Have you ever noticed that there are certain places that NEVER seem to run at high levels of efficiency?
Like, you know, the Department of Motor Vehicles?? (They call themselves the Department of Public Safety now. HA.)
Let me tell you about my experience today.
So I went to the DPS last month to get my license. Blah de blah, everything was fine. I came home with a temporary license and went about my normal life. My regular license was supposed to come in 30-45 days but as time went by I noticed that it had not arrived.
Well a few days ago I was looking at the temporary license and figured out why. The mailing address listed there was my Portland address from over two years ago. I have NO idea how that happened. I'm not sure why the people at the DPS didn't catch it but I'm pretty sure the reason *I* didn't see it was because I was super sick at the time.
So.
I called the DPS.
And the lady I talked to informed me that I could not make the mailing address change over the phone. I would, in fact, have to come all the way back in and make the change in person. To which she added, "MWUAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!" (Ok, maybe not...)
But she did tell me I wouldn't have to wait in line.
*Dance, dance, happy singing, throwing of confetti and general fiesta*
No waiting in line like a generic cow awaiting slaughter. No standing against the inevitably white-washed wall, surreptitiously sneaking glances at the large, sweaty man behind you wondering if he is, in fact, the man your mother warned you about.
Joy of all joys!
So with my mother in tow I went to the DPS office today.
And was a little shocked to be given the exact same forms and directions as the person in front of me, along with a little blue ticket that had the number 17 on it.
So shocked was I that I immediately sat down like the good little cow that I was supposed to be.
Then the fire started.
It was a slow fire. The kind that stirs in your stomach and begins to creep up your esophagus until it's right behind your eyeballs and you can't tell whether or not the room has gone red or you're having an aneurysm.
So I cut in line and asked the not-so-nice lady with the preliminary forms about my phone call and promise of no line.
And she gave me the look.
The "one eyebrow raised, who-do-you-think-you-are" look. And very "politely" informed me that I was quite wrong.
And once again, I became an anonymous cow.
So I sat. And seethed.
I am an excellent seether.
I inwardly raged against the inept DPS agents and their lies and trickery, I raged against the token woman with the kid who won't stop crying, I raged against the token foreigners who didn't bring the right documents and can't understand why they're being sent home. I even raged against the tiny TV and the Weather Channel and their idiotic obsession with tornadoes. And what's with all the signs around the room? Like, "Please refrain from cell phone use during processing." "Processing??" First a cow, then some sort of unhealthy and disgusting cheese?
When it was finally my turn to see the actual DPS agent, I told her I simply needed to update my mailing address.
She told me to take off my hat and get ready to take a new picture.
What?
That's right. A whole NEW license instead of just an update to the last one.
And there was a REASON I was wearing the hat, people.
So instead of a no-line, 10 minute, divinely-orchestrated DPS dream trip, what I got was a 45 minute wait and a new license that will, no doubt, exquisitely display my unwashed hair and makeup-less face for all the world to see.
Not to mention the sweet and silent urge to pee that had crept over me while I sat there seething.
I have decided that I do NOT like the DPS.
Friday, September 24, 2010
Monday, September 20, 2010
Bemused
I just finished Maureen McCormick's autobiography. It's an exceptionally interesting, and quick, read. It's always amazing to me that you can "invest" yourself in a TV show and in a TV character and begin to feel like you know and like or even love him/her. You can spend hours and hours with a fictional person in the intimate space of your home, your bedroom, or your living room, and begin to feel like you actually have a stake in his/her life. It's not hard to understand how people with mild or moderate behavioral or mental problems can become obsessed with actors and actresses.
Don't go getting all worried on me. I'm not about to show up behind Hugh Laurie's house with a urine specimen jar or anything.
This book that Maureen writes is completely open and honest about her life, including everything from her years and years of cocaine addiction and drug abuse to her issues with depression to fighting with her brother for conservatorship of her father. I was just amazed at how much I didn't know about her. I'd always thought about her as the kid from the Brady Bunch and assumed she was just a "normal" person. (Well, as normal as Hollywood people can be, anyway.) You can never tell about people. Especially television people.
You know who else you can never tell about?
Mimes.
And clowns.
And people who walk around Disney World or other places in those giant animal costumes.
I had to do that once.
I worked at Focus on the Family for two summers when I was in college, in a soda shoppe called Whit's End in the welcome center. It serves food and drinks and maintains a 32 foot slide by making the kids put socks over their arms. (Please, just don't ask.) And part of the job required dressing up in this giant costume of Mr. Whittaker. He's a character who owns Whit's End in the radio (and now TV) series Adventures in Odyssey, a show for kids that Focus created. There were actually three costumes but I wasn't tall enough to be Eugene, the geeky teenager, and I was too tall to be the dog, whatever his name was.
