A day at the DMV

I'm not sure what the deal is with the DMV. I have to order a copy of my driving record (which is completely clean, by the way). I was hoping I could just get it through my insurance agent, but apparently they can only order them for new business. I wouldn't qualify as new business since I've been with the same insurance company for 18 years.

After several calls to other people I know who run driving record reports, they all came back with the same dreaded answer, "You need to call the DMV."


Damn.

The DMV is always such a nuisance. Sometimes you get lucky. You walk in to an empty lobby. You print your little "take-a-number" receipt, and just as you're about to sit down, your number is called. That's a good day at the DMV. But most times, like today, you walk into a very busy lobby. Some old guy who refuses to wear reading glasses (or forgot them) is standing with his equally old wife trying to figure out what the little sign about the "take a number" printer says. (Just in case you're wondering, it says, "Take a Number.") Once you finally get your number, you glance at it quickly, and starting looking above the counters for the number reader, which, much to your dismay, reads a number 20 less than the one you're holding. You scan the lobby for an available seat, preferably one that is in between two empty seats. (It's just bad form to sit right next to a stranger.) You slump into the half-cracked orange plastic seat and start rummaging through your purse for something to read or play with. You just know this is going to take forever.

Ten minutes pass and you're done reading the back of the gum wrapper (3 times), all the receipts that have crumpled into the bottom of your purse, and played five games of Brick-Out on your cell phone. You're pretty much out of entertainment options at this point, so you decide to just sit and subtly people watch.

You notice that no one is smiling. (Why does everyone come to the DMV in a bad mood? Doesn't that just perpetuate the problem?)

You notice that when there aren't 3 empty seats in a row (so that someone could sit in the middle seat - not too close to the strangers), people would rather stand.

You notice that there is at least one mother (or father) with a buttload of kids, all under the age of 5, who think the DMV lobby is a playground.

You notice that there is always one clerk who yells out the next number, but no one can hear her. She thinks she's yelling, but, in fact, she's not.


And then in comes a scrubby dude, who walks past you, entirely too close, and sits two seats to the right of you. Seconds later, you get wind of his body odor. He smells like cigarettes and alcohol and looks like he hasn't showered in a week. You immediately think that this guy is probably going to be sharing the road with you... and probably isn't doing so sober.

Moments later, his girlfriend (girl friend, sister, crack dealer) walks in behind him and begins to talk in "code". "Bev is ... finding... one of her 'places'... Call us when you're ready to go." You notice she has only a few rotted teeth left, smells of cigarettes and alcohol, and is very fidgety.


"81?" ... pause... "81?" ... pause... "82?" ... pause... "82?"

You pray, "Oh, please, please let 82 be absent..."

Dang. Number 82 meanders up to the counter.

Another 20 minutes pass.

A disheveled father and his teen boy walk in and sit directly across from you. They don't look anything alike. Father is heavy, wears his pants way too high with a belt way too cinched, hasn't shaved in a few days (at least), and what's left of his frizzy hair looks like Einstein with a bald spot. The son, on the other hand is well-groomed and focuses solely on texting. Maybe they aren't related. Maybe he's adopted. Maybe they just happened to come in at the same time and sit next to each other.

Bald-spot Einstein takes out his cell phone and dials. Seconds later, at a ridiculous volume, he begins to speak. "HI! Hey! How are ya?" ... pause... "Yeah, still lookin' for a job..." (No kidding?) "Well, I found a listing for..." (inaudible)..."but it's in Manila... Yeah, so... I guess I'll be buying a ticket to Manila..."

You try to stop listening, but it's almost impossible. It's like someone pressing their body against you and speaking directly into your ear, "Is this too close for you?"

It's not too close. It's just too loud.


And then you notice that on the other side of that same row, there are two guys sitting very close together hovering over a cell phone and laughing. They are looking at each other with 7-Up eyes. (You know… eyes that look like they are filled with fizzy bubbles.) They are probably gay. And look how happy they are.

