I don’t know about you, but I have certain expectations (based on years of experience) when I go to the DMV (Department of Motor Vehicles).

You may call it something different where you live, like “The Land That Time Forgot” or “Hell House.”
Here are my expectations about the DMV:
1. I will not have the proper paperwork and/or signatures even though I called ahead to make sure I procured the proper paperwork and signatures.
2. The lines will resemble people waiting to buy tickets to a Taylor Swift concert, only with way more men and old people.
3. The employees will treat you, at best, with mild disinterest and, at worst with open hostility.
4. The employees work at only one speed and that speed is not what most people would define as “efficient.”
Well, I had to go to the DMV the other day and I was, as usual, in a bit of a hurry.
Much to my surprise, most of my expectations were dashed. I think I was even sexually harassed. Was I or wasn’t I? Was it friendly banter from a smarmy public servant to an innocent, hurried patron or blatant unprofessional behavior?
Let me explain.
1. It was a close call, but I did have all the required paperwork. The Help Desk woman was new to the job and told me I needed a signature (not mine), but she turned out to be wrong.
2. The lines were long, but more because families were all waiting together rather than single individuals each having to make their own transaction. So, the lines moved quickly.
3. Here’s where it gets interesting. The employee whose window I was called to was probably in his late 40’s or early 50’s, but he looked older. Life or his wife hadn’t been kind to him.
He seemed genuinely happy to see me. I had watched him greet and handle other customers, and he wasn’t nearly as cheerful or chatty as he was with me. He was Typical-DMV Guy with the others. He was Trying-To-Be-Cool DMV Guy with me.
All this chatting me up slowed him down. Remember, I was in a hurry. But I was nice because the last thing you ever want to do is get a DMV dude miffed at you. They can ruin your day in a New York minute.
I was getting a little uncomfortable with all the friendliness going on and was happy there was a counter between us. Maybe if he hadn’t had old acne scars on his face, worn birth-control glasses circa 1980, and had the comb-over thing going on with what used to be his hair … No, I still would have felt weird. No one picks up anyone at the DMV–except if you are actually picking someone up to take them somewhere else in a motor vehicle.
The kicker came when he delayed photocopying a document to tell me a “dumb blonde” joke.
Note to guys who want to impress blonde women: don’t tell them dumb blonde jokes.
Here’s the joke. It took a while to tell. I’m giving you the abbreviated version.
A blonde goes to the beauty parlor wearing a Walkman with headphones (circa 1980’s joke, too). The hairdresser told her to take the headphones off so she could cut her hair. The blonde did, but after about five minutes she passed out. By the time an ambulance arrived, she was dead. An EMT picked up the headphones to put with her other personal effects and could hear the Walkman still playing. He put it to his ear and heard, “Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out.”
I smiled and looked behind me. The line was getting pretty long.
I asked him how much I owed. He wouldn’t tell me until did a little more flirting. Finally, he let me pay and I escaped.
Yeah. I was happy to pay for the privilege of leaving. Next time I go, I’m taking some muscle with me.
Is it just me or does shizzle like this happen to other people? Please tell me it’s not just me…