Somehow, somewhere, in the midst of downsizing to one car and buying a new-to-us vehicle that we both wouldn’t mind being seen in, and in trying to organize an exhaustive amount of boxes filled with paperwork (because the HBH excels at printing and saving, printing and saving), and in having a baby-turned-toddler, and in thieves rummaging through said newly-organized files, and in packing and unpacking and moving to the ‘burbs, although our registration was up-to-date, we never did get the 2013 tabs on our car.
So we’ve been rocking the 2012 tabs for awhile now – and, well, if you do the math, that’s a little two thousand and late.
But then a ticketed tornado of sorts arrived: in the course of three weeks’ time, the city of San Francisco graced me with an expired tabs ticket, another stealth motorcycle cop pulled me over for – you guessed it – expired tabs, and almost five hours over the course of two different days were spent at local DMV offices because I couldn’t get my act together to make an appointment before the grace period of the ticket wore off.
We’d paid our registration and updated our address online, but then the VIN number wouldn’t go through – are those zeroes or O’s? What an evil number versus letter trick! – so registration complete, the address didn’t go through. Subsequently, the new tabs still have yet to arrive, and the post office apparently won’t forward All-Important Department of Motor Vehicles mail as requested. And no cop, no DMV person, No Nothin’ could then sign off on my correctable ticket without the pretty new rectangular stickers.
What can I say? You win some, you lose some (among other first-world problems).
But today, after standing in line for an hour a half, after entertaining the Little Man with Cheerios, cantaloupe and grapes, a blanket, a book, an empty Starbucks cup (first eggnog latte of the season, thankyouverymuch), a walk up to the window to knock at strangers, a walk back to the stroller to push, another walk up to the window to knock to now-stranger-friends, another walk back to the stroller to push, a giddy-up, a conversation with the nice man in front of us and an awkward conversation with the couple behind us, and a trip to the questionable women’s restroom later, salvation arrived in the form of the Lady at the Front Desk.
She said “Hmphhh” at the ticket, and called the officer who pulled me over Silly. She shook her head at the antics of the other DMV office who shall remain nameless (although, hint hint, it starts with a “Daly” and ends with a “City”), calling them “liar” and “crazy” and making me promise that I’ll never, ever, ever visit another DMV besides the San Mateo location again.
“You’re my DMV bestie!” I shouted merrily, looking around to those around me for confirmation, as Cancan wrangled and wriggled and writhed on top of her desk, throwing the empty Starbucks cup on top of her keyboard. Meanwhile, with an actual smile on her face, she signed off on the ticket, doing what no DMV worker or police officer before her had been able to do for me.
Absolute bestie, for ever and ever, Amen.
I’m totally buying her a necklace next week.
What about you? What woeful tale of tickets, police officers and DMV offices do you have for us today? And more importantly, is it too soon to buy my bestie a necklace? Just wondering.0