You start thinking of your gay friend who just had a birthday and went hiking with his gay friends and took silly pictures of a big carrot balloon tied to a string, tied to your friend’s finger, who sat in an outhouse with the balloon hovering outside. (Seen here.)

You think everyone should have at least one gay friend.


"91?" ... Pause


Dang.


Your mind starts to wander. You wonder when it will stop raining. You wonder why people even bother with umbrellas. You wonder when you’ll be able to mow the lawn again without sinking into the muddy slop that is your backyard this time of year. You wonder where the secret goal is in World 4-3 in Super Mario Bros Wii. You wonder how fast the rest of the afternoon will go so you can get back home and pop open a cold one. You wonder what the husband is going to make for dinner. You hope it’s something fried and salty because you don’t really care about Type 2 diabetes today. You wonder if you’ll ever fit into to your pre-moving-to-Oregon jeans again. You wonder when you’ll plan your next vacation. You wonder if you should just take the rest of today as vacation.

And then you realize this isn’t vacation. You’re at the DMV.


“95?” … pause… “95?” … pause…


“Oh, please, please….”


“96?” … pause… “96?” … pause…


“Just two more!!!”


“97?” … pause… “97?” … pause…

You think to yourself, “Really? Did that many people really just come in, take a number, and leave?”


“98?”


YES!!!! The number 98 never sounded so good.


So… I ordered my driving record. It will be faxed over tomorrow morning. The clerk behind the counter was very pleasant. I smiled at him. He smiled at me.


A 45 minute wait and a $2 fee.


Hardly seems worth it.

I really do need a vacation.

From a friend's dog....

We went to some friends' house for dinner on Friday night. The Picklebean stayed with Gramma (because having a toddler in tow really isn't condusive to deep conversation), but, of course, Eden tagged along because she's still pretty much attached to me at all times - except when I'm working at the church, and even then sometimes she is.

They have a cute, medium sized white powder-puff pooch named Sitka. He's a doll. Dogs are very interested in babies... Apparently, most babies freak out when a dog sticks its face into their space, but not my babies. (They come from a long line of dog lovers.) Eden was just as interested in him as he was in her. She just stared and stared, all while sucky heavily on her little binky - with a white ring that hangs off of it. (This is important to the story as you will soon find out.)

Anyway, we received this lovely note from our friends' dog.

Dear Eden,



I liked saying hello to you. You were down where I could see you in the little seat. I could get close up for a good sniff. You were the smallest people I have ever seen. But you were bigger than a cat. Do you like cats? You were really really small but you did smell like a people. I didn't know about that little round white thing under your nose. It kept twitching. I always watch for things that twitch.


I liked your eyes. They looked at me for a long time. When other smaller than big people come here, they make a really loud scary noise when I come close for a good look with my nose. You just kept looking at me for a long time like a good buddy. I nearly gave you a big lick but that makes some people make the really loud scary noise too so I thought I'd better not this time. Too bad you had to leave so soon.


Your big people brought me a bone. I chewed it the next day. Yuuummm! Do you chew bones? You could fit it on the little white thing. Thank you to them for the bone. And there's another one for another day. Some of my best days are me on the end of a bone.


My favorite lady people loves the flowers you brought her. They are getting bigger every day. I would sniff them but they're too high up. That's why I liked you being here. You were down where my nose is.


Love from Sitka

I'm stuck behind two idiots!

I cannot tell you how much I fear Oregon drivers. I've been a lot of places and no one drives as terribly as the people in Oregon. I'd rather drive in the Caribbean (where they drive C.R.A.Z.Y.) than in this state.

For two days in a row on my way to work, I've been stuck behind people going exactly 2 miles per hour under the speed limit. Four lanes, 2 in either direction, 2 cars right next to each other, hogging the entire west-bound direction, driving slower than molasses.

