We bought a scooter.
It would be more accurate to say it was given to us. Our wonderful neighbors who live behind us no longer had use for it, as their two children are off in college and it apparently was taking up a lot of space in their garage. I personally think they just got sick of listening to my teenage (and driving) daughter complain about having to drive the mini-van. In any case, we became the owners of an adorable blue scooter.
And then the arguments began. My 13 year old son believes this was a gift sent to him by God himself. He is, after all, going to be 14 in January- the legal age to drive a scooter. He has researched the class- $155 at the local community college- and found his insurance to be $151 a year for liability. (He 'decided' liability was ok after being informed total coverage was $545 a year.) But he practices. In the driveway. And on the lawn. He isn't allowed on the street, but generally will test drive the scooter through the vegetable garden and around the hostas until his father yells at him to get off and do something productive. At which point he retreats to the basement for a rousing game of Halo or MW2.
But the real problem is dad. He has driven the scooter to work every day since we got it. He loves the thing. It tops out at 40, but he figures "who cares" as the speed limit on roads to work is 35. The helmet is too small for his enormous head, so he goes without. This worries me. And the daughter, who I think the scooter was 'given' to in the first place, wants nothing to do with it. "How can I carry my French Horn, mom? DUH." And off she goes in the minivan.
Which leads me to the DMV. It's $7 to get a scooter/moped license. Cool. The neighbor comes over, we do all the paperwork, blah blah blah, and now it's my turn to get everything turned in and get some plates so my husband doesn't get pulled over. The "in transit" sign will probably only work ONCE at most. So, on my BIRTHDAY, I head off to the DMV.
Apparently 10:30 is lunchtime. Or they just have a continuous breaktime. Of the sixteen stations, FOUR were open. Yes, FOUR. That's one-fourth for you non-math majors out there. I pull ticket T64. I look up to see that we are on T41. But wait. The "T" stands for title. There are also "R" and "M" letters, none of which I can figure out. There isn't one M lady or one R guy- they seem to randomly call out letters and numbers. I sit there, with about 30 other people, waiting for someone to yell bingo.
No need to wait for yelling. PJ Johnson, attorney at law, has entered the waiting area. He is about 50, wearing dress pants and plaid dress shirt and BLACK BIKER BOOTS. Yes, the ones with buckles and rings. And not worn in. More like "I'm playing dress ups for my goth daughter's closet". You might wonder how I know his name? It's because he is talking in the loudest possible voice- on his bluetooth headset. "Mr. Stevenson? (ha ha ha) Perhaps you should introduce yourself to your secretary because she didn't seem to know you when I asked to speak to you! (laughs again) I'm going to need another $2000 towards your retainer if I'm going to get you off on that drug charge". I am going to write this guy's name down so I never call him if me or any other human needs a lawyer. Now that the entire room knows that Mr. Stevenson was caught with 20g of cocaine, they are all interested in the soap opera playing out on the phone. Don't people have better things to do on a Monday morning?
There are at least 3 pregnant women, all accompanied by their mothers and toting at least one other preschool child. An older lady recognizes a friend across the room and trips over a purse on her way to chat, landing face down in the beautifully marbled hall. Thank God it wasn't 2 feet further or she would have gone down the stair face first. That would be where a couple is fighting, every other word peppered with obscenities, forcing the grandmas in the room to cover the toddler's ears so they don't get an education in unacceptable vocabulary at such an early age.
I play another round of Scrabble with my online friends. Finally my number is called. I feel like I have won the jackpot. I hand her the Title, the bill of sale, and sit back and wait, checkbook in hand.
"Let me talk to my supervisor, before I send you away", she quips.
After two minutes she comes back with a highlighter. "Since you and your husband are listed as the owners, BOTH of you need to sign it. If you had put the word 'or' down instead of the plus sign, I could do this today. Sorry."
"ARE YOU KIDDING ME? An hour and a half of hell ON MY BIRTHDAY? And the best you can do is come back tomorrow with ONE signature?????" I am irrate.
"Oh", she says, "and there are $15 in penalties on it now, because it's late, too".
Can't win.
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