moving: the curse continues August 12, 2008
Posted by philangelus in sarcasm.trackback
Remember I told you about the bad, the ugly and creepy parts of moving? I should have realized that registering with the DMV (dratted motor vehicles) was a part of the move and would therefore fall under the curse.
Angelborough is too small to have its own DMV, so we had to drive to a nearby city. My Patient Husband got directions from Mapquest and Google Maps. We should have known something was up when their directions were almost completely different. We were stupid. Instead we packed up our little identity theft happy meals (SSN, birth certificates, proof of address) and went in caravan. After we finished up there, he’d head to work.
Satan is going to be in an extra-hot hell for the next few days for what he did to us. (I’m assuming it has to have been Satan, and that MapQuest isn’t really this stupid.) Because the directions looked pretty much like this:
1) Take route 198 north.
2) Go LEFT on route 981 east (.2 mi)
3) Go SLIGHT LEFT on Catalonia Road (.4 mi)
4) Go LEFT on Catamaran Drive (.7 mi)
5) Go LEFT and continue on Catamaran Drive (.1 mi)
6) Go LEFT on Cat Doot Road (.5 mi)
And so on and so forth. I want you to try imagining following those directions while you’re in the act of driving. After a while, you simply can’t remember which CAT-whatever road you’re on. Add to it that despite looking at the map and trying to memorize the directions before we started, I couldn’t. No matter what I did, the directions fell apart in my mind. It felt just like when I lived in that haunted house for four months and never could remember which direction the street was.
You know it’s bad when there’s finally a break in the endless twisting roads and thickly lined trees and you end up in alongside the parking lot of an industrial complex, belching smoke into the sky, with razor wire across fences that read “Keep Out, Jerk!” and you think, “Thank GOD!”
I have a terrific sense of direction. You could ask my Patient Husband and he’d tell you, except he’s lying on the living room floor with a cold compress on his forehead, a bottle of gin in his hand, calling for his grandmother in Yiddish.
Anyhow, we finally managed to get there (Cat Doot Road turns into Catarrah Drive – .3 mi) and the line is out the door. I don’t know why, because shortly after it did move quickly, and it never got that long again. We get numbers: one for registering the vehicles and one for getting licenses. Easy-peasy. You can see what’s about to happen, that we’ll get called for both numbers at the same time. But we’re two adults, so it’ll be okay.
We got called for vehicle registration first. And that woman said, “It’ll be easier if you get your licenses first.” I pointed out that we’d been given both numbers simultaneously. She processed as much of the form as she could, then sent us over to get licenses as our numbers had just been called. Easy!
At the license desk, we found out that my “proof of residency” was insufficient. Because you need a utility bill, and all the utility bills were in my Patient Husband’s name.
The fact that we’re obviously married and have the same residence and the same vehicles mattered not to them. I needed a bill with MY name on it. I’d have to go home to find one.
My Patient Husband then went to the vehicle registration desk to pay for the license plates, since at least he wouldn’t have to come back. And lo and behold: although the website says they take credit cards, and although they take credit cards at the drivers license desk…they didn’t take credit cards at the vehicle registration desk ten feet away.
So he came home with me and we got cash. This time, we took the following route: Route 1 to Route 2. Five miles longer, but we didn’t have to drive through the Woods Of Wailing in order to get here.
We got the cash. We found a utility bill with my name on it. We found our homeowners insurance. My Patient Husband wanted to bring the mortgage paperwork AND our loan officer, but I persuaded him otherwise. Back we went.
(Ironically, this transaction was still smoother than trying to register at the DMV in Manhattan. I had to laugh because all these fees, regulations and nitpickiness, and they still didn’t get as difficult as a flawless transaction in New York City, where they hire only surly people who’ve had their facial nerves surgically severed in order to perfect the “I don’t care” appearance. Those are the folks who elevated the art of not looking up as they process your paperwork and then say, “Yeah, you on the raaht line, but you got the wrong form.” You’d think there’s got to be a better way, but I’ve heard that in Heaven’s DMV, it’s not much better. Half the angels end up scowling or exhausted on their ID card photos, and you need to make at least three trips.)
Regardless, the second time, my license work went fine. My Patient Husband then went to pay for the license plates and found that one digit of the 14-digit VIN for his car had been entered incorrectly.
He has to go back tomorrow.
Yeah, Satan needs the thermostat turned up just a little bit for what happened today.
Registration comes with the car in New York, but when I went to get new plates when they did the weird Empire plates turnover, the website said, “Bring proof of ownership, driver’s license, and one other form of ID from the list below. Cash, cashier’s checks, and major credit card accepted.” I went with my title, my license, my social security card, and a Mastercard. Fifteen minutes later the woman behind the counter handed me my shiny new plates with a smile and said, “Thank you and have a nice day.”
Last time I went to renew my license, they just drove us like a herd through the mill.
Station 1. Vision test. Read the line indicated and move along.
Station 2. Photo. Take a picture and move along.
Station 3. Pay and get the temporary license. So what if you’re renewing three months early. You’re entitled to a temporary and here it is.
Payment methods were listed on the website, and on a huge sign as you walk in. Mind you this means you have to take the eye exam to get a non-driver’s ID (blind pedestrians just get “failed eye exam” written on their paper and they’re sent along with the rest), but the whole process was ten minutes from walking in the door to walking out again.
I guess I’ve been to the good DMVs in New York.
Upstate NY was like that too. But Manhattan was awful when I went to get my license. I read all of “The Screwtape Letters” while standing in line the first day.
Good gravy, we just realized they spelled the name of my street wrong.
It’s a normal, ordinary noun, like “Spoon” and they did the equivalent of spelling it “Poon.” We’re definitely cursed.
Cursed is right! Any bets on how many mailing lists already have the wrong address?
When we moved, the person named on the utility bill had to make the phone call. By the end, I was very tempted to give any male voice the account number and have them to it. Husband was very good about saying, “While we’re at it, let’s put wife’s name on it as well.”
On the other hand, it did weed out telemarketers — most of them would be for husband, and they wouldn’t leave a message for him.
Okay, why two different lines? Here the same clerk does everything. If you need a photo, the clerk goes to the machine (and points you to your side of it), does it, and goes back to the desk. You prove your identity once, write one cheque. If it’s a straight renewal and your picture’s not too old, you can even do it by mail or online. The car exhaust testers send the results directly to the DMV. You only need eye tests for the first license and when you pass 80. (I get a kick out of the DMV franchise near the cottage — same building as the eye doctor.)
No lines here. You’re required to apply by post for a driver’s license, and the plates are associated with the car.
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