I had heard them fussing at each other in the produce section. I didn't mean to listen to their squabbling, but I was caught behind them waiting to see how many different kinds of potato salad there could possibly be for the cookout SigOth and I were having together. These two--probably in their 80s--were shouting at each other about a party they were hosting, and their bickering was first-class. These two were no newlyweds; they had been perfecting the fine art of irritating the piss out of each other for 60 years.
Him: How much potato salad do we need?
Her: I don't know, it depends on how much people eat!
Him: Well, how do I know how much anyone will eat?
Her: It always depends. Might be that it's really good potato salad. And then there'll be people who don't eat none. You have to figure that, too.
Him: That's just complicating things. Why did you bring that up?
Her: I'm just saying that it's true. Some people don't like potato salad and they won't eat it.
Him: How am I supposed to know who is going to eat potato salad and who don't like it?
He gets an idea. He decides to attack the problem from another angle.
Him (holding up a half gallon container of potato salad): So how many people will eat out of this?
Her (not even turning to look at what he's holding up): They ain't a-gonna eat out of that. They're going to dish it out and put it on their plates!
He stood there looking completely perplexed for a good 20 seconds, and then he slammed the potato salad in the bottom of the cart. She had doddered off by this time. I heard him mutter, "goddamnit" before he wheeled the cart in her direction.
I stepped up to the counter, very happy that they didn't even notice there were three different kinds of potato salad.
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
One Fine Day on "Summer Retirement"
I teach during the academic year, but I work year-round, even though I am paid for only 10 months. Part of my job involves university administrative work, and that kind of work doesn't stop just because it's summertime. I work on administrative projects and do all of the things that I can't get to during the academic school year. But I have decided not to teach in the summer--that I need this time to re-coup my sanity.
Today, re-couping my sanity means that I have chosen to not go in to my office. I usually cannot work well at home: too many fun distractions. Today I am going to allow those distractions to direct my life. My day shall go where it wants to go. Plant those last wilted pansies? If I feel like it. Maybe I'll finish caning the chair that belonged to my grandmother. Clean out my tiny corner of the garage? Maybe I'll read--that delicious reading for pleasure I miss so much.
Books that are currently stacked up on my reading list:
* Refuge by Terry Tempest Williams (just finished). Williams weaves many topics together in a beautiful and rich story about the connections in her Mormon family, the 1950s bomb testings in Nevada, cancer and deaths in her family, and a bird refuge in Utah. I ordered two other books by Williams. It seems that the local bookstores in the Midwest do not keep her books on the shelves.
* Mormon America: The Power and the Promise by Richard N. Ostling and Joan K. Ostling. (reading in progress). I am reading this book because right before I read Refuge (that involves a Mormon family), I watched the 4-hour PBS series on The Mormons. I simply wanted to know more about this group. (Convert? Uh, no. You obviously do not know me if this thought even crossed your mind.)
* Bush on the Couch: Inside the Mind of the President by Justin A. Frand, M.D. (reading in progress) My son (El) and daughter-in-law (Bee) got this book for me for Christmas in 2005. I read about half of it, but grading papers took over my reading time. The book was shuffled around and ended up on the bookcase behind my couch. (Hmmmm, somehow Freudian?) Psychoanalyzing this president seems even more interesting now.
* The Reluctant Fundamentalist by Mohsin Hamid. I can't wait to start this one. It's the only novel on my list. Note to self: add a few more novels.
* Spellbound: The Surprising Origins and Astonishing Secrets of English Spelling by James Essinger. Well of course I'd read this book. I just had to find it.
* A Crack in the Edge of the World: America and the Great California Earthquake of 1906 by Simon Winchester. I have to be honest. I bought this one because 1) It was on the sale table: $5.98 in hardback and 2) the jacket cover is a fascinating bit of origami. You'd almost have to see it. It has horizontal folds, accordion-style, and then the jacket wraps around the book. The folds are such that when you completely open up the jacket, a poster-sized collage emerges. Refolding it is like dealing with a roadmap; ACK! Ok, so even though I purchased this book because of the jacket, the text looks pretty good, too! Life in 1906--my grandparents were children--was hard, but it held promise. And then...I can't imagine the destruction people saw in 1906 California.
