My Real Life

I had to go to the DMV, or as it is now called, the MVC the other day.

I had to go because something of mine expired.

In January.

So, I finally made the time to go.

I figured that we were in the beginning of the month because all of those slackers who waited until the last minute in May would have been in a few days before.

Yeah, I called them slackers.

My name is Amy, I live in a glass house, and I throw stones.

So, when we pulled into the completely full parking lot, I uttered “Crap” which was followed by Monkey Girl’s “Moooom.  Don’t say that,” to which I responded, “Look at this parking lot.  The appropriate response when you see this parking lot this full is ‘crap,'” to which she responded, “That is never the appropriate response, Mom.”

However, she said “pissed off” the other day, so I think I’m not quite in as much trouble as she was fronting.

Anyway, in we went.

The screener was kind enough not to raise his eyebrows at exactly how expired I was, and he directed us to the end of the line.

The end of the line was us, standing with our backs against the door to the Men’s room.

Lovely.

I really wouldn’t have minded, because it was just Monkey Girl and I and it gave us time to hang out together, but we were behind a 17 year old who was getting her first license.

At first I was thinking, “Aw, how sweet.  I remember how excited I was when I got my license.”

Then I remembered that I don’t actually remember going to the DMV to get my license.

I’m sure I was probably excited, but I don’t remember it at all.

I probably still would have at least pretended to be nostalgic, but it was clear that she wanted everyone in line to know that she was getting her license and that she seemed to believe she was the first person to ever get her license.

“Just think, Mom.  No more needing rides to school.  No more of you needing to take me places.  Did I tell you about how well I did on the driving test?  He said he’d never seen someone parallel park that well.  No more needing rides to school.  No more having to call you to pick me up.  I was the best parallel parker the driving instructor had ever seen, Mom.  Hey, guess what?  You won’t have to take me to school anymore!”

For twenty minutes.

Finally, we got up to the desk where they sort you out and tell you what line you have to stand in, because the line you’ve been standing in for the past twenty minutes isn’t the real line.  It’s the pre-line.

They were happy to see I had all my “points” in order and my check was pre-written and they sent us over to Line A.

Guess who else was in Line A?

I’ll give you a hint:  She’s the best damn parallel parker in the entire state of New Jersey.

I know, I know…cut her some slack.  It’s exciting.  I get it.

But enough already.

So, I needed to tune her out.

(I should mention that, by this point, Monkey Girl had taken herself out of the equation and was building bridges on my iPhone.  Twelve year-olds do not enjoy lines.  Particularly ones with people who keep looking at them disdainfully as if they are little kids while they go on and on about getting their license.  I didn’t blame her.)

So, I started doing what I do best and began people-watching.

The DMV is fascinating, really, because at some point, everyone goes to the DMV.

Young and old, rich and poor.  The DMV makes you come in, yourself, to get the job done.

And they were all there.

There was the woman in her leopard print heels, with leopard print stretch pants and a fuzzy short sleeved sweater (I’m sure there is a fashion name for this, but I have no idea what it is), talking on her iPhone with a (you guessed it) leopard print case.

There was the man wearing ripped jeans, a ripped t-shirt, construction boots and had a braid in his hair so long, he could sit on it.

There were the two preppie boys in their early 20’s who spent their time trying to one-up each other’s stories of frat parties.

There was the pregnant mother with the toddler who kept trying to lift up her mother’s dress and when she was continually thwarted by Mom, decided to ease her pain by showing everyone her underwear.

There was the gross couple with the woman who sneezed all over the forms on the entry table and her husband who had his hand inside his pants for most of the time he was in line, and then touched three or four forms on the table before selecting the one he really needed.

The DMV is people-watching at it’s best because the people are trapped.

We all have to be there and there is no escape.

Finally, it was my turn.

The woman took my paperwork and told me to take off my glasses.

“What?”

“I said, take off your glasses.”

“Um, I’m legally blind without my glasses.”

“I just need to take your picture for your new license.”

“Without my glasses?”

“Yes.”

“Ah…to make sure I’m not wearing a disguise or something?”

She was not amused.

Nor was I when I saw the picture.

“Are you happy with your picture?”

“No, but I don’t think I will ever be happy with my picture.”

She was not amused.

We took it again and I pretended to like this one better.

She processed my paperwork, took my check, ran it through the machine and gave me my receipt.

“It’ll just be a second while we wait for the license to come out.”

So, we stood there, looking at each other.

Then, she took my check and ran it through the machine again and gave me a new receipt.

“Um, you already did this.”

“What do you mean?”

I held up both receipts.  “You ran my check through twice.”

“Aw, shit,” she said, and I looked at Monkey Girl to see if she caught that and was going to lecture DMV lady, but she didn’t even raise an eyebrow.

She called over her supervisor who didn’t understand that she had processed the transaction twice.  He kept telling her it was no big deal that she ran the check through twice, and she kept trying to explain that her cash drawer wouldn’t zero out at closing because she ran the transaction through the computer twice…not just stamping the check in the machine.

When he finally got it, he said he needed to get the instructions on how to void a transaction.

“Can I go?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said.  “No,” she said.

I stayed.

Ten minutes later, we were free to go, and, as it turns out, there was absolutely no reason that I should have had to stand there for the extra ten minutes but for my fear of this woman.

We walked out, got in the car and as we started to drive out of the parking lot, we were almost sideswiped by someone driving a little red car.

Terrible driver.

But I hear she’s an excellent parallel parker.