First, don't drive next to each other. That's just bad form. It would be like two men standing at the urinal looking down at each other. It's just not acceptable.

Second, don't drive under the speed limit. And for God's sake, don't slow down at every intersection when the light is green, there are no pedestrians, bicyclists, babies, animals or aliens. Why in the name of all things holy, are you slowing down to 15 mph??

Third, don't ride your brakes. This isn't good for your brakes, your car, the environment, or the people driving behind you.

Fourth, you shouldn't sit 2 inches behind the steering wheel with your seat belt cut into your neck, or (worse) your shoulder strap stuck under your armpit. That's just too freakin' close to the steering wheel. If you get in an accident (which you will surely cause), not only will you slam your head on the steering wheel faster than your airbag can deploy, but you will be burned when your airbag deploys after you slam your head on the steering wheel.

Fifth, when a pedestrian enters a crosswalk, that is not a signal to you to hurry through and beat them across. Remember, you're driving a 3000 pound steel missile. Just stop and let the pedestrian cross safely. It's the law.

Sixth, just please stop driving like an ass.

These are the same people who merge onto the freeway going 40 mph slower than the speed of traffic, and who drive 35 mph all through town, regardless of the posted speed limit. Example: Cordon Road is in some places 55 mph and in other places 40 mph. There is hardly a day that I don't get stuck behind someone going 35... the entire way. It's like they have blinders on and don't pay attention to ANY sign, much less the posted speed limit sign. 35! EVERYWHERE. It drives me nuts. These same people go 35 mph through school zones... and turn the wrong way on one-way streets. Seriously??? Do they not see the freakin' signs???

They are probably the ones who are on their cell phones and texting. (Seriously, the dumbest and most unsafe habit behind the wheel. Get your eyes off your stupid iPhone and pay attention to the road!)

And don't get me started on 4-way stop signs.... Everyone just sits there, refusing to go... and when someone finally does, it's like they all got the idea at the same time, and start entering the intersection together... then they stop and wave each other on, no one going... It starts all friendly. They smile and wave at each other as if saying, "No, really. I insist. You go first." Then after 3 minutes of going, and stopping, going and stopping, they are now pissed at each other and wave at each other as if saying, "Just freakin' go already!!!" 

I just can't believe this actually happens. Why is stopping at a 4-way so confusing? It's not that hard, people. Whoever stops first, gets to go first. When in doubt, yeild to the driver on your right. And if someone waves you on, GO! Don't wave back at them unless you're waving to say, "Thank you, kind person, for letting me go first even though you had the right of way."

These are the same people who freak out when they drive, say, in Los Angeles. Or Chicago. Or any other major metropolis.... And then come home to tell everyone how crappy those drivers are, even though they merge at the speed of traffic, drive the speed limit (or 5 mph over), pay attention to street signs, yield to pedestrians, accept their right of way and enter a 4-way intersection properly, and use their mirrors when changing lanes.

Why isn't driver's training an absolute prerequisite to receiving a driver's license in the state? When I was learning to drive in California, I was required to complete 30 hours of class instruction, and 6 hours with a state-licensed instructor behind the wheel. The state-instructor verified that I completed the requirements - not my parent. This was in addition to the parent-trainer scenario of driving with a permit... In Oregon, a parent can sign off... There is no requirement to complete class instruction or behind the wheel training with a certified instructor. A parent can just sign off to "certify" your driving experience. (I can see it now... A 16-year old goes to his parent after backing out of the driveway 10 times and driving around a few parking lots, and the parent says, "Yep. You're a safe driver. I've seen you avoid a dumpster and 2 parked cars. You're ready for the road! Let me sign that for you.") So, that means, a crappy driver gets to teach a naive, inexperienced, uneducated teenager how to be a crappy driver. The result is a state full of ignorant, inexperienced, oblivious, dangerous drivers.

Oh, the humanity! I really wish Oregon would get a clue and require driver's training courses. The roads would be safer, our kids would be safer, and it would just be a much more pleasant experience for the rest of us who have to share the road with you.

