| Your Preppy Name Is... |
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Thursday, September 6, 2007
hm. I guess.
I finished my business with the DMV
before work this morning. It was no root canal like yesterday, but honestly, working with these people IS like pulling teeth. out of a bear. with bad breath and an attitude problem.
I came prepared for everything. No let me rephrase that-- I came with the naive belief that it was possible to come prepared for everything. A hundred and twenty dollars cash burned a hole in my pocket. I had the car's registration, bill of sale, title deed, my brand new license, and confidence that I would be in and out in a jiffy. No, I'm kidding, of course I wasn't quite that naive, but I did expect it to be, if not efficient, at least straightforward.
And it all started out well enough: "Fill these two forms out, and take them to the registration desk." Ok, fair enough. I started filling them out, and after a few hiccups (calling home for the expiration date of the insurance policy, wtf?), I proceeded to the desk with almost half the forms filled out. The rest of the blanks I would need some help with, as they asked for my PL1J code, the Vehicle Constancy Reticential Didacticism Enrollment number, and I think the UPC for my soul. Luckily, these were all available for the paraprofessional at the desk (since I mortgaged my soul to the Secretary of State's office yesterday to get out of standing in another line). And I pulled out my wallet to hand her some cash, because I knew these offices only take the cold hard stuff.
"I'm sorry, sir, we don't accept cash."
I laughed politely at her clever joke, but I was a little impatient. Let's put the jokes aside.
"We only take checks and money orders. When you go to pay the cashier the $143 fee, you can use cash, but we can't take it for the transfer tax."
My laugh withered on my lips, and drifted through the stuffy air (can't we have some AC, people?) to the floor, where it was immediately swept up by a guy with one of those long-handled dustpans, to be taken in back and pinned up in their large collection, in an exhibit entitled "The DMV: where happiness goes to die."
"There's a 711 only a mile down the road. You can pick up a money order there."
Yeah, thanks. I can also hit up the ATM because I didn't even bring enough cash in the first place. A few minutes there, a few seconds asking for and paying for my money order, and then a long awkward pause while I waited... do I need a receipt? I've never gotten a money order before... Will this large man with the vanilla-ice-cream-twirl turban yell at me if I ask him, or just shake his head and laugh. Then he started helping other customers, and so I dumped a bunch of change on the floor so I would at least have something to do. At least I wouldn't be standing there awkwardly, I would be awkwardly scooping forty-six cents off the weird black rubber-velcro mats that 711s always have. But forty-six cents only takes so long. I was looking around, thinking I might have to upend a magazine rack, when he suddenly turned to me with a slip of paper and a here-you-go. I heaved an uncomfortable sigh of relief, which he might have taken for impatience. I kind of hope so.
I was pretty zombied out when I got back to the Department of Motor Vehicles Facility, resigned to whatever cruel fate Jesse White, with his sickly grin, might assign to me. I'm afraid I blacked out somewhat and lost track of time, but my next conscious moment I was outside on the way to my car with my new license plates under my arm, and a bunch less money in my pocket. It might have been an hour, it might have been five minutes. No, no, it wasn't five minutes.
But I was only an hour and a half late for work. I feel fine, but I have the sneaking suspicion that if anything unexpected happens, I'm just as likely to murder someone as eat lunch today. I guess we'll see.
I came prepared for everything. No let me rephrase that-- I came with the naive belief that it was possible to come prepared for everything. A hundred and twenty dollars cash burned a hole in my pocket. I had the car's registration, bill of sale, title deed, my brand new license, and confidence that I would be in and out in a jiffy. No, I'm kidding, of course I wasn't quite that naive, but I did expect it to be, if not efficient, at least straightforward.
And it all started out well enough: "Fill these two forms out, and take them to the registration desk." Ok, fair enough. I started filling them out, and after a few hiccups (calling home for the expiration date of the insurance policy, wtf?), I proceeded to the desk with almost half the forms filled out. The rest of the blanks I would need some help with, as they asked for my PL1J code, the Vehicle Constancy Reticential Didacticism Enrollment number, and I think the UPC for my soul. Luckily, these were all available for the paraprofessional at the desk (since I mortgaged my soul to the Secretary of State's office yesterday to get out of standing in another line). And I pulled out my wallet to hand her some cash, because I knew these offices only take the cold hard stuff.
"I'm sorry, sir, we don't accept cash."
I laughed politely at her clever joke, but I was a little impatient. Let's put the jokes aside.
"We only take checks and money orders. When you go to pay the cashier the $143 fee, you can use cash, but we can't take it for the transfer tax."
My laugh withered on my lips, and drifted through the stuffy air (can't we have some AC, people?) to the floor, where it was immediately swept up by a guy with one of those long-handled dustpans, to be taken in back and pinned up in their large collection, in an exhibit entitled "The DMV: where happiness goes to die."
