Off-Topic

I owe you an O, but what you’re getting right now is a rant. I had a very sweet O in the works—called Opa’s Girl—and if I survive through the better potion of this already-not-good day, I hope I shall be able to finish it off.

But things are not going well. Today is D Day. As in DMV Day for driver’s license renewal. This is annoying on so many levels. I JUST got a new one a year ago. I know waiting in that line is a rite of passage. I know at some point we all have to stand in the line that is wrapped around the outside of the building a full hour before the office even opens in the morning, but not so very long ago, I had the distinct pleasure of standing directly in front of a lady who looked almost identical to one of those lucky troll dolls and who stood so close to me that her wispy blowy hair kept tickling the back of my arm. TWO hours of that.

For whatever reason, the notice they mailed me over a month ago indicated that I cannot renew online and must go to the DMV proper before Thursday, April 18, 2013. I think I know what they’re planning to do: a vision test.

This won’t be like back when I first got my license in the safety of the driver’s ed classroom and I got to listen to the eight people in line ahead of me say D-E-F-P-O-T-E-C.

This won’t be like when I first got my Texas license and the lovely clerk in the Denton office had mercy and coached me through.

 

“Pretty close! That last letter isn’t a Z, though—it’s something rounder.”

“C? D? G? Q?”
“Something rounder and hook-like,” she prodded.
“Aha-- J!” I wanted to high-five her, but I knew it would arouse suspicion.

Glasses, no glasses—it doesn’t matter. There’s not a significant problem with my vision (remember the entry Going Blind?) I just can’t seem to pass that stupid vision test independently.

A rumor recently snaked through the parent-pickup line that the best time to go to the DMV is the afternoon, because everybody else in the county goes in the morning. (Certainly seems consistent with my previous experience!)

I woke up extra-early today so I could start training for the vision test, but first, I wanted to find that stupid notice and read the fine print, just in case I missed a teeny tiny clause about an online renewal possibility. Or worse, a clause about needing to take the whole stupid test again. (I’d pass it, of course. Thanks to that Parking Wars show on A&E, I know all the rules about parking AND I’ve become quite proficient at replicating several of the cheesy sound effects.)



When I tell people I took
the year off to write
a book, I'm not lying,
just exaggerating a bit.

Where’s that notice?!

If you’ve already read my entry Poop Worshippers, you know that I do NOT throw things away silly-nilly. I have every to-do list from August until yesterday filed chronologically in a binder very clearly marked “To-Do Lists”. Two months’ worth of grocery circulars, also organized chronologically AND alphabetically (Albertsons, Kroger, Market Street, Sprouts, Tom Thumb) are waiting nearby for my upcoming analysis of steak cuts and prices.

I have no idea where that stinkin’ notice could possibly be.

And I can’t just show up to the DMV unprepared—it’s not in my nature.

With that, I’d better go resume the search. I shall try to keep you posted on how this ordeal turns out. Unless of course the DMV deems me too blind to drive myself home. In which case, Sweetie—if you read this in time—better keep the ringer volume cranked up on your Bat-phone today.

 



 

*** Update ***

Let’s focus on the positive things first.

Parking was a breeze—I found a spot quickly, and it wasn’t even too far from the office.
There was no visible line on the exterior of the building.

So far, so good.

Deceptively good, unfortunately, as it appeared almost all of the eighty chairs in the lobby were occupied. I approached the check-in desk, received the form I’d need to fill out, and a slip indicating that I was number 130 in line. Then, I made the rookie mistake of standing at the side counter to fill out the form. That’s what it’s there for, but because of the knuckle-head layout of the place, EVERY single person who arrives thinks that you are at the end of the line and tries to stand behind you, and you have to explain to every single person (sometimes several times to the same person) that the line is actually over THERE and that this is the form-filler-outer section.

While I filled out the form, I heard numbers 121, 122, and 123 called. Was I dreaming?

There was a lull in the summoning of customers, so I had to sit with the others in the waiting room.

Ick.

