First, I pose… a question: What is it about working at a government agency that makes people so completely unpleasant?
As a general rule, I try not to… well, generalize. But a recent experience has led me to realize that there is, in fact, a reason for this widely acknowledged stereotype.
It was while waiting for the uptown subway after an evening seeing a fabulous friend do her thang in La Cage Aux Folles that I had the sinking realization I was about to become quite intimate with the “finer” side of the United States government.
For over a YEAR now I have had it stuck in my noggin’ that my passport expires in December 2010. I knew that my driver’s license was about to give up the ghost (and had already spent the better part of 6-months planning -aka procrastinating- my plan of attack there) but for some dimwitted reason I completely failed to notice that my ticket to and from the country was already good and gone.
Suddenly – in the course of a conversation about my inability to add and subtract – a great lightening bolt flashed down into the depths of the 42nd Street underground and smacked me firm in the forehead. My passport expired last year! And now the license was just about to go. Not a huge concern if I was staying put, but that really isn’t my forte…
In less than two short weeks it was “wheels up” to Toronto to see one of my very favorite queens of the screen hit the Panasonic stage! It was a last minute birthday “surprise” to myself, from myself and now I realized my weekend away was dropped clean into the hands of a bunch of strangers down on Hudson.
I didn’t sleep much – too worried my alarm would fail to ring – and eventually rolled out of my still ridiculously high bed to throw some clothes on and race my nervous way to the passport office to beg and plead for mercy. I arrived just as the sun was creeping up over the concrete horizon to find the line at the passport office already stretched to the end of the block.
UGH. UGH. UGH. UGH. UGH. And probably every single one of them had an actual appointment to be there! (But not me! I didn’t know I was going to be taking this adventure until 12:30 the night, well, morning before.)
In the interest of not wasting another disturbingly lengthy segment of my life on this entire experience, I will try to condense the next several early morning hours for you here…
7:something a.m. - The man with the serial killer mustache behind me explains for the third time that he doesn’t have a drivers license and therefore was not able to get a passport in the continued government conspiracy to control then destroy his life.
7:22 a.m. - A man in a white shirt and an official looking hat comes outside and starts reciting a long list of “do’s, don’ts, must and must nots” up and down the line.
7:23 a.m. - The line erupts in a series of mumbles, growls, 4-letter expletives and a frenzy of completely confused shuffles and frantic line shifting.
7:25 a.m. - Mr. Mustache hands me his Sponge Bob duffle bag and asks if I can hold his space in line.
7:30 a.m. - The big glass doors slide open and the various lines begin to gradually scoot inside. But Mr. Mustache is still nowhere to be seen and while I hate to leave poor Spongebob outside, when you’ve been up since 4:45 it’s every man, woman and cleaning implement for himself!
7:35 a.m. - My bags and body are searched and x-rayed as if I’m about to enter the White House by a small band of security virtuosos all donning that same special hat.
7:36 a.m. - The eldest guru of the bunch confiscates my pepper spray explaining my choice is to go outside and hide it next to the curb (thus forefeiting my place in line) or throw it in the garbage. I’m torn. That stupid thing cost 30-bucks and was NOT easy to come by, but that red maple leaf is calling my name out loud so I go long, sinking my mace in the garbage bin and following the herd to the next stop in the process.
7:45 a.m. - My toes finally reach the old chipped paint of the faded red line. I don’t know what the penalty for approaching the window before I’m called is, but I’ve been staring at the expression of the woman behind the glass for at least 10-minutes now and am far from prepared to find out so I honor that line like a nun hangs on to her chastity.
7:48 a.m. - The woman bids me to come to her and I rush to present her with the pile of documents I have come prepared to display – proof that I am who I am and I live where I live in the form of bank statements, and bills, and taxes, and I.D.s, and birth certificates, and blood samples, and hair follicles, and dental records, and grade school report cards, and DNA…
7:49 a.m. - I exit the agency, mess of evidence in hand, to find a candy story on Varick where I can print my travel itinerary. Yep! I had every document known to man but had come without my proof of travel (and apparently the SAME EXACT information in the form of a Blackberry screen was not about to cut it.)
7:55 a.m. - I spend $7 USD printing three pieces of paper.
7:58 a.m. - A woman I had seen in line comes stumbling in to the candy store. The office doesn’t take passport photos and she has been sent to the store to get some.
8:00 a.m. - I spend $11 USD on a set of passport pictures that make a bull ride through “tornado alley” look like a good hair day and lead the Middle Eastern man behind the camera to question if my dog just passed away.
8:10 a.m. - I return to the passport office where the security guard who took my pepper spray apparently feels sorry and tells me I can jump the line to return to the lady behind the big glass window. ”I can?” I ask, suddenly feeling 5-years-old. He nods. ”But she’ll yell at me!” I protest again, but he insists it will be OK.
8:12 a.m. - She yells at me.
8:14 a.m. - She tells me I can’t renew my passport this way. ”This is for emergencies! People traveling in fourteen days or less!”