So I need to start my "summer retirement." I'm off to read. Or to clean something. Or cane a chair. Or maybe to shine a red laser pointer light on the ground next to the neighbors' incessantly barking dog. Maybe it'll go crazy and forget how to bark.
Today, re-couping my sanity means that I have chosen to not go in to my office. I usually cannot work well at home: too many fun distractions. Today I am going to allow those distractions to direct my life. My day shall go where it wants to go. Plant those last wilted pansies? If I feel like it. Maybe I'll finish caning the chair that belonged to my grandmother. Clean out my tiny corner of the garage? Maybe I'll read--that delicious reading for pleasure I miss so much.
Books that are currently stacked up on my reading list:
* Refuge by Terry Tempest Williams (just finished). Williams weaves many topics together in a beautiful and rich story about the connections in her Mormon family, the 1950s bomb testings in Nevada, cancer and deaths in her family, and a bird refuge in Utah. I ordered two other books by Williams. It seems that the local bookstores in the Midwest do not keep her books on the shelves.
* Mormon America: The Power and the Promise by Richard N. Ostling and Joan K. Ostling. (reading in progress). I am reading this book because right before I read Refuge (that involves a Mormon family), I watched the 4-hour PBS series on The Mormons. I simply wanted to know more about this group. (Convert? Uh, no. You obviously do not know me if this thought even crossed your mind.)
* Bush on the Couch: Inside the Mind of the President by Justin A. Frand, M.D. (reading in progress) My son (El) and daughter-in-law (Bee) got this book for me for Christmas in 2005. I read about half of it, but grading papers took over my reading time. The book was shuffled around and ended up on the bookcase behind my couch. (Hmmmm, somehow Freudian?) Psychoanalyzing this president seems even more interesting now.
* The Reluctant Fundamentalist by Mohsin Hamid. I can't wait to start this one. It's the only novel on my list. Note to self: add a few more novels.
* Spellbound: The Surprising Origins and Astonishing Secrets of English Spelling by James Essinger. Well of course I'd read this book. I just had to find it.
* A Crack in the Edge of the World: America and the Great California Earthquake of 1906 by Simon Winchester. I have to be honest. I bought this one because 1) It was on the sale table: $5.98 in hardback and 2) the jacket cover is a fascinating bit of origami. You'd almost have to see it. It has horizontal folds, accordion-style, and then the jacket wraps around the book. The folds are such that when you completely open up the jacket, a poster-sized collage emerges. Refolding it is like dealing with a roadmap; ACK! Ok, so even though I purchased this book because of the jacket, the text looks pretty good, too! Life in 1906--my grandparents were children--was hard, but it held promise. And then...I can't imagine the destruction people saw in 1906 California.
So I need to start my "summer retirement." I'm off to read. Or to clean something. Or cane a chair. Or maybe to shine a red laser pointer light on the ground next to the neighbors' incessantly barking dog. Maybe it'll go crazy and forget how to bark.
Monday, May 14, 2007
One Fine Day as My Father Bought Stamps
A funny story about my 81-year-old father--it was mid-December, and he needed postage for his bills. He went to the kiosk in the mall where they were selling stamps, and he stepped up to the counter. The nice lady there asked him, "Would you like flag stamps or the Madonna ones?" My father, who had obviously been watching way too much Extra! on TV and no time at all in church, frowned at her and growled, "I don't like that Madonna!" The woman sheepishly slid the flag stamps across the counter to him.
He told me that 10 minutes later he realized that the woman was asking him if he wanted to purchase stamps with THE Madonna on them, not that "dirty" Madonna on television. The cool thing is that he sees how damn funny this situation was, and he laughs at himself for it.
