It was packed. First step was to stand in line to get a number - called the "information line." This is an experience in which one is really mixing with the masses. Some of the people in this line are ex-cons that have business at the same bureaucracy that you do. Maybe they have asked to borrow your cell phone to make a quick call to their mother. You have pretended the battery was dead. Wandering around the hordes of needy citizens clutching dirty file folders is a security guard whom we will call "Paul Blart Mall Cop" for purposes of this story. He wants to keep everyone in line and really wants people to sit in chairs and not stand idly in walkways. The thing is, nobody listens to Paul Blart Mall Cop because the DMV is like urban Mexico: if you cut me in line, I will shiv you with the pen that used to be chained to the back counter and Paul Blart Mall Cop doesn't have a gun, therefore I don't have to do what he says. In this place, everybody hates everybody - especially the people that had to bring their kids in. Every kid in that joint was eating a small bag of the greasiest potato chips fifty cents can buy and then running around like an untrained monkey grabbing onto things and then promptly losing their grip because their tiny palms were so greased up from the potato chips. It's like when my dog steps in a puddle and leaves little paw prints behind her except significantly less cute because potato chip grease leaves stains and none of those kids were as cute as Truffles. . .
So the kids were greasy, did a lot of screaming and running around, and everyone was miserable. I lost 4 hours of my life on Saturday at the DMV. We waited in three lines and were about five minutes from my husband getting his new Connecticut State driving license when they demanded a vision test. My husband lost his glasses, that he rarely ever wears, and blew the vision test in about 25 seconds. They handed him a form, to be filled out by an eye doctor certifying that he's safe to drive, and kept his $40 after denying his application. If, at any point during our marriage, I'd worried that my husband would buckle under stress and just have a stroke - that moment pales in comparison to what I saw on his face when we left the DMV. I would like to preface the next part of this story by saying that I married one of the kindest, gentlest men I've ever met. He loves to help people, solve problems and do nice things for others. He was the kind of date that would say, once seated at a restaurant, "it looks like the sun is in your eyes, we should move or switch seats." He cared for an aggressive dog with poor potty training for over two years because he knew that the only alternative was to put her down. He's loyal and dedicated and considerate and I thought he was going to burn down that building.
For two hours or so after our departure from the DMV, when he was so upset I couldn't even let him drive home, my driving was actually the safest option, he was demanding that we move out of state immediately. So beside himself with rage, he couldn't walk in a straight line, I ushered him home and into our apartment to feed him something heavy, or sleeping pills, or chloroform him. I really and truly wish I could describe this time to you, but he's called marriage secret, a term we learned from our "pastor" ordained on the internet, about the whole incident and I can't write about it. Ultimately, it took a margarita, a plate of steak quesadillas, 3/4 of my tamale and my chicken enchilada to bring him back to sanity, but that was no joke, son.
