"Well, one thing for sure," I observed during our Saturday morning drive, "the Connecticut DMV is very well-signed." Prior to leaving, Savannah and I had cross-checked the thousands of documented evidence necessary for her to receive the mandatory-of-receiving-within-the first-48-hours-of-moving-to-Connecticut license.
"Passport?"
"Check."
"Lease agreement?"
"Check."
"Shoppers Club Card?"
"Check."
Open until 12:30 (On a Saturday! Score 2 for the Connecticut DMV!), we arrived with a comfortable three hour window to complete our business. "We're keeping our expectations low, right," I suggested as we crossed the parking lot. I was fresh from a painful experience at my own hometown DMV where I was told they could no longer accept hand-written receipts for sales of privately-owned cars. I initially left the premises in a quietly gracious manner but a quick ride down the road cleared my head and I stormed back. Miraculously, there is a grace period accompanying this ridiculous rule change but Savannah and I were appalled to hear our original clerk defend her service by saying that she had been told to use "exhaustive measures" to ensure people used the government form instead of the hand-written receipt. It was then and there, that I had the startling revelation that the DMV is NOT a customer-service based organization that exists to make my life better. I know, I know, I was a little late getting to the party, people.
We elbowed our way into the building. Spotting a sign that declared a 150 person occupancy, I immediately began counting in hopes that I could make a well-timed call to clear the premises and get Savannah and I to the front of the line. We took our number, A-60 and waited hopefully. And waited. And waited. "Look! A vending machine," I exclaimed with positive good cheer. "Oh, never mind, it's not Pepsi." I alternated between watching DMV TV...yes, there is such a thing and guessing people's occupations by how they stood. One guy had to have been a sailor...his feet were planted solidly for an hour...no sway, no stretch...solid. I was not solid. I danced around. Discreetly checked out the assortment of ear gauge rings in the room. Readied myself emotionally for when they called out A-60..."BINGO!" and then the "Price is Right" run down the aisles, high fiving or maybe the shocked Miss America "Did you say my name?" look, fanning away threatening tears of disbelief.
"Do you want to play a game," I asked my daughter. "No," she said quickly, fearing what I might use in my round of "I Spy." I resorted to perusing a back issue of Yankee Magazine. Inspired, I am considering stringing a garland of buttons for Christmas and will immediately begin scrounging yardsales and flea markets for something called a bell jar to make inverted topiarys. AS SOON AS I GET OUT OF THE DMV.
Three hours later, our number was up. Oh...was our number up all right. For one brief moment, I thought we'd made it. We were charming. We provided everything that was asked for. Forms were completed with only a hint of a questioning scowl from our DMV representative. But what is this? We're being sent to the window to get Savannah's license picture taken? Savannah smirked at me. As we sat and waited for our turn, our DMV representative called Savannah's name across the crowded room. I smirked at her as she stomped back to me after discovering one of our thousands of pieces of documented evidence did not meet the standards of the Connecticut Department of Motor Vehicles.
By this time, the DMV was closed with an armed-with-pepper-spray guard at the entrance directing patrons to a side corridor exit. "Mom...wait," Savannah said, pausing to check the DMV website on her phone. "Ma'am," another security guard said, rushing toward us (and immediately ticking me off for calling me "Ma'am"), "You can't stand there. Did you already exit the building? You can't come back in once you've exited." I wasn't able to respond under this assault of questions. Was I being accused of breaking into the DMV? Who would want to break into the DMV? Like purgatory, I was caught between realms, not really in or out of the DMV. Not interested in my answers, he continued peppering me with questions about my exit strategy but never made eye contact with me. I stopped trying to answer and merely danced around, bobbing and weaving until I forced him to look me in the eye. Savannah and I were escorted to another irritated DMV representative who helpfully provided us with a pre-printed list of acceptable documented evidence exactly like the one listed on the helpful DMV website. "See ya next Saturday," I called out to my security guard friend as he watched us successfully exit the building. "Well, that was a complete waste of time," Savannah muttered. "Not at all," I answered. "Now we know what to expect. We'll pack a picnic lunch, bring chairs and play cards." Remembering the vending machine, I added, "Oh...and don't forget the Pepsi." And the right documentation. And your patience. And your will to live.
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