Anyway. You had to have an escort with you when you were in costume in case some kid or teenager decided to attack you (which happened to the girl in the dog costume far more often that anyone else) and to help you put on and take off the giant head. The escort also had to make sure all the zippers and straps were done and that no parts of the real you were showing, and they had to steer you away from obstacles that you couldn't see. Unless, of course, your escort wanted to have a little fun with you. (And we were all great friends so this happened quite often.)
Because once the giant head was on you could only see through the black mesh screen that was Mr. Whittaker's mouth. And it wasn't very big. Or very see-through-able. And it was SO hot in there. Oh my GOSH. It was like Dante's Inferno. There was a place up at the top for an ice pack and a little fan that was supposed to blow the cool air from the ice down onto your head. Well half the time the fans weren't working but even when they were they didn't help. We also wore ice vests under the giant body suits but even they didn't work for too long. (Oh, and on a side note... Once those started to melt you had two enormous wet spots exactly over your boobs. Try going back to work the front counter looking like that and just see if you don't get creepy looks.)
One time I was in the suit and a woman handed me her baby so she could take a picture. I knew she had handed me the baby but I couldn't FEEL the baby at all. I had this huge body suit on, including a big round belly made of PVC pipe, huge gloves, a giant head, friggin' enormous shoes, I can barely see anything and I'm just praying that I can hold the baby long enough for her to take the picture.
I was NOT smiling when she told me to say cheese.
So see?
It just goes to show.
Either the Brady Bunch, clowns, or a giant Mr. Whittaker holding a baby, you just don't know about people.
Don't go getting all worried on me. I'm not about to show up behind Hugh Laurie's house with a urine specimen jar or anything.
This book that Maureen writes is completely open and honest about her life, including everything from her years and years of cocaine addiction and drug abuse to her issues with depression to fighting with her brother for conservatorship of her father. I was just amazed at how much I didn't know about her. I'd always thought about her as the kid from the Brady Bunch and assumed she was just a "normal" person. (Well, as normal as Hollywood people can be, anyway.) You can never tell about people. Especially television people.
You know who else you can never tell about?
Mimes.
And clowns.
And people who walk around Disney World or other places in those giant animal costumes.
I had to do that once.
I worked at Focus on the Family for two summers when I was in college, in a soda shoppe called Whit's End in the welcome center. It serves food and drinks and maintains a 32 foot slide by making the kids put socks over their arms. (Please, just don't ask.) And part of the job required dressing up in this giant costume of Mr. Whittaker. He's a character who owns Whit's End in the radio (and now TV) series Adventures in Odyssey, a show for kids that Focus created. There were actually three costumes but I wasn't tall enough to be Eugene, the geeky teenager, and I was too tall to be the dog, whatever his name was.
Anyway. You had to have an escort with you when you were in costume in case some kid or teenager decided to attack you (which happened to the girl in the dog costume far more often that anyone else) and to help you put on and take off the giant head. The escort also had to make sure all the zippers and straps were done and that no parts of the real you were showing, and they had to steer you away from obstacles that you couldn't see. Unless, of course, your escort wanted to have a little fun with you. (And we were all great friends so this happened quite often.)
Because once the giant head was on you could only see through the black mesh screen that was Mr. Whittaker's mouth. And it wasn't very big. Or very see-through-able. And it was SO hot in there. Oh my GOSH. It was like Dante's Inferno. There was a place up at the top for an ice pack and a little fan that was supposed to blow the cool air from the ice down onto your head. Well half the time the fans weren't working but even when they were they didn't help. We also wore ice vests under the giant body suits but even they didn't work for too long. (Oh, and on a side note... Once those started to melt you had two enormous wet spots exactly over your boobs. Try going back to work the front counter looking like that and just see if you don't get creepy looks.)
One time I was in the suit and a woman handed me her baby so she could take a picture. I knew she had handed me the baby but I couldn't FEEL the baby at all. I had this huge body suit on, including a big round belly made of PVC pipe, huge gloves, a giant head, friggin' enormous shoes, I can barely see anything and I'm just praying that I can hold the baby long enough for her to take the picture.
I was NOT smiling when she told me to say cheese.
So see?
It just goes to show.
Either the Brady Bunch, clowns, or a giant Mr. Whittaker holding a baby, you just don't know about people.
Friday, September 10, 2010
Broken... Something New This Time
My mom has some flowers outside in our backyard. Personally, I think they're kind of weird, but she really likes them. The technical name is Canna Lily but they're not really lilies. Sort of like how Rhode Island is neither a road nor an island. *Discuss* (If you don't know what I'm talking about go rent the Best of Mike Myers on SNL.)
Anyways...