I chose a chair that would give me the greatest vantage point to people-watch, but I immediately regretted this decision.  Approximately 80 percent of the people had their heads bent to mess with their cell phones. Foreheads as far as my eyes could see. Of those, at least half the brains behind those foreheads had no understanding (or decorum, maybe) toward the virtues of volume control. Cacophony in the truest sense, I’m afraid.

Numbers 124, 125, 368(what?) and 126 were called. It wouldn’t be long now.

The only two people worth watching were a woman in a very elaborate niqab, which is not as revealing as a hijab and not as concealing as a burqa. Would they make her remove it for the photo? The second was a very fashionable high-heeled early twenty-something who was able to smack gum, have a loud phone conversation, reapply her makeup, and jiggle her foot anxiously all while balancing a VERY large napping toddler in her lap. How large? Kindergartenish, maybe. To be honest, it was quite impressive.

127.

128.

129.

Finally, 130! I glanced at the timestamp on the slip, and then at my watch. 19 minutes. A personal best!

The previous tenant at Station 1 had not quite vacated, so I stood there awkwardly, then he apologized awkwardly, and it was really my turn.

I understood about 1/10 of the words coming out of her mouth. If she was Mexican, I would have preferred that we continue the process in Spanish, despite the fact that my speaking ability is pretty much limited to the menu at Taco Bell. It was not Spanish. I have no idea what it was. Cambodian, maybe?

I apologized and asked her to repeat herself a trillion times before I finally adapted to the cadence and accent. My standard response became “No changes. Nothing new. Same information as my current license.” Despite this, there was still some brief confusion about if I was indeed a US citizen and a registered voter (Had I done something wrong on the form? I’d triple-checked it while I was waiting so that the two interesting people wouldn’t realize I was spying.)

She gestured me toward the blue screen for the photo. She took my picture, grimaced, and suggested that we try again.

Well, that was kind. I tried to make a joke about how especially nice that was, since I’d be stuck with this photo for the next six years and whatnot. I could not understand her response.

We were wrapping up; I could sense it. I had to place both thumbs on the thumb-camera, sign on the line and inside the yellow box …

I was home free!

Then she gestured toward the vision checker machine.

Dadgumit. So close.

I put my forehead against the thing as directed. (How many foreheads had touched this ahead of mine?!)

She told me to read the fifth line down, and I peered into the machine. I thought it was odd that only the first three lines were labeled, but I didn’t say anything, especially since I suspected I’d be counting on her mercy very shortly.

Surprised and confused by what I saw, I pulled away from the machine.  ”Are these… numbers?”

“Yes. Please read everything on line five.”

Once again I pulled back from the machine. “I’m sorry to interrupt again. Are these… all numbers? Or should I expect some letters to be mixed in there, too?”

“All numbers. Line five please.”

Crossing my fingers for luck, I rattled off a series of what I hoped was somewhat accurate.

“Not very bad,” she said. “Now, do column on left. Line five.”

There was a column on the left? That wasn’t a column, that was a leopard-printed margin. Those weren’t numbers. They were barely squiggly lines; hieroglyphs, maybe. They could have been anything. It didn’t seem fair to test someone on shapes that didn’t remotely look like numbers or anything else in the text-rich world in which we live. I pulled my face away from the machine, rubbed my eyes, and blinked a few times.

“Try again. Just guess,” she advised. So I did.

“Was I close?”
“None correct,” she said. “Usually you wear the contacts?”

Ha.

I brought out my glasses. Thank goodness I’d put them in my purse. If this worked, she wouldn’t make me re-take the photo, would she?

“Let’s hope this helps,” I muttered.

It didn’t.

She said something about a restriction being placed on my license, and a bunch of other things, but the blood of shame was rushing to my cheeks, and the water of embarrassment was starting to leak from my eyes, so I wasn’t focusing on decoding at the moment.

Maybe in the next six years we’ll be able to get to the bottom of this vision thing. Or maybe I’m doomed to be the marvel of modern medicine: the girl with pretty good vision who just can’t seem to pass the test.