I haven’t legally changed my name yet.
I know. I know.
But the thing is, the DMV. I just. I can’t.
The list of things that I would happily do before visiting the DMV is impossibly long, and includes sitting still for a fifteen hour transatlantic flight, driving a hummer through an earth day parade and gouging my eyes out with a red hot poker. There’s a comedian that calls the DMV Satan’s hiney, [I’m being a bit more delicate] and while I can’t publicly endorse that sort of crude humor, RIGHT ON, SIR.
It’s maddening. The inefficient, unconcerned dolts working behind the counter look like they’d be more at home dressed in clown costumes and stuffing bodies under front porches. I’m convinced that the entire system was designed on purpose, to make me suffer. No matter what you do, you inevitably wind up spending half your life sitting in a painfully uncomfortable chair next to a rather greasy looking man that looks as though he might be more comfortable in an orange jump suit, shanking someone with a ball point pen. And all of that, only to be disparagingly told a thousand years later that you forget to bring a framed and notarized copy your great grandmother’s second cousin twice removed’s birth certificate, and what kind of idiot walks into the DMV without THAT? Come back tomorrow, SUCKER!
I remember the conversation that ensued between my Dad and I as he drove me to the DMV to take my driving test. Few people in life match my deep-rooted hatred for the DMV, and my Father is one of them. Now, John Peterson had personally taught me to drive, [mostly because there wasn’t enough Xanax in the great state of North Carolina to ready my Mother for the task], and after hours of slowly rolling backwards on the hills and getting up close and personal with more than a couple front yards and mail boxes, he was confident that his star pupil [read: only pupil] was ready. Grinning, he looked at me and laughed, “You’d better pass this thing, because no way am I coming back!”
I like to think that it was his fault that I hit that handicapped sign. The pressure was just too overwhelming.
The walk of shame from the [only slightly dented] car to the inside office where my proud Daddy was eagerly waiting was a thousand years long. One look at his grinning face and I burst into ugly tears because WE WERE GOING TO HAVE TO COME BACK.
Also, the handicapped sign. Just, whatever.
The point here is, the DMV is where sanity goes to die. Nevertheless, yesterday I squared my jaw and very bravely called our local office to nail down precisely what I’d need for my dreaded visit because NOT GOING TWICE. Nuh-uh. You will not defeat me, New York!
I was, of course, promptly put on hold, where I stayed for over an hour before I waved the white flag of surrender at long last.
You win, Satan’s hiney. You. Win.
I called Kellan in a blind rage. “Honey, just wanted to let you know that I’m not changing my name. Except for on Facebook and YOU’RE WELCOME.”
My husband was not a fan. Not even when I creatively suggested that he change his name to Kellan Peterson.
If you hear about a brunette from North Carolina shanking a DMV worker in Albany with a ballpoint pen later today, just carry on. Nothing to see, here.