This is just one example of how unintentionally funny my father can be. Stay tuned. There will be more.
He told me that 10 minutes later he realized that the woman was asking him if he wanted to purchase stamps with THE Madonna on them, not that "dirty" Madonna on television. The cool thing is that he sees how damn funny this situation was, and he laughs at himself for it.
This is just one example of how unintentionally funny my father can be. Stay tuned. There will be more.
Wednesday, May 9, 2007
One Fine Evening Locked Out of My House
This actually happened to me nearly two years ago--August 3, 2005 to be exact. You might wonder how I know the exact date. You may keep wondering.
One fine day, my son called me to tell me he’d locked his keys in his car, and could I come pick up his wife, take her to their apartment so she could change, and then take her to work while he waits for the locksmith to show up? Sure, no prob. She and I had pulled up outside their apartment before she realized that her house key was on the keyring...that was locked in the car! So we went back to the parking garage where the car was, and there was my son with the locksmith. The locksmith was way too talkative. He kept up a stream of consciousness yak that went from how Hondas sometime come with inferior glass windows to how the locksmithing business caused his divorce to what a piece of crap his van is to what the average time for a locksmith to pick a lock is (20 minutes in case you are wondering) to how fast HE can pick a lock (7 minutes in case you care). I’ve never seen a jaw flap so much, I swear to god. So when he finally left (and I swear, he was still talking when he slammed his piece of crap van door and drove away), we decided that my daughter-in-law could just take the car, and I’d feed my son some lunch and take him home.
So during lunch, my son and I talked about how we rarely lock ourselves out of anything, that he usually has a ritual attached to locking doors, and that I am nearing obsessive-compulsive with my own door locking ritual. I make sure I have my keys in my hand, and that the hand that holds those keys is the hand that actually locks the door. I dropped him off at his apartment and I went home to work on some much-needed interior house painting. I ended up working all afternoon into the evening, and then decided that what I then needed was a hot shower and a trip to Barnes & Noble/Starbucks for a latté. On my way out the door I grabbed the garbage bag that needed to go to the curb, and I slammed the front door behind me.
Uh oh.
Apparently, my door locking ritual involves having SOMEthing in my hand, but not necessarily keys. My first thought was, “oh crap. Now I can’t get into my car.” But then it quickly changed to “Hey, waaaaait a minute!” and then straight to some creative cussing. Of course, "Significant Other" was at work (not to be home until midnight) and it was 9:00pm. That’s a long time to sit outside and swat mosquitoes. So I began my first attempt at a home break-in. I have discovered that you can indeed break into a house in my neighborhood and the neighbors will not notice—even when you make quite a bit of noise doing it and even when the next-door neighbor is a reserve police officer. I knew that we had only one window that isn’t locked, but it is--get this--duct taped shut. "Significant Other" uses this window to run antenna wires out of for his ham radio stuff. (Sometimes I think I live with Gomez Adams.) The bottom of this window is at least four feet off the ground, and the window is not even 18 inches wide. This was going to be a real trick.
I scoured the yard for something to stand on. Earlier in the afternoon, I had just happened to put a big plastic tub of sticks on the curb for trash pick up. I dumped out the sticks and used the bucket to reach and pull off all the duct tape outside of the window...but SigOth had duct taped the INSIDE of the damn window, too! I had to wiggle and jam the window to try to wretch it free...finally! But the window was still too damn high for me to crawl into, and I didn’t have enough leverage to hoist myself up to the window. Then I remembered the galvanized tub in the backyard that we fill with water and let the granddaughter play in. (Mind you, I’m doing all of this while smacking mosquitoes and groping around in darkness. I did not have the good sense to have turned on any porchlights!) I put the galvanized tub upside down under the window, and the plastic tub upside down on top of that. Finally I had the height I needed. I considered tossing my purse inside (because I didn’t want to leave it outside, even for a minute), but then I thought what if the cops saw me wriggling through this window, pointed their flashlight at me, and demanded to know that the hell was going on? Well, I would have just tossed my only form of identification right in the window! Besides, what if I found out I couldn’t get my butt through the window? Then I’d be locked out without my purse. I decided to leave it outside along with my shoes.
