If I die, blame the Department of Motor Vehicles. Last week my husband drug me, kicking and screaming, to the DMV to replace my license. I had been happily feigning ignorance that my id was eight months expired. So what? Who cares? Even the police don’t care. I obey the laws that are convenient for my sleep schedule. They have bad guys to catch; they don’t care about vampire-like bloggers.
He was patient for a while. He would hint about it periodically, and I would pretend not to hear him. Then he started talking about going ahead and replacing his license because it expires in June. Later, he gingerly suggested I go on a ride along. Lastly, he offered me food and booze afterward.
When I finally arrived, I saw someone I hadn’t thought about in months and was trying to avoid. For some strange reason, she had popped into my head on the way over to the DMV, and I had started a discussion with my husband about her. The conversation was about how it was too bad we couldn’t be friends, because a third party had ruined that chance. When we pulled up, guess who was walking in at the same time?
Being the cowardly lion that I am, I started to back up toward the car. You see, this was the one day the DMV had no one there. This was one where you filled out your paper work on one tiny desk with the people that walk in before you. I managed to wedge myself into a place where I could remain unobserved. Then I waited for my number to be called while sitting with the five other people in the room. So guess who got to avoid eye contact with one another?
If that wasn’t bad enough, when I got to the desk, the clerk was spraying it down with disinfectant. My germaphobic tendencies went into high gear. I handed him my license, and he said, “Hmmm… this is really out of date.”
“Yep. My husband drove me here.”
“um-hm” with a wink. I think he was in love with me, but that is a story for a different day.
Then I looked at my surroundings, and I recoiled in horror. They had a finger printing machine (btw big brother anyone? Why do they need my fingerprints so I can drive?), a signature computer, and an eye exam machine. When my eye fixated on the latter, I literally started dry heaving. ”What’s wrong?!” exclaimed my jilted lover.
“Th…there’s nose grease on the eye machine.”
“You don’t clean it between visits?”
“I’m not sure if it’s ever been cleaned. I tell you what: just for you, I’ll give you a paper towel to clean it before you touch it.” He handed over a dry paper towel.
“I have to clean it!?”
“This ain’t the Hilton.”
“Can I have the disinfectant at least?”
“That’s not allowed. We can be liable if you’re allergic, and it could hurt the machine.”
“So you’re telling me this machine has the germs of every person that’s sat here since you all opened?”
I had throw-up in my mouth and tears in my eyes as I feebly attempted to dry wipe face grease; I only managed to smear it around.
“Good. Well, please look in the machine and tell me the letters on row 4.”
“I don’t wanna…”
“Then you won’t get your license.”
“Can I keep my old one?”
“Okay.” I lean in, and see nothing. “It’s blank.”
“You have to press your forehead into it, or it won’t turn on.”
“Seriously?! What the hell?” He shrugged the what can I do about it, though I’m madly in love with you gesture.
Thank goodness my nose didn’t touch the nose grease because it was too small to reach. I read, “S9D89″ and then added, “Take that beyotch, I beat the eye detector!”
So yeah, my husband more than owed me the horrible massage I talked about on yesterday’s post. Between the two experiences in less than a week, I deserve a gold medal, and the car of my dreams. Those six martinis he bought me afterwards probably didn’t kill off the germs I got at the DMV.
Lady or Not… Here I come!