8:15 a.m. - I am forced to pull out my best math-skills (something we have already established I don’t have many of) and explain that 27 minus 14 is actually 13 days thus qualifying me to be there for the reason she just stated.
8:16 a.m. - She yells at me again. But she gives me my paperwork. And sends me upstairs.
After 35 more minutes and another $170 in US Dollars, I’m told to come back on Monday to pick up my brand new passport. My favorite line of the day has to be my own. Upon giving the woman at this counter every possible form of identification I own, I actually ask her if she “needs to see I.D.” when I give her my check for the renewal. Snaps Ash!!
8:51 a.m. - I pass Mr. Mustache with the Spongebob duffle explaining why he needs a passport for his trip to Milwaukee on my way out the office door.
But the fun did not stop there! Oh no! Having tackled the passport office first, I now feel physically and mentally prepared (or maybe just sufficiently fried and really over it) to brave the DMV as well. Yay me!
A few key moments from the DMV:
*The moment where I arrived to find a line just to get into the elevator.
*The moment where I had to ask around to find a person who speaks English.
*The moment – oh the glorious moment – when the fantastic English-speaking employee who was helping me (and for once I am NOT being sarcastic) told me that the “enhanced drivers license line” was over in the other corner and I discovered there was NO ONE actually standing in that line!
*The moment of the picture. This moment deserves a small moment of its own.
THE PICTURE
I will start by saying I am all for giving people from all walks of life, at various levels of social capability, capacity for abstract thought, and basic, general skill, jobs in our fabulous country. THAT said, I am quite certain that there HAS to be another position better suited for the man in charge of photos as this DMV.
For starters the man never once even attempted to make eye contact. Instead he shuffled around with his bespectacled eyes trained down at the desk in front of him, mumbling like a turtle working a mouthful of Big League Chew.
Next, the crazy cat tells me to step to the side and when I step in the direction he had waved me he screams out that “I told you to step to the side!!” I quickly deduce that his brain must be in his head backwards and step the other way as he continues… “You can’t even follow simple human directions and you think we should give you a license to drive?!”
OK. I have to admit. It was a funny thing to say. Completely inaccurate. But funny nonetheless. So I laughed.
He didn’t.
He ordered me to “stand right there” then proceeded to begin fumbling with a bunch of papers and stapling things for no apparent reason. It was WHILE I was watching him staple these things that a sudden bright flash blinded me from the front.
“Wha – What? Was that? Did you just take my picture?!” I asked him.
“Step to the side! Get out of the way!” He didn’t feel the need to answer.
I tried to make my case – certainly the Department of Motor Vehicles would never accept a license photo where the subject isn’t even looking at the camera!
Whelp! Apparently… they do. And if I could scan my new drivers license without the fear someone would snatch my identity, you would find proof positive that there is one DMV camera operator who could seriously use a new assignment.
So now after this L E N G T H Y dissertation you are all scratching your tired heads wondering what this series of events has to do with my expedition to catch a man. Am I right?
Let me put it to you this way. If I am lucky enough to stumble upon the man of my dreams (or even half the man of my dreams) tomorrow and fall deeply, madly in love and hear the distant clanging of wedding bells (because I’ll be honest, I’m a 100% just elope and get it done kind of girl), I can not – I WILL not – go through the rigors of the passport office OR the DMV again until the date on the records in question says I have to. Yes, the photos suck. And yes, I’m embarrassed every time I’m forced to reveal them. But I would rather eat a little morsel of crow every single stupid day than take a trip to that circus again any time soon.
So, Mr. Clooney, I hope you understand. I am willing to take your ring, and be your wife, and commit myself to you – heart, mind, body (certainly body – wink) and soul. But I’m afraid the whole name change just isn’t gonna happen – not even with a hyphen – until the year two thousand and fifteen.
Grin if you’re OK with that.
Yeah… that’s what I thought! ((wink))
Oh, and by the way…
The show was FABULOUS! :)
Wow! Where does the time go? I woke up this morning and suddenly realized far more weeks had passed than I ever really intended. (Incidentally, this seems to be a recurring theme in my life – one that has led to the great necessity of “Project Ash Needs Lovin’) ((wink))
So first I must apologize for letting old Father Time kick my arse the way he has. How I managed to let that scrawny little grandpa stick it to me I’ll never know, but rest assured I’m in serious training and hope to never let that be the completely mortifying case again.
In my defense, I admit I’ve been a bit of a globe trotter the last little while. OK, well, maybe not the GLOBE – but the United States at least. A few cross country excursions with several stops somewhere in the middle threw my schedule into a bit of tail spin and now I’m coming up for a breath of almost fresh air. (Air that I do have to tell you has been a bit like breathing through a hot, wet towel as the East Coast temperature climbs with that grand humidity riding its coat tails. For those of you who scuba dive, I expect to be stomping around the city strapped to my air tank and regulator for a large portion of the coming weekend.) ((wink))
(Good luck catching a boyfriend dress like the hottie above I guess, right?)
