RMV Twilight Zone

RMV -- Registrar of Motor Vehicles. In California they call it the DMV. This blog is about our painful visit to the RMV yesterday! I just don't remember these kinds of lines in CA. Of course, we pick the one day of the week they stay open late, to 7 p.m., to accomodate those who come in after work. Another day of the week, mid-day, would probably have been a better choice.

Weeks ago, I studied the list of about 25 pieces of identification we had to present, to receive our new Massachusetts drivers licences and register the cars. I have with me every official document imaginable to declare that we exist! Also the Solid Gold Form, which my insurance company had to send me, stamped and dated, with a time limit of 21 days to get it all taken care of. "DON'T make any mistakes on THIS FORM, she had warned me. ONLY black ink, and NO cross-out lines." The pressure is killing me...

Before this evening's episode, I had already had a day that was TOO LONG. Dragging and crabby, I pick up Frank from work to go to the RMV. Mapquest gave me the address and directions, but it did not tell me this place happened to be in a MALL. We drive back and forth, searching for nonexistent numbers above doors on the street we KNOW it's on! The joys of being new to the area. Enough Prologue.

Synopsis of the evening: after finally discovering the hidden offices, for TWO HOURS we stand in line. I am incredulous. First, we stand in a line to give us forms to fill out. After the forms are completed, we stand in that SAME line again, to get a number to then stand in the dreaded ROOM LINE.

Just what, pray tell, is a "Room Line?" Well it's not exactly a line, but it's a room full of people who stare blankly at computer screens mounted from the ceiling. Do these computer screens give us up-to-the-minute news about important issues? The environment? Oil sources? Religion? Politics? even the weather?

Oh, no, no...the people in this crowded room stare at screens that display...numbers. Is it the stock market? The price of eggs in China? Not exactly. These numbers coincide with numbers these people are holding. Each person looks at his own number, then back at the screen, then back at his own number. He or she breathlessly anticipates the alignment of the stars that will signal the time when the computer screen will show the SAME number as the number in his or her hand.

The numbers creep upward at the awe-inspiring speed of a bored sloth. I look around and see people dozing off. Expressions are glazed. Occasionally, the number changes and one person in the crowd stirs. It is their turn. We should only be so lucky.

The UNlucky ones, however, go to The Mean Lady. She usually tells them, after they have waited one to two hours, that they must leave and come back another time, since they do not have the proper forms. Worse yet, they come to her window with a credit card only, and they get The Lecture. She turns from one lady and addresses the crowd:

"LISTEN, PLEASE. WE ONLY TAKE CASH AND CHECKS IN THIS LINE. IF YOU DON'T HAVE EITHER OF THOSE, PLEASE GO OVER TO TARGET TO THEIR ATM MACHINE."

She can't save this lecture until the Guilty Lady is walking to Target and out of earshot, of course. She lectures the entire crowd with the Guilty Lady right at her window. "THIS LADY," she might as well be saying, "IS PARTICULARLY DENSE. EVERYONE STARE AT HER BECAUSE SHE HAS JUST WASTED ALL OF OUR TIME."

Whew--our time finally comes, and we avoid the Mean Lady. Instead, I get Mr. Sarcasm, in a slightly friendly sort of way...it could have been worse. After our marathon standing contest, Mr. Sarcasm has me hand over all my documents, and sign the little signature piece--this will record my signature for my license.

I write on it, and immediately it makes little scribbly marks. "Do it again, and don't press so hard," Mr. Sarcasm says. I know it's broken. We can't do anything about that." I sign again. This time he tells me, "That looks like a kindergartener signature." (I didn't make that up--he REALLY said that.) AAArrgghh! Ok, one more try: I'm more than a little tired at this point so I tell him to accept that one. (Too bad I didn't really LOOK at it. Now my permanent signature really DOES looks like a kindergartener signature.)

The rest of the evening is just as insulting. I can't quite read all the letters in the vision test and so I have to use my glasses. Now my license is "restricted." Sigh...

Then, he makes me GIVE UP my California driver's license. "In California," I tell him, "they just punch a hole in your old one, and let you keep it." Then I get Lecture Number 458:

Mr. Sarcasm: "Do you want me to tell you why it costs $90?"
Me: "...OK..."
Mr. S: "$46 for the license, $20 for the Road Test, $24 for the Written Test."
Me: "So I'm PAYING for them, but I don't actually have to TAKE those tests?"
Mr. S: "Yes. Do you want me to schedule you a Road Test and a Written Test?"

(Frank interjects at this point of the story: "See, he was just telling you that if you wanted to keep your old California license so badly, you could come back and take those tests..."

Well, nobody likes a smart-aleck, okay...:)

Me: "No, Thank you."

Somehow, we survive the experience...? The cars are registered. We have MA drivers' licences. (Not that you can read my signature or anything. That part is COMPLETELY beside the point.)

Have a great weekend! Love, Kari