23 September 2008

Larry David must have a new show ... Part Two

The second part of my Seinfeld tale is a bit of a stretch in that it might not actually be a Seinfeld script bit. It was more made up of moments that made me whip my head around searching for the elusive candid cameras that weren't actually there. But humor me with my theme here, ok?

The DMV. That's the foundation of this story. I know, I know ... everyone has a general hatred for this God forsaken place. But given the experiences I've been forced to endure, I think I've earned a little venting session.

Let's do a little time travel back to February. (Cue Huey Lewis and The News, please.) I made a choice. A choice I know now to be a gargantuan mistake. I made the decision to switch my license plates from Kansas to Missouri. It was a tragic day emotionally, but as I work and live in the latter state, and have no immediate plans to hop back over the state line, I knew it was inevitable. Anyway, I made the appropriate trips to make the transition and grudgingly said "howdy" to the Sunflower State and "oh hey there" to the Show Me State.

Now we move to April. I've discovered that my tags (year stickers) have been stolen off my plates from my work parking lot. Suck. Taking the afternoon off to get things resolved, however, I learned this would be no easy feat. I strolled into the license bureau located inside a PetSmart in North KC. (Normal.) I handed over the necessary paperwork, and after feverish typing (yet lackadaisical in overall nature you'd expect from a license bureau employee), I was told that I was "not in the system." That's funny, you gave me the license plates two months ago. So let's hear who screwed up.

They informed me that the appropriate paperwork was not completed and I could not be put "in the system" until it was. (Again, not my fault. Someone at the DMV dropped the ball. Surprise, I know.) The large-and-in-charge - and insanely rude - woman told me that things would need to be surrendered, faxed, mailed and submitted between Kansas and Missouri. I left, annoyed, but unable to do anything more. A couple days had passed and I had not heard from the DMV as I expected to. J was carting me around and we were leaving for Western Kansas (jealous?) that weekend. I needed my plates to be in the system. I decided to make some calls myself, have some paperwork faxed to me, and I went into the DMV to hand it over in person. Big Lady went on to treat me like an idiot because she did not inform me of the entire process, and I learned that I was more under the mercy of this government office than I previously thought.

After much frustration, and nearly two weeks of being unable to drive my car, things finally got cleared up, and I got my new tags.

Now we fast-forward to the present day. Or two weeks ago, anyway. Close enough. (Sorry ... long story is not yet over.) I'm on my way to work on the interstate when I approach two police cars going five under the speed limit. Annoyed, along with several other cars, we pass them going the speed limit. Not a single mile over. I get in front of them and shortly after, I look in my rear view mirror to see the police cars speed up and put their lights on. I'm getting pulled over.

I had an internal freak out because I know I wasn't speeding ... really hoping this isn't a random cavity search. Not because I'm guilty, of course. Because that would be totally awk. Anyway, I roll down my window, and the scary he-she cop tells me the reason they pulled me over was because ... brace yourself ... my plates aren't in the system. Are you flipping serious?

I proceed to tell her the situation from February/April, tell her I have the paperwork. She proceeds to tell me I have to get into her car. Really?! So she has to call in all my information and finally tells me that I need to go to the DMV because someone didn't finish the paperwork.

Yep.

(Still don't know if I'm "in the system.")

19 September 2008

Larry David must have a new show ... Part One

Because I think I'm on it. I've had too many Seinfeld moments in the last month for this scenario not to be an option. So I'm going to rehash my experiences in a three-part series. (Who knows, maybe more. New moments every day, right?) Story one.

This tale begins at a little place called Carmax. This is a place where the beer flows like wine. Where beautiful women instinctively flock like the salmon of Capistrano. (What's that? I'm talking about Aspen, you say? My bad.)

Anyway, Carmax. Home of "no haggle pricing." Side note: Every time I tell this story to a guy, he's inherently appalled to learn that I purchased a vehicle at Carmax. So I've learned that guys don't like Carmax. Girls do. It's science.

So I go to get my oil changed at the Max - not to be mistaken with TJ Maxx. Pretty sure they don't service cars there. I drop Rhonda (my car) off at the appointment time and they proceed to tell me that it will be a 45-minute wait. I tell them I would rather they just call me when it's done, as J and I have a hot date to go get his oil changed as well. They agree to this. I leave.