She has 5 or 6 of them blooming at the moment so she asked me to go take some pictures of them. I like to take pictures of flowers, see. I have a lot of them. I take far more pictures of flowers and bushes and things than I do of people. This is because a flower will not stick it's tongue out at you the moment you press the camera button. Neither will it attempt to moon you.
Anyways again...
So I went out and took several pictures of the cannas with her camera and with mine. Her camera is extraordinarily expensive and does lots of amazing things. Mine I bought myself and just does a few neat things. But I love it. Because I worked and saved for it and it was the absolute best I could afford at the time.
It's a Kodak EasyShare Z885 and when I bought it for my birthday (and I had a coupon!) it cost me a little more than 200 dollars. It takes 8.1 megapixel pictures and can do, as I said, some neat things. It perfect and I've taken some incredible pictures with it. Visit my webshots account if you don't believe me.
My mom's camera has a neck strap. Mine doesn't. So I put her camera around my neck and my camera in her camera bag that I was carrying over my shoulder. Then I got a trifle spooked by a demon in the shape of a wasp.
So I was on my way inside, and was kicking off my shoes and my camera fell out of the camera bag and straight onto the concrete patio, where it bounced twice and came to rest face down. (The shoes were not mine, really. They were my dad's. The same ones that caused me to trip the other day. I've decided they must be unlucky.)
I just about had a heart attack.
As you have probably guessed, my beautiful little camera is no longer functional.
When you turn it on the viewer shows a pink screen with lines across it. If you take a picture, it comes out pink with lines across it. I've never seen anything like it. The pink looks like Pepto-Bismol. It's absolutely revolting.
I'm devastated.
You can't have a job during nursing school, you know. And mine (hopefully) will begin in January. And I have been so sick that I haven't been able to work. So here I sit, at TWENTY EIGHT, completely dependent on the charity of my parents, completely penniless, and now completely devoid of my beautiful, perfect, splendidly gorgeous and fantastic camera!!
I'd cry but I'm afraid that might send Barney into a fit of hysteria. He's very sensitive.
Well I hope the start of the weekend is better for the rest of you. Here's a picture of one of the damned flowers to get you going:
My Webshots: http://community.webshots.com/user/sunnyag04?vhost=community"
Anyways...
She has 5 or 6 of them blooming at the moment so she asked me to go take some pictures of them. I like to take pictures of flowers, see. I have a lot of them. I take far more pictures of flowers and bushes and things than I do of people. This is because a flower will not stick it's tongue out at you the moment you press the camera button. Neither will it attempt to moon you.
Anyways again...
So I went out and took several pictures of the cannas with her camera and with mine. Her camera is extraordinarily expensive and does lots of amazing things. Mine I bought myself and just does a few neat things. But I love it. Because I worked and saved for it and it was the absolute best I could afford at the time.
It's a Kodak EasyShare Z885 and when I bought it for my birthday (and I had a coupon!) it cost me a little more than 200 dollars. It takes 8.1 megapixel pictures and can do, as I said, some neat things. It perfect and I've taken some incredible pictures with it. Visit my webshots account if you don't believe me.
My mom's camera has a neck strap. Mine doesn't. So I put her camera around my neck and my camera in her camera bag that I was carrying over my shoulder. Then I got a trifle spooked by a demon in the shape of a wasp.
So I was on my way inside, and was kicking off my shoes and my camera fell out of the camera bag and straight onto the concrete patio, where it bounced twice and came to rest face down. (The shoes were not mine, really. They were my dad's. The same ones that caused me to trip the other day. I've decided they must be unlucky.)
I just about had a heart attack.
As you have probably guessed, my beautiful little camera is no longer functional.
When you turn it on the viewer shows a pink screen with lines across it. If you take a picture, it comes out pink with lines across it. I've never seen anything like it. The pink looks like Pepto-Bismol. It's absolutely revolting.
I'm devastated.
You can't have a job during nursing school, you know. And mine (hopefully) will begin in January. And I have been so sick that I haven't been able to work. So here I sit, at TWENTY EIGHT, completely dependent on the charity of my parents, completely penniless, and now completely devoid of my beautiful, perfect, splendidly gorgeous and fantastic camera!!
I'd cry but I'm afraid that might send Barney into a fit of hysteria. He's very sensitive.
Well I hope the start of the weekend is better for the rest of you. Here's a picture of one of the damned flowers to get you going:
My Webshots: http://community.webshots.com/user/sunnyag04?vhost=community"
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Barney
I just drenched the right arm of my shirt. How?
Well it's pouring down rain. Thank you, Tropical Storm Hermine. And my dog, Barney, needed to go out and potty.
But the rain drips really heavily in front of the door and he doesn't like that. He refuses to walk through them. So he required that I hold the door open with my hip and hold the umbrella just outside it so the heavy drips wouldn't get on him.