"There's a 711 only a mile down the road. You can pick up a money order there."
Yeah, thanks. I can also hit up the ATM because I didn't even bring enough cash in the first place. A few minutes there, a few seconds asking for and paying for my money order, and then a long awkward pause while I waited... do I need a receipt? I've never gotten a money order before... Will this large man with the vanilla-ice-cream-twirl turban yell at me if I ask him, or just shake his head and laugh. Then he started helping other customers, and so I dumped a bunch of change on the floor so I would at least have something to do. At least I wouldn't be standing there awkwardly, I would be awkwardly scooping forty-six cents off the weird black rubber-velcro mats that 711s always have. But forty-six cents only takes so long. I was looking around, thinking I might have to upend a magazine rack, when he suddenly turned to me with a slip of paper and a here-you-go. I heaved an uncomfortable sigh of relief, which he might have taken for impatience. I kind of hope so.
I was pretty zombied out when I got back to the Department of Motor Vehicles Facility, resigned to whatever cruel fate Jesse White, with his sickly grin, might assign to me. I'm afraid I blacked out somewhat and lost track of time, but my next conscious moment I was outside on the way to my car with my new license plates under my arm, and a bunch less money in my pocket. It might have been an hour, it might have been five minutes. No, no, it wasn't five minutes.
But I was only an hour and a half late for work. I feel fine, but I have the sneaking suspicion that if anything unexpected happens, I'm just as likely to murder someone as eat lunch today. I guess we'll see.
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
well, I sneaked back in
just under the 2:30 mark-- 2:13 to be exact. First of all, the directions to the DMV called for a left turn on 84th St.. Guess what? It was a right turn. So that took about 15 minutes, just to find the place. And then after waiting in the information line for ten minutes, and the help line for fifteen, and the cashier line for about 8, I got to the front, ready to give them my money.
"Please tell me it's not cash only."
"Sorry"
"Please tell me where to find an ATM."
It was just around the corner, in a liquor store (which tempted me strongly). And then it was in, ten more minutes in the cashier line, eight minutes in the picture line, twelve minutes waiting for the picture to come through and the license to be printed.
"But, unfortunately, sir, this is not a full-service facility, and we cannot help you get new plates, or even temporary plates. Here is a list of full-service DMVs."
"And what is this?" I thought, "a half service facility? Oh, no, I get it, a half-assed service facility." And with that, I was out of the Secretary of States Department of Motor Vehicles, having completed half of what I had come to do, in a snappy hour and ten minutes.
And the gas guage lay on empty. Pull into a Citgo, go inside to pay, grab a Gatorade for lunch, and for the first time in two weeks, ask for a pack of Camel Turkish Silvers. Don't worry, though. They were out, so they gave me Camel Lights instead. And they were out of gas. How? I don't know, and I think if I had stayed around, the clerks arms would have ended up wound in a tight knot around his head, and mine would have ended up in handcuffs.
So it was up the block after a hairy left turn onto Harlem, across the street, into a Mobil. They had managed to deplete their entire reservoir of fuel as well, and the pumps, bar none, were out of service. Foul words gurgled in my throat.
By the time I paid thirty bucks for less than half a tank of gas, struggled through inexplicable traffic, and made it back to the highway, I was receiving messages from co-workers asking whether I was dead.
No, but that sounds nice, thanks for asking.
When I left, I half expected the experience to be a breeze. I mean, the DMV can't really be as bad as everyone makes out, right? No, wrong. So very wrong.
"Please tell me it's not cash only."
"Sorry"
"Please tell me where to find an ATM."
It was just around the corner, in a liquor store (which tempted me strongly). And then it was in, ten more minutes in the cashier line, eight minutes in the picture line, twelve minutes waiting for the picture to come through and the license to be printed.
"But, unfortunately, sir, this is not a full-service facility, and we cannot help you get new plates, or even temporary plates. Here is a list of full-service DMVs."
"And what is this?" I thought, "a half service facility? Oh, no, I get it, a half-assed service facility." And with that, I was out of the Secretary of States Department of Motor Vehicles, having completed half of what I had come to do, in a snappy hour and ten minutes.
And the gas guage lay on empty. Pull into a Citgo, go inside to pay, grab a Gatorade for lunch, and for the first time in two weeks, ask for a pack of Camel Turkish Silvers. Don't worry, though. They were out, so they gave me Camel Lights instead. And they were out of gas. How? I don't know, and I think if I had stayed around, the clerks arms would have ended up wound in a tight knot around his head, and mine would have ended up in handcuffs.
So it was up the block after a hairy left turn onto Harlem, across the street, into a Mobil. They had managed to deplete their entire reservoir of fuel as well, and the pumps, bar none, were out of service. Foul words gurgled in my throat.