Meanwhile, we go to get J's oil changed at the Ford QuickLane ... so we have to wait. It ends up being about an hour and a half to two hours. (Don't worry. Magazines kept me company. I learned that Mike Myers is, in fact, a jackass.) I never got a call from Carmax. Odd.

We go back to pick up my car and I saunter to the service desk. Greeted by a friendly mechanic, I say, "Hi ... I dropped my car off a couple hours ago for an oil change and I still haven't received a phone call so I Just wanted to see if it's ready?" The guy says, "Oh yeah, it's done. Let me just get your paperwork together and make a phone call since I wasn't the one who checked you in and such."

I wait, letting my eyes wander while he makes his phone call. Suddenly, I hear my cell phone ringing. This is bizarre because no one calls me. Ever. I retrieve the phone from my bottomless pit of a purse to see a 913 number. Carmax is on the Kansas side of Kansas City, so I put it together and ask the mechanic, "Is this you?" He replies, "Yeah, you don't have to answer it." Um... thanks?

My phone stops ringing and shortly after, the dude starts leaving a voicemail for me. "Hi Molly, this is Josh from Carmax letting you know your car is ready to be picked up ... and you're standing right in front of me. Have a great day. Bye!" And he proceeds to take me to the cashier like nothing happened.

I think to myself, "Seriously ... did that just happen?"

15 September 2008

Trust issues

This list is obviously a never ending one, but here are some off the top of my frizzy-haired head. Never trust:


Guys who slick their hair back.

Vehicles that employ curtains in the windows. (You know the big vans I'm talking about, people.) Especially if the curtains are "drawn." Ew.

People who dislike dogs.

Spell or grammar check.

Expiration dates - I mean, they're more like suggestions.

A girl who won't wear t-shirts.

A popped collar.

Mascots. The chances of a creeper being underneath that character's smiling face are higher than Mariah Carey's jorts.

12 September 2008

Stalker

Someone's following me ... and it's really starting to freak me out. Maybe you, my handful of readers, can help me cope.

This realization came to me a little over a month ago, at Nebraska Furniture Mart. I was there twice in a week, and the dude was there, too. Seemingly coincidental, right? Until a visit to CVS for a smattering of random items (charcoal, beer, shampoo), and there he was again. Coincident no more.

And not only is it creeping me out, but it's really upsetting me. Why? Because my stalker is Michael McDonald and his 1983 hit "Yah Mo Be There." Help.

09 September 2008

Things I need to come to terms with, part one

My hair will never look as good as when my stylist does it.

The Kansas City Royals ... are not good.

Red lights will always, always piss me off.

Kansas City drivers will always drive 10 mph in the "rain", even if it's barely sprinkling ... or if the street is wet from a sprinkler.

I have road rage. (See above.)

Sometimes shopping is the answer.

Other times, shopping makes you feel really guilty. But you keep the stuff anyway.

I will always forget something at home when going out of town.

I'm allergic to dogs.

I will always pet said dogs and feel miserable afterward. (Worth it, thanks.)

I will always spill milk everywhere on the first pour from the carton/jug. (Yep, we get the glass jugs now. I feel fancy.)

The custodians at the office will never, ever put the toilet paper roll on correctly (over, not under) so I just need to stop expecting they will.

I have a crush on Heidi Klum.

08 September 2008

Huh?

Let me tell you about something I don't understand. Vera Wang Mattresses.

Ok, here's the deal. I can understand the desire/need/whatever to acquire designer names for the jeans on your booty (guilty), the shoes on your tootsies, the bag on your arm or even the unmentionables on your ... unmentionables. I get that. But a mattress? I mean really?

You cover your mattress with sheets, right? And the people who don't cover their mattresses with sheets ... well ... no offense, but those people probably aren't going to be purchasing a Vera Wang mattress anytime soon.

The only thing that comes close to the ridiculousness of having a designer name mattress is having designer named undies, only because if you aren't - for lack of better terms - "getting any", what's the point if no one's seeing them? But even those who don't plan on letting anyone see them in their skivvies will most likely give you the argument that wearing them just makes them feel better. Fine. But if anyone tries to offer that argument while bragging to me about their Vera Wang mattress, I'm calling their bluff because that's just b.s.