I guess this post starts with a letter I got in the mail. Well, no, that's misleading. ICBC doesn't write you letters. A letter is something handwritten that contains well wishes and tales from foreign lands. ICBC sends you informative information that has dire circumstances if you don't comply with their wishes, mail that makes you shout expletives when the seniors in the building are right beside you also checking their mail. Sorry old neighbours. That might be rude, my sincerest of apologies to you wrinkly, but friendly, folks. Unlike when I get letters in the mail and squeal with delight, clap my hands and jump up and down with excitement, the mail in my hand makes darkness close in and mournful violins play in the background. Hold on that's not accurate, that's just my imagination. There's always that moment when you get mail from places like this and your brain races, you think, oh God, they found me. I am so busted. Le damn.
Upon opening the letter and not seeing any sign of a skull and crossbones on the paper...no wait, that means it's poisonous (of all the things I can say for ICBC they do send you very crisp notices which as of yet have proved not to be poisonous)...I actually read the words they have typed for me. Oh good, I have to get my licence renewed, they haven't caught me. Cool. Those beads of sweat on my brow appeared prematurely. Worst case scenario and I get busted I tell them I thought it would be a fun surprise. Surprises are never painted in a bad light.
Anywho, getting back to it, I tell Boyfriend the time has come. The beautiful photo of my current driver's licence is going a-bye-bye. I wait for his tears, but none come. Maybe he doesn't hear me. So I yell in his face:
I HAVE TO GET A NEW DRIVER'S LICENCE. THE OLD BEAUTIFUL PHOTO IS GOING AWAY FOREVER.
Signature deadpan Boyfriend face here. Nothing. The appropriate response is a response. If we're being honest the appropriate response is the response I want you to have, not necessarily the one you desire to emote. Remember, me before we. Nothing. Would it kill him to appease me? Is it possible I've used up his entire supply of appeasement? That doesn't fare well for our chances if that's the case. Some days, Boyfriend, digging your grave doesn't seem like it would be a chore. Am I wrong?
The day comes for me to renew my licence. For the record, the people that work there have no sense of humour. Does a frowning face make people take you more seriously? No. Because people like me get determined to make you smile, and that just made it awkward for both of us. You're welcome. Then the picture gets taken. I hate the new no smile rule. Everyone in BC now has a photo that makes them look like a POW in a picture that's used to provide proof of life. I should be holding today's newspaper up by my face and mouthing the words "send help".
Please, take another one.
She takes another one. I look at it on the screen.
Please, take another one.
I peer at the screen and wince.
Eeeee. Please, take another one?
It gets to the point where I'm pissing her off. There's no way to look good in a picture that you're not allowed to smile for. Not going to happen. Who do I write an angry letter to in order to change this? My teeth give me character! Why do you think they use dental records to identify bodies that have burned beyond recognition? Exactly! Let the people smile.
Yeah, I guess that photo is okay.
I didn't even really look at the last picture. I just saw the face of the ICBC woman that just said "we're done here". Even after all we shared. How rude.
ICBC sends me another piece of mail very quickly. I pluck it from the mailbox between my thumb and index finger like it's diseased and wonder which of the two evil things it could be. Of course, it's the new licence. Another thing I can say besides I like their crisp paper, they are prompt with getting new licences to the people. I thank you for this ICBC, but nothing else. Not unless you do me anymore favours. The picture isn't... so bad. I look as I imagine myself the moment before the She-Hulk takes over. I look less like a victim and more like a villain. I guess that's slightly better than a lateral move.
Why was I so stupid as to get Mutt that pig foot thing? Hoof. It's a hoof. He's gnawing on it right now and the smell is distracting. Nasty, nasty thing. The hoof, not Mutt. As I've told you he makes the circle. So ugly he's adorable.
I text Boyfriend about the new arrival via mail. I think... no, wait, I KNOW he's a little bitter he didn't get to the mailbox first so he could pay me back for what happened yesterday. The cliff notes of that episode: A package from the NFL store arrived yesterday that Boyfriend has been waiting three weeks for. I'm the only one home when it arrives so I do what any girl would do in my position: Use it for extortion. I hide it. Don't look at me like that, let me explain how this is rational. I was hoping that I could trade him his NFL thingmy for the spa day that I want for my upcoming birthday. It's logical. Except that things never go according to plan. I get called a jackass and I still don't have any confirmation of a spa day. He's impossible.
When Boyfriend gets home he looks at me with expectation.
Well, where is it?
What?
You showed me the old licence enough times I could draw it from memory. Where's the new one?
Somehow he has figured out the new one isn't quite the caliber I hoped, but, being a good girlfriend, I show him the licence that I had already hidden in my wallet.
He scrutinizes the black and white photo of me, turns the licence over in his hands and after his careful examination he says... wait for this one...
Huh. Except it's also kind of a Hmm. Huhmm.
The written expression can't do it justice. Fyi gentlemen, this is not a compliment. Nor is it an insult, you might say. That's wrong, it is an insult. If the words are not what a lady wants to hear it is definitely an insult, even if huhmm isn't a word.
Back to the conversation:
What does that mean?
I'm not shrill yet and I'm not She-Hulking. This is a proud moment for my people. This is the part where my voice becomes shrill:
What do we say when I show you things like that?
I gently take the licence from Boyfriend's hands. Gently take/snatch with intent to mutilate, potato, potato.
You're beautiful, honey.
Thank you. It's like pulling teeth sometimes.
He goes and starts taking the tags off a dark, long sleeved shirt.
Hey, is that a new shirt?
Yup.
He folds it up and puts it on the desk. This is opportunity for payback if I ever had one, so I imitate him best I can.
Huhmm.
He just walks away from me. I guess one of us has to be the grown up.
Time for tea,
K
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