He's fine with the rain, see, just not the big drops.
And he's also scared of the umbrella.
So holding the door open with my hip, my arm sticking outside with the umbrella, I had to coax him out the door while firmly encouraging him not to drink the rainwater that was puddling just outside.
Then he likes to "mosey" back inside.
So I'm wet, he's wet, the umbrellas stuck to the screen door and I'm wearing my Dad's old tennis shoes like when I was a toddler and proceed to trip over the nonexistent laces.
I felt like I was in a Marx Brothers movie.
And then my puppy wags his tail at me and would very much like a cookie.
*sigh*
Who can resist that?
Well it's pouring down rain. Thank you, Tropical Storm Hermine. And my dog, Barney, needed to go out and potty.
But the rain drips really heavily in front of the door and he doesn't like that. He refuses to walk through them. So he required that I hold the door open with my hip and hold the umbrella just outside it so the heavy drips wouldn't get on him.
He's fine with the rain, see, just not the big drops.
And he's also scared of the umbrella.
So holding the door open with my hip, my arm sticking outside with the umbrella, I had to coax him out the door while firmly encouraging him not to drink the rainwater that was puddling just outside.
Then he likes to "mosey" back inside.
So I'm wet, he's wet, the umbrellas stuck to the screen door and I'm wearing my Dad's old tennis shoes like when I was a toddler and proceed to trip over the nonexistent laces.
I felt like I was in a Marx Brothers movie.
And then my puppy wags his tail at me and would very much like a cookie.
*sigh*
Who can resist that?
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
By myself
Last night I dreamed that my sister and I had mistakenly driven to Trenton, New Jersey. We were both quite scared and lost so I suggested that we pull over into a Wendy's so I could get my GPS out and get us back home. My sister (Jennifer) got out to go get herself a drink and then came running back to the car and pounded on the window telling me to let her in. So I reached over to unlock the doors...
... and proceeded to spill an entire glass of water all over my nightstand. I wish my dreams were not quite so vivid.
Anyway. The biopsy came back normal. So I do not have duodenal cancer. Yippie, right?
Well in a way I guess you could say I'm relieved and rather glad.
But in another I was actually rather discouraged and even... disappointed.
You're probably thinking, "You crazy idiot. No one WANTS cancer. What kind of a psycho are you??"
Well I don't WANT cancer. I WANT for whatever this sickness is to have a NAME. Because when it is named it can be cured. Unless you know what something is you can't go about treating it.
At the moment I am adrift on a boat of sickness in a sea of exhaustion and pain without a sail. I don't have any oars and my crewmen all jumped overboard because, let's face it, intestinal distress is nobody's friend.
Sometimes I get the feeling that people think I should just jump into the water and swim for it. Like I'm in the boat because I want to be. And I could leave if I really tried hard enough. I don't think they see these invisible 80 pound weights the Gremlins tied to my ankles.
No land in sight.
No breeze for the non-existent sail.
Just me in a boat. And I'm sure the toilet is going to stop working any day now.
I know what you're thinking. I'm feeling sorry for myself, right? And that's pathetic and I shouldn't do it.
Well I'm not feeling sorry for myself. Even sick and tired I'm far better off than most people.
But I sure do wish I had some answers.
And I wish I didn't feel so...
Alone.
... and proceeded to spill an entire glass of water all over my nightstand. I wish my dreams were not quite so vivid.
Anyway. The biopsy came back normal. So I do not have duodenal cancer. Yippie, right?
Well in a way I guess you could say I'm relieved and rather glad.
But in another I was actually rather discouraged and even... disappointed.
You're probably thinking, "You crazy idiot. No one WANTS cancer. What kind of a psycho are you??"
Well I don't WANT cancer. I WANT for whatever this sickness is to have a NAME. Because when it is named it can be cured. Unless you know what something is you can't go about treating it.
At the moment I am adrift on a boat of sickness in a sea of exhaustion and pain without a sail. I don't have any oars and my crewmen all jumped overboard because, let's face it, intestinal distress is nobody's friend.
Sometimes I get the feeling that people think I should just jump into the water and swim for it. Like I'm in the boat because I want to be. And I could leave if I really tried hard enough. I don't think they see these invisible 80 pound weights the Gremlins tied to my ankles.
No land in sight.
No breeze for the non-existent sail.
Just me in a boat. And I'm sure the toilet is going to stop working any day now.
I know what you're thinking. I'm feeling sorry for myself, right? And that's pathetic and I shouldn't do it.
Well I'm not feeling sorry for myself. Even sick and tired I'm far better off than most people.
But I sure do wish I had some answers.
And I wish I didn't feel so...
Alone.
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