But, I digress…
I recently made a bittersweet discovery during an unexpected adventure in the fabulous city of Nashville. I made a pit stop in town for a little business and some quality friend time on my way back east after a trip to L.A. My friend met me at the airport and after a pit-stop at her place to gather another friend from the city (who was napping in the serenity of the great big country backyard), we set out for a little BBQ and a quick drive to the other side of town.
The BBQ?? Was AWESOME! (And left me wondering again how I managed to go so many years refusing to eat meat.) The ride started out slow, and pretty standard – with the exception of my kicking my uber athletic friend from the car and making her run behind us for several hot country blocks.
At some point in the afternoon – I think we were on our way to bask in the great shadow of a certain celebrity’s White House-Esq homestead – we ended up on the side of the road in the company of a police officer. Being two “jaded” New Yorkers, the sweaty friend (she ran pretty hard) and I were sure we were about to be busted for some illegal infraction and were pleasantly surprised when the doughy little law man was simply making sure we were OK (and that friend number three pulled her Beamer far enough off the road that it wasn’t in danger of being harmed by one of the pick-up trucks or tractors that was sure to come crawling by).
We were just about to start climbing back down to the river, being careful not to trip on the 24-pack mound of Bud cans that lined the crooked pathway, when our uniformed friend called out and asked if we were planning to get in the water. Once again, convinced that this might be the moment we would be cuffed and hauled to the slammer, we shrugged our shoulders feigning innocence. And once again… we were surprised.
Flash forward to a police escort down a quiet county road where a group of boxer clad teenage boys stood at river’s edge, taking turns spinning into the water from a knotted old homemade rope swing. Yes ladies and gentleman – a bona fide, real life rope swing! The teens scrambled to conceal their “Gatorade” and cigarettes then raced over to the road side where our escort gave them stern direction to show us a good time.
And so it was… three fully-clothed 30-somethings (OK, one of us is a 20-something, but we all act about 14, so age is really irrelevant here) spent the better part of a weekday afternoon dive-bombing from a wooden platform nailed up high into a tree hanging on to nothing but an old rope swing before crashing down into the water. (Did I mention there were snakes in this water… and I don’t just mean the teenage boys.)
“So what does any of this have to do with anything?” Your brain is screaming to know right now, right? Well, you should be very well aware by now that there is always a method to my madness. I believe that I did mention we were swimming in our clothes… And I think the fact that we were in our friend’s brand new Beamer may have also been revealed. So, after all of the fun was over (and the dark grey sky was sharp with lightening) we realized it was time to get back in the car.
One of the things about impromptu dives into random rivers is that you rarely come prepared. Without any towels and with the increasing threat of being slammed in the head by a lightening bolt, we were scrambling to find a quick way to dry off before climbing in to the exquisite luxury of those buttery leather seats. With every T-shirt from the trunk soaked through and nothing else (minus a small emergency box of tampons) capable of absorbing, we found ourselves a little stuck.
And that, my fabulous friends, is when the teen who looked like Jesus (yes, that Jesus) stepped up to offer the flannel blanket from the front seat of his truck. Silly you might say, but it was a thoughtful, even gentlemanly gesture unlike many I’ve seen in a pretty long time. Yes, they were young. And one kept smelling my friend’s tank top (then announcing it – which was more than a little bit strange), but this simple, handsome act turned me on faster than you can say “8 to 10 for statutory”. Needless to say, we dried off quickly and raced away before our evening ended in a one room jail cell with a man named Chicken and his imaginary friend Earl.
(NOTE: The guy in the cap is Earl. And if you can see him… You might be a Redneck!) ((wink))
For a more comprehensive Redneck test please visit: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Raua57alEL4
For those of you who have missed my point – after seeing that photo I’m afraid I may have forgotten myself – I will go ahead and share it with you now. While common sense did step in and remind me that I was at least 15 years their senior (ouch!) there was something I hope every one of those kids carries with him all the way into adulthood. I’d started thinking maybe chivalry was dead (in fact, I was pretty sure it gave up the ole ghost on a Wednesday in May when a jack ass masquerading as a man nearly knocked me onto the tracks on his way to another subway), but then I found it on the side of a dirt road drenched in snake infested water reeking of Jack Daniel’s spiked green Gatorade and it has given me new hope! There’s still a fabulous gentleman out there waiting for me somewhere, and when I find him I’m going sweet talk that man into a late afternoon spin on a homemade rope swing. (Insert dreaming, romantic sigh here. ”Ahhhh…..”) ((smile))
OH! And by the way… for the sake of keeping things “PC”. I was not born and raised in New York City and have a lot of country blood (yes, the Redneck kind) coursing through these veins, so don’t see this as a city girl making light of folks from the country. These are my people kids… and I love them all like I love me some mad chocolate cake! ((smile))
Chance is always powerful. Let your hook always be cast; in the pool where you least expect it, there will be fish. -Ovid
http://www.youtube.com/watch#!v=XNwhwwuRnB0
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