Well, that sucked.
Today is my birthday. I am 24 years old, and boy did I sure have to deal with the responsibilities of being a grown-up. Instead of waking up late and having a delicious birthday breakfast, I set my alarm for 7am and got myself down to the Maryland DMV to get my plates and license switched over from DE to MD. Man, is that place depressing. It gives me an anxiety attack just thinking about it. I don't know what it is, but any place that has to do with government agencies or really any kind of bureaucracy makes me break out in a cold sweat. I become frozen with terror at the thought that I might fill out the forms wrong (they make you write in PEN, people. that shit's permanent), or that I'll forget to bring the required 20 forms of ID (what, they think someone else wants to waste 5 hours to impersonate me and steal my license plates?).
So I get to the DMV all ready to go....and I wait for 45 minutes for my number to be called. Moment of truth. Did I fill everything out correctly? It takes so long for the lady to go over all of my information that I start to second-guess myself. My middle name is Nicole, right? Wait a second, which one is "make" and which one is "model"? I always get them confused. But lo and behold, after several anxious minutes (and $200 dollars later) I am in possession of brand new Maryland license plates. Which are ugly as sin. Apparently I was one of the lucky ones to receives plates from the Patriotic line of DMV merchandise. Seriously, you can hardly see my license plate number through all the fireworks and American flags. Yeesh.
Oh, you think it ends there? HA! I've only just begun. So after getting my plates, I have to walk to an entirely different building so that I can get my new driver's license. Yet another place to sit and wait. After awhile, I get called and quickly start laying out all of the necessary information--DE license, passport, social security card, new license plates, complete medical history (hmm, that last one may not have actually happened). Oh, and I explain that I brought my mom with me to verify my place of residency, since I just moved and I don't have any bills yet. I just want to take this opportunity to say that last week, the DMV drone that I spoke to said that all I needed was a parent with me to vouch that I am indeed living in Maryland. Guess what? They LIED.
So here I am, so close yet so far, and all that's standing in my way for getting out of this Hell-hole is one, count 'em ONE, proof of residency. "Well," I say with as little attitude as possible (I'm aware who holds the power in this situation), "I have my phone with me. I can bring up my online bank statement to show my Maryland address." Nope, not gonna cut it. They need it on a friggin piece of paper. So I hike myself down the highway--that's right, I am walking on the side of a freaking HIGHWAY--to the nearest Kinko's, so that I can log on to the internet and print out my bank statement. (I'd also like to remind you that my poor mother is here with me in all of this. Yes, picture me stomping down the highway with a petite 60-year-old woman trailing after me.)
Oh man, this is where it gets good. The damn computer won't let me view my bank statement, because that's sensitive information and the computer is an unprotected, public computer. I think at that point I stopped speaking in coherent sentences, and so my mom very calmly (as if speaking to a person on the verge of jumping off a bridge) suggested that we try to find the closest Wachovia. Success! There's one just a few hundred yards up the road. I stride inside and walk up to the teller. Who then proceeds to talk in a Betty Boop voice. Oh Lordy. I quietly ask for a copy of my latest bank statement. 20 minutes later, she hands me a glorified ATM receipt. "Nooooooo," I explain to her as tears of frustration fill my eyes, "I need my BANK. STATEMENT. I need to show proof of residency." Another 20 minutes later, and she hands me something that looks nothing like a bank statement. It looks like if I had gone home, powered up my laptop, and just wrote a bunch of stuff onto a Word document. Whatever. It has my address. So I book it out of there as Betty Boop airly tries to wish me a good day.
20 minutes of highway walking, 30 minutes of waiting, 20 minutes of DMV processing, and $45 later, and I am officially a Maryland-licensed driver. Whoop-de-friggin-do. Happy birthday to me.
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