, that scene. *shudder* I was getting a bit uneasy that maybe somewhere along the way we had forgotten to turn onto an actual HIGHWAY and was just preparing myself for the tirade I was going to endure if that turned out to be the case. I kept my mouth shut though, silently worrying, biting the insides of my cheeks as I always do when I get nervous then out of the blue Paul, in the driest fashion possible, says "Ya know, this is starting to look like the part of the country where the owls swoop down and f**k the chickens." Well, I had never heard that particular colloquialism and still yet I'm not sure what would be involved in fornication between chicken and owl, but it was all I could do to not spray the drink of Coke I had just partaken of through my nostrils onto the interior of the precious new truck. When I regained composure, I said, "Yeahhhhh..." and then fell into a fit of giggles, quietly loving the redneck I married.
Fortunately we found Tahlequah, The Internet had given fine directions. Thank you, friend.
We did have to stop to get directions to the actual tag office because The Internet didn't actually know where it was, but we found it after consulting with a rather unshaven young man with a cigarette dangling from his lip. He was helpful even if he was creepy.
We drove around the whole entire Cherokee Tribal Complex That Used to Be A Motel But We Cleverly Disguised It The Best We Could three times before we found a landing strip, I mean parking space, big enough to park the yard barge we call Our Truck. Upon entering we found the tag office to be well...a motel room. I mean, it used to be a motel room but is now a rather cramped, sterile and somewhat depressing looking tag office/tax commission. I signed in and sighed inwardly at the fact that I had to flip to the second page and sign halfway down that page. But I smiled because I was thinking of all the money we were going to save with this tribal tag! We were prepared for an all-day wait, but a mere 50 minutes after I signed in, they called my name.
I handed over the title, bill of sale, blue tribal card, insurance verification, and driver's license and waited eagerly for her to announce that our tag was only going to cost us $458. Instead she frowned, mumbled something and then left her desk. She returned and then asked me where we lived, were we south and west of the Neosho River, were we closer to Miami than Fairland, blah blah blah blah. I said that yes we were south and west, we were smack dab in the middle of the two towns and I was quite sure that we were in Cherokee jurisdiction. Well, thanks to Mapquest.com (Damn you Mapquest. Damn you all to hell.) we were actually pinpointed JUST OVER THE LINE and therefore, did not qualify for tribal tags. I said that we had neighbors who had tribal tags and how could this be, I know where we live. She shrugged and said "I guess they used false addresses or something." WTH??? You just admitted that quite possibly someone frauded you, Oh Great and Mighty Redheaded Not Quite Indian Looking Tribal Tag Office Lady and you are okay with this? She then consulted with another woman who was not redheaded and actually looked indian (Not that this really matters, I just find it funny that someone as pale as her works in an office filled with dark haired, dark skinned Native Americans and sticks out like a diamond in a goat's butt, to be perfectly honest.) and the conclusion was made that indeed we were screwed. There was nothing they could do, Mapquest.com had spoken.
My face burning, my heart pounding and my anger rising, I carefully folded up all of my papers, taking extra time to fold, re-envelope, paperclip and put everything neatly back into my purse. She was rather uncomfortable with me remaining there so long and I bet she said "Have a nice day" five different times.
I waited until we left the office and were safely around the corner before I told Paul that we were leaving without a tag. Oh the explosion that occured. He called them everything under the sun, cursing my Native American heritage and probably burning holes in the ozone layer with his expletives. I was secretly admiring his ability to vent his anger. I was still fuming on the inside. And then I called my Mom. Because as you know, this is what I do in times of crisis. She declared that we DO live south and west and did I want the number to the county assessor's office so the tag people could call and find out just exactly where we live? I offered this new information to Paul, but he was so mad he simply said "F**k the indian bastards, we're going home." Yeah baby. You get 'em.
We drove home a lot faster than we drove down there. The kids and I slept. I knew Paul needed some quiet time, bless his heart.
We are now sporting a brand new Oklahoma tag on Our Truck and the great state of Oklahoma is now in possession of $1059 of our hard-earned money. I am prepared to fight when March rolls around and the tags on my van are due. I am going to have a legal, notarized description of our property, a note from my mother and quite possibly a large box of Krispy Kreme donuts to offer as a bribe and I am going to do my damn best to get a tribal tag then.
Paul is reading over my shoulder as I type and when he saw "Krispy Kreme donuts", he said "Krispy Kreme donuts my ass. You won't take donuts to them hateful indian bastards." You gotta love the fervor in which he holds grudges. It's an admirable quality. I do so love that man.
The Diva has spoken
at 10:35 PM CST