Now, seriously, if you learned to drive and received your license in this state, please don't email me to tell me how wrong I am. Every other person from another state agrees with me. Ask them. They will tell you. And if they don't, it's because they are just inherently crappy drivers and their opinion is now moot.

Ok. **sigh **  I got that out of my system. I feel much better now. My day can go on. 

Streams of thought...

I discovered the deliciousness of Granny Smith apples dipped in peanut butter & honey. Yummers. It's my new favorite mid-morning snack. (All natural peanut butter, of course. Just peanuts and a pinch of salt. No added sugar or other gross things... like HFCS - high fructose corn syrup.)

Speaking of high fructose corn syrup... It's in everything. The other day, Scott and I were looking at the ingredients of a can of chopped tomatoes and discovered, yes, high fructose corn syrup. Someone please tell me why this is necessary. Tomatoes are sweet on their own. Sweetener of any variety is not required... Kind of ridiculous. Needless to say, we were a bit peeved and we are now committed to reading the ingredients on everything - even the foods we think would be left well enough alone, but now know that they aren't.


Fat people. They are everywhere. (There's one typing this post... That's me, if you haven't figured it out.) Whenever I see fat people, I think High Fructose Corn Syrup. I say to myself, "I'll be that person eats a lot of high fructose corn syrup." Even if it's not true (which, I bet it is even if they don't know it), it's just funny to say.

Here's my problem. I love crunchy, salty foods. I'm just as happy with a cucumber with a bit of salt on it as I am with a handful of potato chips. My mother-in-law has a cupboard full of 10 different varieties of chips... and no cucumbers. So, while I pretty much avoid chips all week long, come Friday and Saturday, I could gobble down a half a bag without thinking about it. In case you're wondering, that's not good for me and may or may not be contributing to the size of my butt. I'm just sayin.


But speaking of tomatoes, the Picklebean loves them. I grew 3 tomato plants last year, and he pretty much cleaned house on every one of them. Whether the tomatoes were green, orange or red, he didn't care. He polished them off every day. I think I got one or two. There are worse things for my son to eat, so I certainly am not complaining. However, I think this year, I'm going to hide a plant somewhere so I get to enjoy a few myself. The little stinker.

I have a piece of Granny Apple skin stuck between my front teeth. I hate that.


And speaking of stinkers, something has gone a-foul inside our yard debris can. It's like 3 years worth of fermented grass has seeped into the plastic. I can't get rid of that smell. Seriously nasty! It's like stale pond water and decaying amphibians... Just not okay. We've tried power-washing... (which, by the way, you have to be very careful about, otherwise if you spray just right (or wrong) it will all come blasting back out at you like a canon... I don't know about you, but I'm not crazy about smelling like stale pond water and decaying amphibians. Gross.)

And speaking of gross, my hair is falling out by the handfuls. One thing I love about pregnancy is how thick and healthy my hair gets. I may look like a bloated cow, but at least my hair looks and feels good. But... as predicted and expected, just a couple of months after the baby is born, my hair begins to fall out. I lose the thick, luxuriousness and end up with the stringy, baby-thin hair I've lived with all my life. Hair is everywhere. It's stuck on the shower wall. It's in the sink. It's on the floor. We found a hair in the refrigerator. IN THE REFRIGERATOR. Seriously? At what point is this even remotely okay? It's not. Ever. I heard a comedian talk about wet hair... I don't remember who it was but it went something like this:

You could be walking on the street and accidentally touch someone's hair and it's no big deal. But get that hair wet and stick it in the drain and you could rob a bank with that stuff. Put it on the end of a stick, walk in and say, "Yeah! You know what this is! Gimme all your dough!"

I believe that is true. Wet drain hair is disgusting.... All soapy and slimy and foamy and wet... **heebie jeebies**

But, it's time to get my hair cut. Now that half of it has fallen out, it's time to give it some TLC. (The last time I had it cut was in September, 6 months ago.) Needless to say, it's not lookin' so good.