I looked in the window to see what I would be crawling on or stepping into if I did manage to get myself through the window. On the other side of this window is a table that includes one of SigOth's computers, his ham radio stuff, and a whole lot of crap—things he’s collected that I can’t identify. In addition, there are random things on the floor surrounding his desk and table. Simply leaping into this room á la Errol Flynn could be deadly. This would take careful planning.
So here is where years of yoga study really paid off. I’m not sure exactly how I folded myself nor how I managed to get my hips and one leg in the window, but I suddenly found myself with one foot on the ONLY bare spot on the table. My other leg was still outside, and my foot was balancing precariously on the plastic tub which was balanced on the galvanized tub, which (did I mention?) was resting on hard, lumpy ground which made the tubs rock back and forth a little. So the entire scene was ridiculously cartoonish, I’m sure. I had to gather all concentration, focus my mind, and push away all of the bad things that could happen with my next move, because I knew at least one of the bad things that could happen would involve a great deal of pain. I took a deep breath, pushed off with my “outside” leg, squeezed my torso and hips though the window, and then realized that in complete darkness I was standing on only one foot on a cluttered computer table with no idea what I was going to do next. I reached up and steadied myself with one hand on the ceiling. So once again, I put all of my concentration into the one foot that was planted (the one on the table), kept all of my weight balanced there while I swung my other foot ever so slowly through the window, over the table, and toward the ground. YESSS! Made it. I slammed the window shut, grabbed my keys, locked the door THIS time with the hand that held the keys, ran to the outside of the window to gather my purse and shoes, and drove straight to Barnes & Nobles for my (well deserved) latté.
Have I locked myself out of the house since then? I'm not telling. I do NOT want to jinx myself by even talking about it again.
One fine day, my son called me to tell me he’d locked his keys in his car, and could I come pick up his wife, take her to their apartment so she could change, and then take her to work while he waits for the locksmith to show up? Sure, no prob. She and I had pulled up outside their apartment before she realized that her house key was on the keyring...that was locked in the car! So we went back to the parking garage where the car was, and there was my son with the locksmith. The locksmith was way too talkative. He kept up a stream of consciousness yak that went from how Hondas sometime come with inferior glass windows to how the locksmithing business caused his divorce to what a piece of crap his van is to what the average time for a locksmith to pick a lock is (20 minutes in case you are wondering) to how fast HE can pick a lock (7 minutes in case you care). I’ve never seen a jaw flap so much, I swear to god. So when he finally left (and I swear, he was still talking when he slammed his piece of crap van door and drove away), we decided that my daughter-in-law could just take the car, and I’d feed my son some lunch and take him home.
So during lunch, my son and I talked about how we rarely lock ourselves out of anything, that he usually has a ritual attached to locking doors, and that I am nearing obsessive-compulsive with my own door locking ritual. I make sure I have my keys in my hand, and that the hand that holds those keys is the hand that actually locks the door. I dropped him off at his apartment and I went home to work on some much-needed interior house painting. I ended up working all afternoon into the evening, and then decided that what I then needed was a hot shower and a trip to Barnes & Noble/Starbucks for a latté. On my way out the door I grabbed the garbage bag that needed to go to the curb, and I slammed the front door behind me.
Uh oh.
