Adventures in hell...

So exciting news!! Coming in Just 33 days is...wait for it...my 29th Birthday. Woo-freaking-hoo. I love my birthday, I love getting presents, I love my friends and family gathering FOR ME, and I love that I'm having birthdays as opposed to the alternative...death.

This year however, my first card was less of a Hallmark, and more of a notice. From the DMV. And not just any notice, but the DREADED notice that proclaims that its just been FAR too long since I've graced the bowels of their gray soul sucking walls with my sunshiney presence. Seriously?! Isn't there ANY other indication that I'm still fit to be licensed? Like...oh, maybe the fact that I haven't been in an accident (that sound was me knocking on my desk)?! Or the fact that I made it to the DMV at all?!! If they were REALLY concerned, they would come to ME...make sure I was safe before I was released back onto the roads. So no, the fitness of my ability to operate a motor vehicle is determined by my ability to stand in line, not catch the dreaded cooties in the filth that millions go into annually, understand why B086 is called before F032 but after G054, and decipher the broken (and I'm talking into a million little shards) English of the person determining my transportation rights.

So I start at the first desk...no, backup...I START by making an appointment, and responsibly notifying my employers of said appointment. BIG fat deal...I get to the first desk and on the left is a sign indicating people with appointments should line up there...on the right, people without appointments. BUT, here's the curveball...the sign in the middle says "start here" and is the only line with an attendant. So I get in this line and say, "I have an appointment" and I get an F number (no verification of said appointment) instead of a B number- obviously saved for the savages that didn't make an appointment. He tells me to sit and wait. Now recall I discussed the order of numbers called? At least 3 B's came before each F. Sweet...only in a mixed up hell with carpeted walls, yet linolium floors would the universe favor those who didn't bother making an appointment.

I'm finally called, after whatever disease was on the seat has sufficiently seaped through to my skin. I had also had a chance to contemplate the fact that if pretty much every adult needs to go to the DMV at relatively regular intervals, then the 90 or some odd people in this building should be a good cross section of society...and if this is true, then the world is doomed. Fashion? Doomed. Hygiene? Doomed. Evolution of education? Doomed. We're all doomed. Anywho...I handed the woman everything she needed...my license, the check I wrote while I couldn't stand to leer at these people any longer, the paper that was mailed to me (fully and correctly filled out), and my aforementioned arbitrary number.

I will suspend my critism of this woman as a person, as well as my rendition of her accent, because that stuff is just petty...plus I've got plenty of ammo without it. She asks am I at the same address...yes, I am. She proceeds to read it loud enough for the world to hear...in fact, wherever that silly Bin Laden is hiding, he probably caught wind of it. For Christ's sake, same address! Then my phone number...I say it slowly but quietly and she repeats it over her own inner loud speaker...SHUT UP!!! Hello?! Could I be the first person in the DMV to not want her personal information displayed in light? Insanity I tell you.

Then there's the eye test...and for those who saw my glasses as a child, it comes as no surprise that one of my eyes doesn't' work too hot. Its lazy. I let it be lazy...because I understand the mentality well. And there isn't JACK that can be done...no surgery, no nothing. So I read the bottom line of eye test 3, cover the left eye, read the bottom of eye test 2, cover the right eye and nothing...she looks like she's never seen this before. I need to go to the "machine" to verify (verify what exactly?! Didn't I just say, I can't see letters with that eye?!) So I go to the forehead activated machine and my hypochondriaced A$$ almost passed out...NO covers...I'm putting my forehead on the forehead of everyone else for who knows how long. I am trying to decide what antibacterial product in my purse will best burn off 3 layers of skin...and I do the machine. She asks, with my right eye covered...can you see line one? Nope...I can't read any of them (aka, release my forehead from flubbers evil twin!) But just to be sure...she asks about line 2. Nope. Line 3. Line 4-8...but individually. UGH! She asks if this has ever been diagnosed by a doctor (uh yup...when I was three)- because obviously, in her many years obviously as an opthamologist who happens to enjoy working for, arguably, the worst government agency around, has never seen an eye with bad vision. She settles on me getting a license (nice choice since I already HAVE one)...but I have to fill out a form. Honest to god (because no one could make this shit up) it reads like this....
"I have vision in my ___right eye, ____ left eye because:
vision impairment _____________________________________________
injury:________________________________________________________ "
I read it twice...then again to her...she nods (yes, stupid). She asks which eye I have vision in...I say both..I'm not blind. "But you can't read the lines." I know, and I know what she meant, but I have vision and I'm gearing up to kick some hiney if I'm not granted my god given right to take an awful photo and lie horendously about my weight! Then I mark that I have vision (and by that, they meant good vision, because THIS is where the DMV decides to save time) in my right eye. But then there's that "because..." well, because nothing. I ate my carrots? Good genes on the right side of my body? Its my cross to bear?! I don't know why...they want to know why lefty doesn't work. Does the DMV not have anyone who edits? (hey Mike...possible job opportunity:) LOVE YOU!)

And then the photo...I step up smiling so he doesn't catch me off guard...I'm well made up, but the camera guy - we'll call him El Freako" topped off sharing all my information with the cream of the crop crowd by projecting out my full name.

You'll be glad to know, I made it out alive. To write this...for you- Sean and Michael.