If you haven't played Super Mario Bros for Wii, you should. It's super fun. I always love Mario Bros video games, but this one is especially fun because a) it's on the Wii (bonus), and 2) you can play with up to 4 players simultaneously. That's at the same time, people. Four. I've never played with 4, but Scott and I have played together. It is a freakin' scream. We get laughing so hard that we can hardly play.


It's kind of like racquetball. We used to play racquetball quite a bit when we lived in Lake Oswego. We had a racquetball court in our apartment complex. Oh my goodness, did we suck! It was hysterical. Scott got really good at being able to serve the ball such that it would go straight into the corner. I couldn't hit that thing to save my life. We laughed so hard we'd almost pee.

A few weeks ago, we got invited to a friends house (mamasan's neighbors, to be exact) to hang out. For those of you keeping up with this, this is Bella's family... Bella, as in Jeffrey's little girlfriend (seen here).

Anyway, Bella's mom and I were enjoying a margarita (or several). I don't remember what we were talking about, but apparently I got on a roll. She started laughing... and laughing... And eventually had to excuse herself to go pee cuz she almost peed on the floor. That, to me, is comedy. If you can make someone laugh so hard they pee themselves, that is success right there. Score.

I love to laugh. I don't just like it. I love it. I love a good belly laugh. I love the kind of laugh that goes silent, save a few little squeaks here and there. Or when something strikes you so funny so quickly that you don't even have time to take a breath. What's cool about laughing is that it is so contagious. Do you ever find yourself laughing along when you see other people laughing, even if you don't know what they're laughing about? (And hopefully it isn't you, but so what if it is? It's still a good laugh.) Not only do I love a good laugh, but I love good laughs, as in the sound the people make. Some laughs, granted, are annoying as all hell. But some people have GREAT laughs. Scott has a great laugh. There is something about his laugh that just makes me laugh too. Jeffrey has a great laugh. He actually has a few of them, but there is one that is particularly cute. I can't even begin to describe it. You'll just have to trust me. My mother-in-law (Mamasan) has a bunch of laughs, too. They are HY-STER-I-CAL!!! She makes all kinds of noises. She squeaks, she squawks, she rattles, she snorts... It is one of the funniest things I've ever heard. When the whole family is together, this is like the ultimate goal: get Mamasan laughing so hard she loses all control and starts making hilarious sounds. Thems some good times.


Welp... I think I've done enough damage for one day. I could just go on and on like this. But... I won't.

Another funny word

Sniff.

That word cracks me up.

Hurting my feelers

I've discovered recently that I get my feelings hurt rather easily. I'm not sure exactly how I developed this trait. I had a pretty thick skin - kind of like whale blubber - for a long, long time. Over the last several years, well, mainly since Scott and I became engaged, I've been slowly working on stripping my layers down.

Growing up, my mother was (and still is) very critical. She got this from her mother, who was very critical. Oh, the things these women have said to their daughters... Awful stuff. I won't go into the bazillion stories I could tell you, but I'll give you an example. When I was in the 7th grade, I had a violin recital. (I played piano, violin and viola from a very young age... which, by the way, my mother made me do.) I studied violin with a private teacher; her name was Anita Baker. She had a thick accent from I-don't-know-where and had the body of a Dr. Seuss Who, only much more round. (I remember she used to think I was crazy for washing my hands in cold water...) Anyway, I can't remember her hourly rate, but... she was "the best," so my mother spared no expense in hiring her to be my private tutor. (She had big dreams of me becoming some sort of concert violinist, I think.) Well... needless to say, I'm a stubborn girl with my own dreams and I wasn't about to let my mother force me into the little box of people she thought I should become. So, sometimes I would just go on a practice strike. I had better things to do with my time than sit by the piano with an instrument under my chin for 3 hours a day running scales and finger exercises, blah blah blah.