Apparently, my door locking ritual involves having SOMEthing in my hand, but not necessarily keys. My first thought was, “oh crap. Now I can’t get into my car.” But then it quickly changed to “Hey, waaaaait a minute!” and then straight to some creative cussing. Of course, "Significant Other" was at work (not to be home until midnight) and it was 9:00pm. That’s a long time to sit outside and swat mosquitoes. So I began my first attempt at a home break-in. I have discovered that you can indeed break into a house in my neighborhood and the neighbors will not notice—even when you make quite a bit of noise doing it and even when the next-door neighbor is a reserve police officer. I knew that we had only one window that isn’t locked, but it is--get this--duct taped shut. "Significant Other" uses this window to run antenna wires out of for his ham radio stuff. (Sometimes I think I live with Gomez Adams.) The bottom of this window is at least four feet off the ground, and the window is not even 18 inches wide. This was going to be a real trick.
I scoured the yard for something to stand on. Earlier in the afternoon, I had just happened to put a big plastic tub of sticks on the curb for trash pick up. I dumped out the sticks and used the bucket to reach and pull off all the duct tape outside of the window...but SigOth had duct taped the INSIDE of the damn window, too! I had to wiggle and jam the window to try to wretch it free...finally! But the window was still too damn high for me to crawl into, and I didn’t have enough leverage to hoist myself up to the window. Then I remembered the galvanized tub in the backyard that we fill with water and let the granddaughter play in. (Mind you, I’m doing all of this while smacking mosquitoes and groping around in darkness. I did not have the good sense to have turned on any porchlights!) I put the galvanized tub upside down under the window, and the plastic tub upside down on top of that. Finally I had the height I needed. I considered tossing my purse inside (because I didn’t want to leave it outside, even for a minute), but then I thought what if the cops saw me wriggling through this window, pointed their flashlight at me, and demanded to know that the hell was going on? Well, I would have just tossed my only form of identification right in the window! Besides, what if I found out I couldn’t get my butt through the window? Then I’d be locked out without my purse. I decided to leave it outside along with my shoes.
I looked in the window to see what I would be crawling on or stepping into if I did manage to get myself through the window. On the other side of this window is a table that includes one of SigOth's computers, his ham radio stuff, and a whole lot of crap—things he’s collected that I can’t identify. In addition, there are random things on the floor surrounding his desk and table. Simply leaping into this room á la Errol Flynn could be deadly. This would take careful planning.
So here is where years of yoga study really paid off. I’m not sure exactly how I folded myself nor how I managed to get my hips and one leg in the window, but I suddenly found myself with one foot on the ONLY bare spot on the table. My other leg was still outside, and my foot was balancing precariously on the plastic tub which was balanced on the galvanized tub, which (did I mention?) was resting on hard, lumpy ground which made the tubs rock back and forth a little. So the entire scene was ridiculously cartoonish, I’m sure. I had to gather all concentration, focus my mind, and push away all of the bad things that could happen with my next move, because I knew at least one of the bad things that could happen would involve a great deal of pain. I took a deep breath, pushed off with my “outside” leg, squeezed my torso and hips though the window, and then realized that in complete darkness I was standing on only one foot on a cluttered computer table with no idea what I was going to do next. I reached up and steadied myself with one hand on the ceiling. So once again, I put all of my concentration into the one foot that was planted (the one on the table), kept all of my weight balanced there while I swung my other foot ever so slowly through the window, over the table, and toward the ground. YESSS! Made it. I slammed the window shut, grabbed my keys, locked the door THIS time with the hand that held the keys, ran to the outside of the window to gather my purse and shoes, and drove straight to Barnes & Nobles for my (well deserved) latté.
Have I locked myself out of the house since then? I'm not telling. I do NOT want to jinx myself by even talking about it again.
Monday, May 7, 2007
One Fine Morning at the BMV
Today, I woke up and everything went to shit. That is, until I walked into the BMV.
Now that I use a debit card instead of checks for most of my in-store transactions, no one ever looks at my license. Four years ago on my birthday, I wrote a check. The cashier asked to see my license. “Happy Birthday!” she said, “and don’t forget to renew your license today!” Oh, crap. Very funny, I thought. It’s 4:30 on a Friday.
