DMV or DMZ?
Good natured ranting is probably my favorite reason to write, but it's no fun to write in anger. For that reason, my blog went dark for 48 hours. Well, let's be honest... the first six hours of radio silence was due to Jillfish-birthday-dinner-recovery, but after that it was definitely a forced a blog breather and, in retrospect, a good choice. After all, I couldn't have borne the guilt if I had blasted all of your eyeballs with the all caps rant I had brewing in my mind.
Suffice it to say, it sucks muchly to be pickpocketed and have your entire financial situation explode in your face... and it's not the business to spend 24 hours cut off from everything modern and lovely and powered by financial technology.
But time to get back on the horse and talk about something we all love: DMV stories.
After I recovered from the shock of getting so many fraud notices at once, I quickly discovered that I was without identification. Of course, I was overwhelmed with delight at the prospect of interacting with the good people of the DMV, and even more so when I realized I'd get to do it in person without an appointment. #squee
Because I like to think that I'm rational and capable of doing even unpleasant things intelligently, I resolved to calmly research DMV options and arrive early and prepared. I identified my target DMV--a drivers license processing center that only deals in DL transactions--set my alarm for an ungodly hour, packed an apple, trail mix, and a huge cup of coffee, and got my happy ass to the Tartarus of government offices 40 minutes before opening.
Upon my arrival, I was disheartened to find that I was the 100000th person with this idea, but I sipped my coffee and was generally pleasant while I waited in line to be given a form that I then took to another line where I filled out (wait for it!) a web form. And I was still relatively pleasant when I wrote the number provided at the end of my web form on my paper form. And possibly still pleasant when I stood in a line that led to an employee mashing keys on a computer which she apparently used to write a different number at the bottom of that same paper form. I was informed that this is the new process, which should streamline things. I realize now that this was the moment when I should have moonwalked out the front door.
Three lines, one form
One hour into my DMV journey and I had a form with three numbers, which I then took to the other side of the building, and to a seat that Dante might have described in his often-ignored novel Purgatorio. I settled down for what I knew would probably be a long haul, pulling out the very book that had ushered in this fantastic turn of events: One Dark Throne.
(This is the book I had been happily carrying under my arm when I was hit by THE ASSHOLE WHO STOLE MY WALLET.)
It doesn't take long for me to figure out that I have no hope of tracking how close I am to the front of the queue. The number I've been assigned is a combination of my initials and the last four digits of my phone number AND is in no way related to priority.
Two hours in, I'm adrift on the vast sea of humanity and I have no idea how close I am to land. I begin to joke with friends over text message that I need provisions. I begin to make good progress on my book. I cancel my first set of work meetings and report out that I hope to be back in the office by 1pm.
I take pictures of the ads that cycle through on the number board. I have a moment of introspection where I consider the content strategy which resulted in this mix of trivia, sports scores, and ads that are clearly targeting deadbeat dads. I decide that female white collar tech workers who have been pickpocketed while buying YA novels are not their target demographic.
I've been here so long that I've learned Spanish.
Yep.
I crack the seal and eat some trail mix. It's important to keep my strength up for the journey ahead.
At the three hour mark, Phil gifts me with a new wallet to replace the one that was stolen. I am grateful. He tells me he's happy to bury me with it if I do not, in fact, make it out alive.
*FOUR HOURS INTO MY DMV WAIT*
I've made bosom friends with the people who are sitting around me. We take turns going to the bathroom so the n00bs don't steal our chairs. People are literally clogging the emergency exits. I have moments when I reflect to the people around me that this is what steerage must have felt like in the 19th century. We admire the facial tattoos of the gentleman in the next section.
It's harder than you think to take a picture of facial tattoo guy...
A Lord of the Flies style rebellion is brewing. I can sense it in the air. Window 31 is getting restless and some of the people I recognize from the pre-opening line faction are in open revolt. An imposing looking DMV manager raises her voice and yells above the din "THE AVERAGE WAIT TIME IS 4.5 HOURS. WE WILL GET TO YOU AS SOON AS POSSIBLE. PLEASE BE SEATED."
I look at my watch and sigh audibly. I got my number for a number for a number four hours earlier. Perhaps the end is near?
Every number called hits me like I imagine Pavlov's dogs were hit with that bell. At this point, I realize they've managed to break my will so slowly that I didn't even notice it was happening. By the time I get to the window, I will be ready to take whatever abuse they lay at my feet. I will grovel and fawn and I will feel grateful for the pain. I will give them my orderly documents and I will bless them when I pay my fee.
"THE SYSTEM IS DOWN!" the same picture of happiness and joy who pronounced wait times to be 4.5 hours yells... I decide that I will probably die in this chair if I don't get food. My husband takes pity on me and agrees to bring me lunch. I recommend that he assemble me a smorgasbord of elementary school snacks, since I'm not technically allowed to have food in the building. I'll hide it in my bag and sneak bites like a prisoner who has found an extra crust of bread.
People leave in waves. I decide I am too pot-committed to give up and try my luck again tomorrow. I picture the DMV woman drawing a finger across her throat as she announces to the crowd that wait times will not be honored tomorrow. If you leave the building and come back tomorrow you will be starting anew. Good luck, fuckers!
Weak with hunger, I whine that I can't do this again tomorrow and decide to apply the Disneyland rule. When rides go down, they typically come back up quickly, so I rarely get out line. I settle myself, noting that I'm now more than halfway through my novel and I'm an expert on paternity and child support services offered by the county.
Phil brings me lunch and still I wait. Brian suggests that I can make a quick buck by putting a hot dog cart in the parking lot. He's right. I'd be a thousand-aire.
Two hours into the outage I hear the words that will have me out of there in less than half an hour. THE SYSTEM IS UP!
If you want to hear the wrongest thing possible... something absolutely singular and which will never be repeated again, try to imagine the sound of people cheering and hugging each other at the DMV.
As I leave, I admire my new whip in the parking lot. A racy little piece of eye candy with a bumper sticker that says handle with care (pictured in the stinger). I think about how one more hour would have driven me to madness. I think to myself that DMV must stand for Department of Much Valium and I drive off with my paper license as if I WANT someone to pull me over.