By the time I paid thirty bucks for less than half a tank of gas, struggled through inexplicable traffic, and made it back to the highway, I was receiving messages from co-workers asking whether I was dead.
No, but that sounds nice, thanks for asking.
When I left, I half expected the experience to be a breeze. I mean, the DMV can't really be as bad as everyone makes out, right? No, wrong. So very wrong.
oh boy oh boy george
I am about to go to the DMV for a very complicated process. On my lunch break. Odds are, it will take two and a half hours and I will get fired. Stay tuned for updates. I might be screwed.
Friday, August 31, 2007
So very rude
On Wednesday, I told a girl at a bar, who had a pretty big nose she was probably pretty self-conscious about (the girl had a big nose, not the bar), the following:
"Has anyone ever told you that you look like Kellie Pickler but with a bigger nose? Yeah, you look like Kellie Pickler, only with that nose you have." And I didn't even realize I was being rude. But neither did she apparently, because that comment was only a small part of perhaps the most successful wingman-running-interference-operation I have ever been involved with. maybe ever seen.
But I guess the moral of the story is: "when it's worth having someone point out a physical flaw as long as they tell you you look like someone famous, you know you will be easy to run interference on."
"Has anyone ever told you that you look like Kellie Pickler but with a bigger nose? Yeah, you look like Kellie Pickler, only with that nose you have." And I didn't even realize I was being rude. But neither did she apparently, because that comment was only a small part of perhaps the most successful wingman-running-interference-operation I have ever been involved with. maybe ever seen.
But I guess the moral of the story is: "when it's worth having someone point out a physical flaw as long as they tell you you look like someone famous, you know you will be easy to run interference on."
Pet peeves
Quite honestly, I'm not big on pet peeves. Things don't really tend to get under my skin very often. When someone asks me what bothers me most, I usually say, "umm, unngghh, raw tomatoes, uhh, bad drivers, glundkkh um, being really thirsty, indecisiveness... I don't know." I don't like those things, but none of them really get on me. Nevertheless, inspired by a co-worker, I will now compile the list of my top ten pet peeves.
1. When there is so much snow on a windshield that the wipers can't get all the way down, and just scunch against the snow.
2. When boogers look like green plastic and you think maybe it's a broken piece of lego.
3. People who complain about drama, and end up making a big deal about how they hate when someone makes a big deal of anything.
4. No toilet paper.
5. People who don't think I'm awesome.
6. Clogged sinuses.
7. splinters.
8. the thought of an old bald man scraping his head on a chalkboard, and the skin slides right off.
9. oh, no, what if aliens attack
10. fat people.
Very unoriginal, and a little snarky, but what can I say, that's me.
1. When there is so much snow on a windshield that the wipers can't get all the way down, and just scunch against the snow.
2. When boogers look like green plastic and you think maybe it's a broken piece of lego.
3. People who complain about drama, and end up making a big deal about how they hate when someone makes a big deal of anything.
4. No toilet paper.
5. People who don't think I'm awesome.
6. Clogged sinuses.
7. splinters.
8. the thought of an old bald man scraping his head on a chalkboard, and the skin slides right off.
9. oh, no, what if aliens attack
10. fat people.
Very unoriginal, and a little snarky, but what can I say, that's me.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
on a pretentiousness scale of 1 to 10
I think it would be a 9.5 if people replaced the word 'person' with 'personality.' Observe:
So I was in the car with one other personality, ...
She's impatient sometimes, but she's a good personality.
No, I don't follow baseball. I'm not really a baseball personality.
Or, better yet,
No, personalitily, I don't care for it.
Inaccurate as they all are, I think they are even more snooty.
I better start doing that.
By the way, do you ever get something really stinky on your finger, and instead of washing it off, you just sniff it periodically, as if to reassure yourself, "yup, still smells pretty effin nasty." I have something on my left ring finger right now, and I don't know where it came from, but it sure smells like poo. mmmwhoo! I just smelled it again, and it is gross. Maybe it's a sign of a curse that I will never find marital bliss. Maybe it is getting on my keyboard every time I type the letter S. sssssssss. Maybe I should go up to some random personality and ask them to smell it.
So I was in the car with one other personality, ...
She's impatient sometimes, but she's a good personality.
No, I don't follow baseball. I'm not really a baseball personality.
Or, better yet,
No, personalitily, I don't care for it.
Inaccurate as they all are, I think they are even more snooty.
I better start doing that.
By the way, do you ever get something really stinky on your finger, and instead of washing it off, you just sniff it periodically, as if to reassure yourself, "yup, still smells pretty effin nasty." I have something on my left ring finger right now, and I don't know where it came from, but it sure smells like poo. mmmwhoo! I just smelled it again, and it is gross. Maybe it's a sign of a curse that I will never find marital bliss. Maybe it is getting on my keyboard every time I type the letter S. sssssssss. Maybe I should go up to some random personality and ask them to smell it.
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