So I had to slink into the BMV on the following Monday and hand the woman at the check-in counter my expired license. “It’s expired,” I explained. “What happens now?” “Well, first we arrest you,” she deadpanned. I swear my stomach flipped. I cannot imagine what expression was sliding off my face. And this woman was good. She waited for it. She stamped a couple of documents loudly before looking up at me…and then laughing loudly. “Nah, ya just take it over there to the next counter,” she said. She was still chuckling.
So this morning, I woke up groggy. Damn, out of chewable B-Complex vitamins. I love those things. Looked at myself in the mirror. Shower? Nah. I’ll just go to the coffee shop early and start reading that book I’ve been wanting to get to for, oh, a year or two. My students would be handing in portfolios beginning at 10:00am today, so I thought I’d sit, sip, and read for a few hours before my grading madness had to begin.
Ah, but first: the crossword puzzle. But something was really wrong with the crossword puzzle today. No, not with me. With the crossword. I couldn’t get it right. Had to be the puzzle. Something picking at me….couldn’t figure out what it was. Then, I saw an article about the BMV in Indianapolis extending its hours. BMV…BMV…I turned the page to read the editorials. BMV…flipped back to the BMV story. BMV. BMV? Oh, shit.
It’s amazing how a realization like that creeps up on you. My first thought was NOT that my license had expired. No—my first thought was that I could have been arrested. Then I thought I’ve been driving Jim’s car for (counting on fingers) nine days with an…expired license! So it was as if I had at least three thoughts before I even got to the expired license part.
And then, denial--it couldn’t be. I dug my license out of my purse. This picture on my license is what I see every time I open my checkbook; it’s who I identify with when I pay my bills—yes, there I am; yes, this is my checkbook. The photo doesn’t look like the image in the bathroom mirror, but it’s one image I have of myself that never changes. It’s the face I’ve attached to paying bills. That shirt I’m wearing? I don’t even know where it is, but it’s my bill-paying shirt. Has it really been four years? Sure enough, the license had expired nine days ago. Time to renew. Today.
So I had to rethink my entire morning. Leisure book reading was probably off the agenda, unless it was while waiting at the BMV. Shower? No time. No, wait—I have to have my picture taken! Shower’s back on. Now, which BMV branch? East side? West? Oh, hell, does it matter?
The woman who waited on me reminded me of those pushy teenagers at Wendy’s drive-up window. Everywhere you go these days it’s all business, and fast, fast, fast. My change is being tossed in my car window, and my cheeseburger and a Frosty are bagged and dangling from the drive-up window worker’s grasp even before I’ve moved forward from the “Pay Here” window. Egads. WHERE’S THE STRAW AND NAPKINS?!
It’s the same thing now at the BMV. I know the place has had a bad reputation for long lines and computer screw-ups in the past, but now it’s as if they get bonus points for how fast you can be herded in and out the doors. License pictures used to be bad, but now no one even reminds you to smile. A second to fix your hair? Oh, that takes entirely too long. I stepped in front of the blue screen and FLASH! “Ok, that’s good. It’ll be ready in a few minutes,” the fast-talking woman said.
Visit duration: 00:02:05. Yes folks, that’s two minutes and five seconds in the BMV. It’s actually printed on my receipt. I tell you, my day just got a little better…until I looked at my new license picture.
It’s 11:00am, and I still have not cracked open that book that’s been waiting for a year or two. But I did get my coffee. Life is pretty good: cuppa joe and my computer…in two days I’ll be finished grading these projects, and I can begin my summer life.
You used to have to renew your license every four years; this license does not have to be renewed until 2013. Six years from now. Good god what will I look like in six years? And who is this miserable-looking person on my new license? Who's going to pay my bills now?
