... is the hardest part. I had heard the horror stories. I had heard about the long lines, poor service and hours that people spent in the BMV, waiting to get their driver's license and/or plates. And now, I can say that I've got my own story.
The waiting happened Friday, when I didn't have to head into work until 5 p.m. Great, I can go to the BMV and get my plates and driver's license taken care of all at once, no matter the wait, since the BMV in Topsham closed at 4 p.m. I got there at about 1:30 p.m. I took No. 147 -- the last person to be helped held No. 124. "You're lucky," said a woman next to me. "I got here one hour ago, when they had only one woman behind the booths. Now they have four." Good thing that I spent the lunch hour eating lunch then.
That woman quickly got helped in the next 10 minutes. But after that, things slowed down. In particular because of three jerks who somehow didn't break the women behind the booths. It's probably because they're used to such abuse on a daily basis.
First guy couldn't understand the paperwork for insurance needed to be filled out. "I took a half-day to come here. That cost me $325. So you want me to miss more work to come back to do this?" I felt for the guy, but he came across all wrong during a heated exchange. Well, he was heated. The woman behind the booth had heard it all before.
Second guy didn't have a clue as to what was tax deductible and what wasn't. He didn't have the right paperwork, either, which didn't help. He stood at that booth for more than 50 minutes to argue what others told him, compared to what he was being told at that moment. Compromise and a long series of phone calls finally settled the issue.
Third guy didn't have the proper paperwork, either, when he visited earlier that day. So when he came back with the papers, he moved to the front to be help. He boldly walked to the booth and slammed down the papers. "I don't like having my time wasted. This is the price, this is the date, these are the numbers!" And with each number, he pointed so hard that I could hear his finger hit the countertop. Then he got mad that the 5 percent tax on his SUV totaled more than $1,000. "Does that sound right to you?" So the woman grabbed a calculator and did the math right there, in seconds, to show him. He was actually still there when I left.
Somewhere along the way, a nice couple sat next to me. Life-long Mainers. We talked about the pains of going to the BMV and going through the process. We watched in shame as the last two guys showed to everyone in teh room that they lacked any class. The talk proved to be a great way to kill the time, for both me and them.
Finally, after 62 minutes -- not that bad, really -- they came to No. 147. It took me 30 minutes to get everything done, and that's having all the paperwork filled out in advance. I really had to rock the lobster plates (don't care for the standard pine tree ones). I passed the eye test, then got my photo taken for the license. Even smiled in that picture, for once. So $108 later, I got to leave, but not before saying goodbye to that couple. They still had a decent wait.
Now all I have to do is actually throw those lobster plates on the car and do away with Kansas. Don't want troopers an excuse to harass what looks like a tourist, you know?
p.s. Thank you for the kind comments. I didn't realize anyone would find this.
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
Sunday, April 16, 2006
Sunday Morning ...
... rain is falling. OK, maybe not rain. More like drizzle as I walk home from Easter Sunday mass to a one-bedroom apartment I share with my girlfriend in Portland, Maine. It's something I never thought possible one year ago.
I moved to Maine less than two months ago, to be with my girlfriend, Rachel. I met her the traditional way -- online, at some random message board talking sports. For six months, we talked about work, lost love, money trouble, whatever came up in our lives. She wrote during the day, I wrote back at night. Not once did we discuss actually swapping phone numbers to chat until mid-summer, when I flew to Washington D.C. for a six-day vacation.
The plan was to take in the capitol with my good friend, Scott, serving as a partial tour guide while letting me sleep on his couch. Turned out that Rachel would be in the area at the same time. We went to see the Nationals one Thursday afternoon, then kissed after we went out to lunch on Friday. It's read like some fairy tale ever since.
We agreed to meet in Chicago, where we fell in love. She visited me on my birthday in Kansas before I flew out to Portland to do likewise. She met my parents, and then I met hers. All the while, we knew we wanted to be together, so I looked out for jobs in the Northeast. And the moment I was lucky enough to stumble into one, I took it, put my house on the market, then drove 2,000-plus miles to finally share my life with someone.
That's how I came to walking home in the drizzle after I sat through a two-hour mass -- was that seriously two hours? -- with Rachel. She drove to work, I walked home, stopping into the Dunkin' Donuts on Congress Street along the way for breakfast. It's a walk that we've done many times since I came here. A few people running, a few people biking. Birds soaring in the sky, between buildings. The cold wind whipping in your face.
The quiet walk home gave me time to think. I used to write for a living, before I gave it up to come here. I kind of missed it, so here I am, writing on a blog that no one's going to read, save for pure chance that they stumbled across it, looking for something else. But I want to write to express myself, like I did every night for six months before I met Rachel, and then every night for the next six months trying to find my way to be with Rachel.
I'll chronicle our trips across the state. You can bet we're going to take advantage of the state parks pass she bought last month. Not only that, but it will be interest to love in a tourist town like Freeport and compare that to Portland life. We move next week -- another reason I chose to savor that walk home from mass today.
Sometimes, it's the simple things that provide the most pleasure.
I moved to Maine less than two months ago, to be with my girlfriend, Rachel. I met her the traditional way -- online, at some random message board talking sports. For six months, we talked about work, lost love, money trouble, whatever came up in our lives. She wrote during the day, I wrote back at night. Not once did we discuss actually swapping phone numbers to chat until mid-summer, when I flew to Washington D.C. for a six-day vacation.
The plan was to take in the capitol with my good friend, Scott, serving as a partial tour guide while letting me sleep on his couch. Turned out that Rachel would be in the area at the same time. We went to see the Nationals one Thursday afternoon, then kissed after we went out to lunch on Friday. It's read like some fairy tale ever since.
We agreed to meet in Chicago, where we fell in love. She visited me on my birthday in Kansas before I flew out to Portland to do likewise. She met my parents, and then I met hers. All the while, we knew we wanted to be together, so I looked out for jobs in the Northeast. And the moment I was lucky enough to stumble into one, I took it, put my house on the market, then drove 2,000-plus miles to finally share my life with someone.
That's how I came to walking home in the drizzle after I sat through a two-hour mass -- was that seriously two hours? -- with Rachel. She drove to work, I walked home, stopping into the Dunkin' Donuts on Congress Street along the way for breakfast. It's a walk that we've done many times since I came here. A few people running, a few people biking. Birds soaring in the sky, between buildings. The cold wind whipping in your face.
The quiet walk home gave me time to think. I used to write for a living, before I gave it up to come here. I kind of missed it, so here I am, writing on a blog that no one's going to read, save for pure chance that they stumbled across it, looking for something else. But I want to write to express myself, like I did every night for six months before I met Rachel, and then every night for the next six months trying to find my way to be with Rachel.
I'll chronicle our trips across the state. You can bet we're going to take advantage of the state parks pass she bought last month. Not only that, but it will be interest to love in a tourist town like Freeport and compare that to Portland life. We move next week -- another reason I chose to savor that walk home from mass today.
Sometimes, it's the simple things that provide the most pleasure.
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