longest post ev-ah!
In my last post, I said that John and I had plans to go to the DMV on Monday and get our California plates and licenses, right? Well, it didn’t go quite like that.
First, I spent most of Sunday evening—and into Monday morning…way into Monday morning, actually—trying to get all our documents in order. I couldn’t find the registration to John’s car (called that because it’s the one he usually drives, even though they're both ours) or the proof of insurance for either of the cars. Which totally depressed me. Because I really thought I’d been more responsible than that. As in, I thought these were items that I’d find safely waiting in the glove compartments of our cars for just such an occasion.
We found the registration, because I couldn’t sleep without knowing where it was, in the trunk of John’s car at about 4:30 Monday morning. The Trunk!? I have no idea. Anyway, the insurance cards finally turned up…after I went through every piece of paper in our entire apartment…including birthday and Christmas cards from two years back. It took forever. Because I keep everything.
We slept late on Monday and decided to wait until Tuesday to go to the DMV. I spent Monday organizing, in the (more than likely vain) hope that it would make things easier to find. So now I have files in the filing cabinet, properly labeled boxes of sorted-out papers and ephemera, and a hall full of stuff waiting to be put back in the closet…because of course I didn’t actually finish the job.
We also went to the bank and changed our address and ordered checks, because as far as the bank knew we still lived in TN. And we only had four checks…three in one book and one in another. Because apparently we can’t even use checks properly.
Yesterday. The DMV experience is really not as bad as TV shows portray it. Of course, we were in Glendale. Not downtown.
What’s weird about it is how much different the California Department of Motor Vehicles is from the Tennessee Department of Safety. For example, we registered to vote. And they asked for a political party affiliation. John looked at our TN voter registration cards and asked, “Did they ask us for a political party in Tennessee?” No, because that’s rude. The laws are different here. Not dramatically, really, but just enough that it can cause problems. Like how in California you’re required to have plates in the front and back of your car. And I no longer have the bracket that holds the front plate for my Neon, because I never had anything to put in it.
We both passed the test. But they didn’t give us our actual licenses…instead they punched holes in our old ones and gave us these wimpy little sheets of paper that said we were waiting for our real licenses to show up in the mail. So we don’t actually have real licenses.
We got home and put on the plates, then went to find a auto parts store for a plate holder for the Neon. The Autozone guys said I had to go to a dealer…that is, after saying “Welcome to California” with the sarcasm of a sitcom side character when I explained that this “front plate law” was new to me. So cheery!
On the way to the closest Dodge dealer, which required a trip back to Glendale, I was driving down the 134 and proceeded to wreck John’s car in such a way that the bumper came off. So neither of us have front plates.
The details are tedious. And annoying. They include: a driver in the lane I needed to merge into speeding entirely too fast and preventing me from leaving my lane…which, in turn, stopped directly. One last ditch attempt at an evasive maneuver (what my dad would call an “escape plan,” only it didn’t fully work) later, and BANG! Of course, if I hadn’t steered like I did, it could’ve been much worse. I mean, the airbags didn’t come out. And we were able to drive it home…with the front bumper in the back seat.
So there I am, on the side of the freeway, with my silly little temporary papers, staring at a Lexus with a banged up bumper in front of me.
No one was hurt. But I’ve been pretty depressed ever since. I just keep seeing it happen over and over. Just when I start thinking about something else, BANG!
I slept poorly, fitfully, waking up frequently all night.
At some point, I complained to John about how I left the “weight” question blank and the lady asked me my weight anyway. And of course, because I feel the need to constantly compare and contrast one state to the other, I’ve never had my weight on my license. Because it’s rude.
And my car has a California plate now. They’re all white, with blue numbers, and the word “California” scrawled across the top in really ugly cursive. My car has lost color. It looks like something has been stripped away. Like it’s lost its identity…and will now blend in with every other car on the street.
Funny. John's car really has had something stripped away. And it stands out.
Take that how you will.
First, I spent most of Sunday evening—and into Monday morning…way into Monday morning, actually—trying to get all our documents in order. I couldn’t find the registration to John’s car (called that because it’s the one he usually drives, even though they're both ours) or the proof of insurance for either of the cars. Which totally depressed me. Because I really thought I’d been more responsible than that. As in, I thought these were items that I’d find safely waiting in the glove compartments of our cars for just such an occasion.
We found the registration, because I couldn’t sleep without knowing where it was, in the trunk of John’s car at about 4:30 Monday morning. The Trunk!? I have no idea. Anyway, the insurance cards finally turned up…after I went through every piece of paper in our entire apartment…including birthday and Christmas cards from two years back. It took forever. Because I keep everything.
We slept late on Monday and decided to wait until Tuesday to go to the DMV. I spent Monday organizing, in the (more than likely vain) hope that it would make things easier to find. So now I have files in the filing cabinet, properly labeled boxes of sorted-out papers and ephemera, and a hall full of stuff waiting to be put back in the closet…because of course I didn’t actually finish the job.
We also went to the bank and changed our address and ordered checks, because as far as the bank knew we still lived in TN. And we only had four checks…three in one book and one in another. Because apparently we can’t even use checks properly.
Yesterday. The DMV experience is really not as bad as TV shows portray it. Of course, we were in Glendale. Not downtown.
What’s weird about it is how much different the California Department of Motor Vehicles is from the Tennessee Department of Safety. For example, we registered to vote. And they asked for a political party affiliation. John looked at our TN voter registration cards and asked, “Did they ask us for a political party in Tennessee?” No, because that’s rude. The laws are different here. Not dramatically, really, but just enough that it can cause problems. Like how in California you’re required to have plates in the front and back of your car. And I no longer have the bracket that holds the front plate for my Neon, because I never had anything to put in it.
We both passed the test. But they didn’t give us our actual licenses…instead they punched holes in our old ones and gave us these wimpy little sheets of paper that said we were waiting for our real licenses to show up in the mail. So we don’t actually have real licenses.
We got home and put on the plates, then went to find a auto parts store for a plate holder for the Neon. The Autozone guys said I had to go to a dealer…that is, after saying “Welcome to California” with the sarcasm of a sitcom side character when I explained that this “front plate law” was new to me. So cheery!
On the way to the closest Dodge dealer, which required a trip back to Glendale, I was driving down the 134 and proceeded to wreck John’s car in such a way that the bumper came off. So neither of us have front plates.
The details are tedious. And annoying. They include: a driver in the lane I needed to merge into speeding entirely too fast and preventing me from leaving my lane…which, in turn, stopped directly. One last ditch attempt at an evasive maneuver (what my dad would call an “escape plan,” only it didn’t fully work) later, and BANG! Of course, if I hadn’t steered like I did, it could’ve been much worse. I mean, the airbags didn’t come out. And we were able to drive it home…with the front bumper in the back seat.
So there I am, on the side of the freeway, with my silly little temporary papers, staring at a Lexus with a banged up bumper in front of me.
No one was hurt. But I’ve been pretty depressed ever since. I just keep seeing it happen over and over. Just when I start thinking about something else, BANG!
I slept poorly, fitfully, waking up frequently all night.
At some point, I complained to John about how I left the “weight” question blank and the lady asked me my weight anyway. And of course, because I feel the need to constantly compare and contrast one state to the other, I’ve never had my weight on my license. Because it’s rude.
And my car has a California plate now. They’re all white, with blue numbers, and the word “California” scrawled across the top in really ugly cursive. My car has lost color. It looks like something has been stripped away. Like it’s lost its identity…and will now blend in with every other car on the street.
Funny. John's car really has had something stripped away. And it stands out.
Take that how you will.
Labels: los angeles is weird.
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