Anyway, back to the recital. I can't remember the concerto I "prepared." I do remember that it was very, very difficult. And I remember that I hadn't "prepared" it very well at all. So little so, that the day of the recital, I had one last lesson with Anita when she decided to cut out about 2 pages worth of music (the really complicated stuff). Now I had about 10 minutes to learn the new transitions, etc.

We were in a little Lutheran church in Corvallis. It had a balcony. All of the other students' families sat on the main level, pretty much near the front, showing their support of their son or daughter. My mother sat in the very back of the balcony.

It was my turn... I slowly made my way up to the stage, violin under my arm and music in hand. I put the music on the stand, placed my violin under my chin and took a deep breath. The first few measures were ok, but it quickly fell apart. It was awful. And it seemed like it took forever. I could see out of the corner of my eye the looks on people's faces. I was so embarrassed. I didn't want to go to the recital. I had "told" my mother I wasn't going. She forced me to go (in a way that only mothers can), and she knew it would suck. She was teaching me a lesson.


She didn't need to teach me anything... I was there. I knew it was awful. I was completely embarrassed. I was completely ashamed. I finished, and everyone clapped, but it was sort of that I-suppose-I-have-to-clap clap - they didn't really mean it. It was so awful that I'm sure most everyone in the audience that day felt embarrassed. 


I took my music, put my violin back under my arm and sheepishly left the room, making a quick retreat, wandering down to the little room where I left my case, and began packing my things.  My mother was soon with me once again. She was furious. She told me how awful it was, how embarrassed she was, and how embarrassed she was that I was her daughter.


Awesome.


Looking back, I'm sure I would have done the same thing. That is, I'm sure I would have made my daughter go to the recital. (I think it's important to follow through on your commitments.) But I would have sat in the front row, smiling at her the entire time, stood up on the pew and clapped the loudest, maybe even shouted, "Bravo!" I would have sat through the rest of the student's performances, and I would have told my daughter how proud I was that she finished what she started. It isn't necessary to pour salt in the wounds. Everyone else's looks are enough. Additional punishment certainly isn't necessary.


This is just one of thousands of instances where my mother was so critical of me. As a result, I had to grow whale blubber - I had to in order to survive. It shut her out, but it also shut out everyone else.


For the last 10 years I've worked at peeling away the blubber. But I wonder if I didn't hit the other extreme. I get my feelings hurt. (I had a roommate that called these her "feelers.")  


So the rest of that story is about a year or two later, I had viola recital. I prepare that thing to death. It was a duet with my viola tutor. (I can't remember her name, but I remember she didn't shave her armpits, which is never a good thing when you play a stringed instrument. Gross.) I nailed it. My mother was so proud. Not for me. For her.


The rest of that story is that when I was graduating high school (Chaminade College Preparatory, West Hills, CA) I was first violist for the Cal State Northridge Youth Symphony. My conductor knew the music department head at Pepperdine University (Malibu, CA). I was basically offered a full scholarship - violists are hard to find. (But I would have had to major in music, which meant that I would have had to eat, breathe and sleep music... and end up with a music degree. That would have made my mother very happy, no doubt.) I declined. And went to community college.


I said no. To a scholarship. To Pepperdine.


Idiot.

Singing a new song

At our weekly staff meeting today, our Lead Pastor led us in a devotional about change; "sing to the Lord a new song."

One of the things he mentioned was that often people hurt us (or we are hurt... or we suffer so much) such that we ask, "Lord, will I ever sing again?"

As I pondered, I realized that I have never wondered if I'd ever sing again. It's in my moments of pain and suffering that I sing louder. It is in these moments when God shows up in amazing ways.

I love change. And I actually look forward to suffering. If ever there was a time I was singing a new song, it would be these last 14+ months. I've been singing so much my voice is hoarse. I don't have a clue what I'm singing, but I know it blesses the Lord.