DMV = Definitely Most Vile

            Heinous.  Awful.  Horrendous.  These are just three of the words used to describe the DMV.    

I had to go to the DMV to get my new license and register my car.  I was a little late.  I think they say that once you move you have sixty days and I was slightly over.

            Only by nine years and ten months.

            But before you get all judgmental on me, I’m an organ donor.  So it doesn’t matter what state I die in, someone is getting my kidney.

            Despite that, I got a letter informing me that my Pennsylvania car had been spotted and I must change the tags or I will start to get tickets and die.  (Okay, I made that last part up.)    Until that letter, no one had ever questioned the fact that my license and my address didn’t match.

            But I digress.  I started asking everyone what I would need to bring to the DMV, which is when it got interesting.  And by “interesting” I mean “heinous, awful and horrendous.”  (See beginning of story.)

            About forty percent of the people I asked told me they still hadn’t switched their licenses either.  (Then they asked me where I park so they could avoid that area.)

            The other sixty percent were pretty much useless.  Granted, they all tried to help me.  But out of the many people I asked about the DMV not one person told me the same thing. 

 “Bring your utility bills or you won’t even get through the door.” 

I don’t pay for utilities in my apartment so I wasn’t sure what to do. 

“Bring your VIN number.” 

I didn’t even know what that was.  (But I found it and it’s a really long number - with letters in it.  So maybe they shouldn’t call it a number.  I’m just saying.)

            The only thing that everyone agreed on was that the DMV sucked.

            Fed up, I decided to bring every single piece of documentation I had.  I brought my lease, cable bills, cell phone bills, pay stubs, movie ticket stubs, PA license, passport, Social Security card, voter registration card, Blockbuster card, a copy of my birth certificate, membership to the gym, CVS card and the Samurai Sudoku I had been working on for two weeks. 

This was all in addition to my owner’s manual, my insurance stuff, that little black thing my mom makes me keep in my glove compartment, my last PA state inspection form, my car title and a receipt I had from buying windshield wiper fluid.  I also brought cash, my check book, my ATM card and my Visa card.

            It dawned on me during the five minute drive to the DMV that if someone high-jacked me I would lose every important document that proves I am a legal citizen. 

            But there wasn’t time to think about that.  I was at the DMV and I had to fill out the car registration form.

The form wanted the GCWR.  What the hell is that? 

            People always tell you to look on your car door for information.  Okay, that VIN thing was there, and some other gibberish.  Oh wait, there was the GVWR.  Is that the same thing as the GCWR? 

            I went to my helper lady and was greeted with a pleasant, “Hello, how are you today?”  And when I say “pleasant” I mean “not pleasant.”  And when I say “Hello, how are you today,” I mean she screamed, “FORMS!”

            I passed the unpleasant lady my forms and before I had a chance to tell her that I hadn’t quite finished them, she had a highlighter out.  Any piece of information that I hadn’t filled out she would highlight and then fling the paper at me. 

            Highlight.  Fling.

            “Unit weight.”

            “Um, actually I don’t know what it is.  You see, it’s not on the door or in the owners…”

            “You need unit weight.”

            “That’s 2500,” I decided on the spot.

            “Is that pounds?” she asked with a curious look.

            Tricky.  “Um, sure?”

            Mean glare.  But she continued typing.  Phew. 

            Highlight.  Fling.

            “Weight.”  She looked at me.  “Your weight.”

            “Yeah, I’m not going to tell you my weight,” I said.

            “You have to.”

            “Why?  Isn’t the car weight enough?”
            “No.”

            “Is that going on my license?  Because in Pennsylvania we do not subject ourselves to weight on our licenses.  Besides, I’m going to lose twenty pounds soon.”

            Slight smile.  Or maybe gas.  “Write down your weight.”

            I wrote down my weight but I LIED!

            Highlight.  Fling.

            “Middle name.”

            I took another deep breath.  “Yeah, see I don’t actually want my middle name on my new license.”

            “You have to.”

            “Well, it only asks for middle initial on the form.”

            “I need your middle name.”

            “I don’t have my middle name on my Pennsylvania license,” I pointed out.

            Glare from lady.  “You are not in Pennsylvania anymore.”

            Well, that’s for damn sure.

            “I’m an organ donor,” I tried for heroic sympathy.

            Nothing.

            “Middle name.”

            Fine, I gave her my middle name and we continued in this manner for quite some time.

            Other interesting things that happened: computers broke, printers broke, people screamed at the employees, the employees screamed at the customers and I saw at least two people walk out in tears.

            Over all, my experience was not that bad.  My weight is not on my license (Thank God!) but my middle name is (Boo!).  I only had to wait in line for five minutes, but I did have to use vacation time at work to avoid going on a Saturday.  I now know that you can make up unit weight and they didn’t even ask for my GVWR or my GCWR.

Secret: no one has been able to tell me what those are anyway!