2004-05-04 @ 8:36 p.m.
fallin' down on your knees at the dmv

Although the day did have a rough start. 8:38 a.m. Ringgggggg!

My mom (or Guilt Central as I like to call her). You didn't call me yesterday.

I'm still sleeping, mom.

Not accepting that as a reasonable excuse not to start something, she launched into a tirade. Hey it's not nice sneaking up on a sleeping nude goddess....I was just dreaming about Johnny Depp's left nipple too! She then quickly pulled out all the stops and before long, had me crying for what now appears to be, all the sins of all my siblings, none of whom call her, except my sister. Whammo!

But then like some post-menopausal Rainman, she suddenly switched gears and said hey, lets go to breakfast at Denny's. (My mom is great at segues, especially ones involving food). We were supposed to meet today anyways for the great car exchange-o-rama, so I grudgingly agreed. Denny's. 10:30.

Be there or later be court marshaled at the Mother Guilt Gulag. Check.

So did the Denny's thing. Today was loud-talking people day. We had a table of teamsters next to us. BLAH BLAH HOMER SIMPSON. BLAH. Then across from us was a man, a woman and an old man (obviously dad) with an oxygen tank.

DAD...YOU....WANT...THE...MEAT...LOVER'S....SLAM?

DAD, DO...YOU...WANT ME...TO CUT...YOUR HAM???

My mom didn't even notice that people were talking loud (why would she? she was yapping at about 30 decibels herself), but she did complain that the Muzak was a little loud. And then during all this grand opera loudness, I found a blonde hair in my hash browns, but I didn't say anything.

yup, yup, yup, we're having fun.

Of course it was nowhere's as fun as the DMV...you know, the place where you sit so long, your ass grows roots into the wood bench.

Why did this place remind me of church so much? The Church of the Licenselessly Impaired. Praise Jesus! The place was certainly laid out like a freakin' church. There were rows and rows of hard wooden benches all facing in the same direction.

And then there was this framed digital box with numbers, telling all us poor saps where to go. And that reminded me of those old numbered boxes that used to hang on the church walls which told us which hymn to sing at which point. Remember those?

And then there was all that sitting on hard benches, for extended periods of time with nothing to do...kinda like in church.

Well, at least, that's how I remember church. The only difference was that the DMV had a Coke machine and Muzak.

We both had to fill out several pages of paperwork. She was giving me her car as a gift (although not really. I paid her $550), and I had to get new plates. She just had to register her car.

Amazingly we didn't talk much. Usually she has to insult how everyone looks as they walk by. But she is just getting over a bad cold, so she's not quite up to snuff yet for public humiliation.

There were three young men in back of me. I couldn't see what they looked like, but they sounded like Beavis and Butthead. And Butthead #2. They were talking about girls. One of them had supposedly had sex the night before. His conquest was what he called a "newly converted virgin".

"Oh, she's had sex before, but only once. She kept talking about the Disney channel."

Huh?

We finally moved closer to the window we would eventually end up at. Our new neighbors were even more delightful. The Belching Brothers. Two men probably in their late twenties and a woman. Kinda white trashy looking. And the two guys kept burping and than laughing.

I don't like burping. Ix-nay on the burping. Burp one more time, and you'll be digging that contact lens out of the recess of your upper ass you mofo.

Ok, so I was getting a little perturbed, after sitting for so long, so I decided to go into my Don Rickles routine about the DMV. And soon, surprisingly, they stopped burping and were laughing a little. I didn't really mean for them to laugh, I was just trying to disperse some of my pent up anger from sitting on my ass for nearly two fucking hours in Our Lady of the DMV.

But then finally, blessedly, they called our number. Praise Jesus! I practically did Spiderman leaps over to the counter. My transaction went very smoothly. My mother? Her paperwork wasn't filled out in full (she missed a whole page). Her license plate number was missing. She couldn't find her checkbook. Oy!

Plus the DMV worker didn't know a second person was coming in on the same transaction and had already pressed the number for the next person who was standing there waiting at the counter with us. Oh joy!

Of course he had only been waiting for 1 hour and 59 minutes, so screw him.

Finally got everything settled and drove over to get her "new" car. It's a 1990 Honda. What a piece of crap. Filthy dirty inside and out. One of the tires was almost flat. The trunk was wet. It needs a paint job really badly. I'm not really sure what she saw in it other than the word Honda.

So I transferred everything from her old car (now mine) to her new car, and then we went to a local car wash. Once there I had to unload most of what I had loaded (she has tons of shit in that car...boxes of antique dishes, a huge bag of laundry, like 25 pounds, bags of papers and romance novels). I vacuumed the whole inside of the car, including the trunk. And then we took the car over and I washed exterior by hand. Her back window was slightly ajar, so I got to squirt her a few times surrepticiously and see her jump (heh, heh).

Hey, I'm just washing the soap off there, mom. squirt, squirt!!

I also filled up her tire with air. The cap is missing off the tire so I told her to get one before she went home (She didn't though. She just called).

So its all done. She has her car which might possibly blow up, and I finally have mine.

Witty's ultracool 1992 Ford Tempo with red interior and a cassette player.

Lyrics by Lennon/McCartney. All angst copyright by awittykitty