DMV. Oy. Where do they find them? I understand that their job is to deal with unhappy people. But come on, that’s my job, too. No one calls the police department when they’re ecstatically happy.
But I needed to pick up my plates (I YARN). I had an appointment last week to pick them up. Appointments rock. If you have one, you usually wait less than an hour. But when I went to remove the old plates, right before the appointment, I couldn’t get them unscrewed from the car. It was like those stupid bolts had rusted right to the car. I sat in the driveway, in the rain, after being up working and moving for 30 hours straight, crying because I was skinning my hands on the damn screwdriver. There was a gardening crew working across the street, and when I started disgusting myself by hoping that a big ole gardener would come help me I gave up, went inside and sat on the couch. I breathed.
So earlier this week, after getting a friend to remove them for me, I went to DMV without an appointment on my day off. (Appointments take about three weeks to get, and plates are cancelled and returned if not picked up after 30 days, so I had a time crunch.) I waited in line for about thirty minutes to get my slip of paper that said I would be number B140. The wait time on the scrolling marquee said I had a two hour wait. So I left and had lunch. Came back an hour and a half later — they were up to B40. I went and ran errands for an hour. When I came back, they were at B55. Two hours later, I gave up and just sat there for another hour, working on Cromarty. Basically, six hours later, they were only up to B95, and I had to be somewhere and left. Frustrated out of my mind. And it smelled funny in there. Hot and stuffy. Way too much hair product.
Yesterday, I went back for my last attempt. I arrived at 7:30, half an hour before it opened. There were only about a hundred people in front of me. When the doors opened, there were at least two hundred behind me. We waited in the ticket line, which took till 8:30 to navigate. Then I sat down to wait my turn. I watched an elderly man with limited English skills deal with the woman who was going to issue him the driving test.
She said, “You’re late. I can’t help you.”
He said, “But I wait in line.”
Loud, exaggerated words. “You’re late! Your appointment was at eight. It’s eight-thirty. Make another appointment.”
“But I take day off work for this.”
“I CAN’T HELP YOU.”
Luckily, he had a friend who advocated for him, who pointed out that he had been in line since 7:15, and it was only the sluggishness of the lines that had made him late. She still insisted that there was nothing that she could. She was SO rude and SO curt. His friend asked for a manager who said to let him take the test. Oh, that chapped her hide, all right. I was so pleased.
But the pleasure left when they called my number at 9am. Yep. The plate was wrong. It said “IYARN,” no space between the words, and it was all grouped over to the right. So the second half of the plate was blank. I even thought about accepting it for a minute. I couldn’t bear thinking about dealing with this all over again. So I asked the woman helping me. “How does this look to you?” She raised an eyebrow and said without hesitation, “Stupid.”
All right. I waited another hour for them to cancel the plate and re-send my corrected request. So in six to eight weeks, I’ll be doing this all over again.
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