Now that I use a debit card instead of checks for most of my in-store transactions, no one ever looks at my license. Four years ago on my birthday, I wrote a check. The cashier asked to see my license. “Happy Birthday!” she said, “and don’t forget to renew your license today!” Oh, crap. Very funny, I thought. It’s 4:30 on a Friday.
So I had to slink into the BMV on the following Monday and hand the woman at the check-in counter my expired license. “It’s expired,” I explained. “What happens now?” “Well, first we arrest you,” she deadpanned. I swear my stomach flipped. I cannot imagine what expression was sliding off my face. And this woman was good. She waited for it. She stamped a couple of documents loudly before looking up at me…and then laughing loudly. “Nah, ya just take it over there to the next counter,” she said. She was still chuckling.
So this morning, I woke up groggy. Damn, out of chewable B-Complex vitamins. I love those things. Looked at myself in the mirror. Shower? Nah. I’ll just go to the coffee shop early and start reading that book I’ve been wanting to get to for, oh, a year or two. My students would be handing in portfolios beginning at 10:00am today, so I thought I’d sit, sip, and read for a few hours before my grading madness had to begin.
Ah, but first: the crossword puzzle. But something was really wrong with the crossword puzzle today. No, not with me. With the crossword. I couldn’t get it right. Had to be the puzzle. Something picking at me….couldn’t figure out what it was. Then, I saw an article about the BMV in Indianapolis extending its hours. BMV…BMV…I turned the page to read the editorials. BMV…flipped back to the BMV story. BMV. BMV? Oh, shit.
It’s amazing how a realization like that creeps up on you. My first thought was NOT that my license had expired. No—my first thought was that I could have been arrested. Then I thought I’ve been driving Jim’s car for (counting on fingers) nine days with an…expired license! So it was as if I had at least three thoughts before I even got to the expired license part.
And then, denial--it couldn’t be. I dug my license out of my purse. This picture on my license is what I see every time I open my checkbook; it’s who I identify with when I pay my bills—yes, there I am; yes, this is my checkbook. The photo doesn’t look like the image in the bathroom mirror, but it’s one image I have of myself that never changes. It’s the face I’ve attached to paying bills. That shirt I’m wearing? I don’t even know where it is, but it’s my bill-paying shirt. Has it really been four years? Sure enough, the license had expired nine days ago. Time to renew. Today.
So I had to rethink my entire morning. Leisure book reading was probably off the agenda, unless it was while waiting at the BMV. Shower? No time. No, wait—I have to have my picture taken! Shower’s back on. Now, which BMV branch? East side? West? Oh, hell, does it matter?
The woman who waited on me reminded me of those pushy teenagers at Wendy’s drive-up window. Everywhere you go these days it’s all business, and fast, fast, fast. My change is being tossed in my car window, and my cheeseburger and a Frosty are bagged and dangling from the drive-up window worker’s grasp even before I’ve moved forward from the “Pay Here” window. Egads. WHERE’S THE STRAW AND NAPKINS?!
It’s the same thing now at the BMV. I know the place has had a bad reputation for long lines and computer screw-ups in the past, but now it’s as if they get bonus points for how fast you can be herded in and out the doors. License pictures used to be bad, but now no one even reminds you to smile. A second to fix your hair? Oh, that takes entirely too long. I stepped in front of the blue screen and FLASH! “Ok, that’s good. It’ll be ready in a few minutes,” the fast-talking woman said.
Visit duration: 00:02:05. Yes folks, that’s two minutes and five seconds in the BMV. It’s actually printed on my receipt. I tell you, my day just got a little better…until I looked at my new license picture.
It’s 11:00am, and I still have not cracked open that book that’s been waiting for a year or two. But I did get my coffee. Life is pretty good: cuppa joe and my computer…in two days I’ll be finished grading these projects, and I can begin my summer life.
You used to have to renew your license every four years; this license does not have to be renewed until 2013. Six years from now. Good god what will I look like in six years? And who is this miserable-looking person on my new license? Who's going to pay my bills now?
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