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Grumble Grumble
There was a time when it took a lot to get my temper to flare. I mean a LOT. In a lot of cases this remains true. I have a lot of patience with the people I love (usually too much, actually) and I RARELY experience road rage, and I'm generally not too bad about waiting to be helped at a store or a restaurant, provided there's a good excuse for my having to wait. I lose patience - IMMEDIATELY - even before I walk out the door, when I have to go to the DMV. I hate it there. I hate the people who work there. I hate that they (yes, all of them) seem to have made it their personal mission in life to fuck with my head. I won't get into it in great detail, but when I bought my mom's car in December 2001, I had to go back to the DMV 15 times (I am so not kidding) to get my title transferred from Minnesota to NC. This was - in part - because I broke their stupid inspection law and had to pay an enormous fine (which I paid, without question) but MOSTLY it was because every time I went there they told me I needed something different or something more and not ONCE did anyone just sit down and say "look bitch, these are the things we need from you in order to get this shit done..." No - every time I went someone would give me a different piece to the puzzle until one day I just lost.my.shit and went crazy on some poor lady who actually turned out to be the most helpful lady I talked to. As it turned out? I didn't need to go to the DMV at all. EVER. I needed to go directly to the Grand Poobah of all things DMV and get his special blessing on my registration because having broken the most holy inspection law, I was cast into the lions den and had to beg (PLEAD) for forgiveness. I was so angry. I was "I'm going to write them a letter" angry. For me? That is VERY angry. I chalked it up to a North Carolina thing though, until I ran into the SAME DAMN thing up here. I went to the license bureau last week to switch my license from NC to MN (a task that should have been done MONTHS ago) only to be told that they needed a copy of my birth certificate and marriage certificate. I could feel my ears begin to ring and I just stared at them blankly. "Are you married?" they suddenly thought to ask me. "NO." "Ohhhh *laughygiggle* well then we don't need your marriage certificate now, do we?" I'm sorry, what? Is this fun for you bitches? Because as it is? I just wasted an entire half day off of work to drag my ass down here and have you send me away because my drivers license and my social security card aren't good enough proof that I did NOT steal this identity. And frankly, if I were going to steal an identity I would NOT steal mine - there are so many more interesting people out there. Jesus. Anyhow, so I went and called my mom and left her a bitchy little message. Y'know, cuz it's her fault. So today my mom asks if I need my actual birth certificate or if a copy will do. So I call the license bureau. "OH. We don't do that here." I'm sorry. WHAT? "No - you have to go to the state examiners office to do that. They make you take a test." I'm sorry. WHAT? "yeah." Exactly why is it that nobody thought to tell me this when I was down there ONE WEEK AGO TODAY? NOBODY said I was in the wrong place. If I hadn't called to check this out, I would have gone down there again to have them tell me I was in the wrong place. That would have made me yell. I'm not even kidding. YELL LOUDLY. Because the lady said - and I remember this because I thought it was weird - that if I didn't come back before my birthday (which is in about 3 weeks) I'd have to go to the State Examiners office. THAT'S what she said. I swear to God if I go to the state examiners office and they tell me I'm in the wrong place I will have someone's nuts. Yep. I'll take someone's nuts to wherever they directed me to and just throw them on the counter and silently challenge anyone to fuck with me anymore. Now I'm all worried that I'll fail the drivers test too. When I snottily remarked about what kind of fun would follow me failing such a test to my mother, she responded "maybe they'll deport you to Iran." My mom. She loves me. *********************************** A good way to NOT make me like you to slow down really really reeeeaaaallllyyyyy slowly - all drive by style - in the huge beat up car you're driving and when I glance over at you in terror smile and nod at me all rico suave. Because clearly you think that I am not going to be able to resist your clever advances and I will be forced to throw myself into your car, shattering windows and denting doors in my exhuberance, and I will rip your clothes off and have wild naked sex in the middle of the street right in front of my grandma's house. Cuz that's hot baby. H-O-T. Also not recommended: Approaching me at a gas station. EVER. Showing me pictures of your children and/or grandchildren. Commenting on any part of my body below the neck. Begging. Recommended: Random conversation at great lengths. Discussions about why you choose the black chapstick when clearly the red chapstick tastes better. Explanations as to how the black chapstick actually does make you more of a man and lengthy discussions on the studies that have been done to prove such a fact. Acting nutty about my dog. (These are all based on true life examples.) Happy Weekend! |
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