Kerri's Questions

DMV = Definitely Most Vile

Kerri — Thu, 11 Jun 2009 20:30:01 GMT

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!

The Year Santa Got Lazy

Kerri — Tue, 16 Dec 2008 06:08:12 GMT

         As you may be able to tell from this site, I love Christmas. I love the music (most of it), the food (all of it) and the parties! I especially love the holiday programs on television. But with that said, I need to comment on an annual program that I watch, "The Year Without a Santa Claus."
            Now, I don't know if you've seen this show, but it's in that same cartoon-claymation vein as "Rudolph" and "Rudolph's Shiny New Year" and "Santa Claus is Coming to Town". I don't know if I've just never really paid attention to the plot of this little movie, since I'm usually wrapping presents or doing something else while watching television. But this year, I was paying attention, and I'm not going to lie. It's kind of disturbing, this movie.
            Here's the basic plot.
            Santa is being a whiny little biotch and claiming that no one cares about him or Christmas anymore. So he decides to take off this year. You know, because he works so much? I don't think so. This man works one day a year.
            And to cover up his laziness he claims he has a cold. Oldest trick in the book Santa! Unless he actually has a cold? I guess his little claymation nose is kind of red….
            Hold up, hold up. A cold??? We are talking about a measly little cold here? A cold, that you can just take some Tylenol and go work your one day a year. I mean, it's not even like he has pneumonia or West Nile. Suck it up, Santa, suck it up. Or as my best friend just said on this subject, "Pop a Halls, Santa, and get back up on that reindeer."
            Oh, except he can't hop on a reindeer because Mrs. Santa Claus sends these two slightly crazy elves down to Earth to find some Christmas spirit. And they take Vixen, who has decreased in age and is apparently now only a baby reindeer. Maybe this story takes place before Rudolph came along??? Because I'm fairly certain these shenanigans would not be happening if Rudolph were around.
            Anyway, on the way, we are introduced to Mr. Heat Miser and Mr. Snow Miser. I have to admit, I kinda like these two brothers, despite their narcissistic demeanors. They don't care for each other and try to blackmail Mrs. Claus in exchange for some Christmas spirit. (Well, that's the gist anyway.) But they carry on their twisted plots while singing old-school show tunes so really what's not to love.
            Well, their mother doesn't love their antics. Who is she, you ask? None other than Mother Nature, who is ready to put a beat-down on her sons.
            So to sum up, we have Santa being lazy and pretending to have a cold. Mr. Heat Miser and Mr. Snow Miser trying to blackmail Mrs. Claus. Mother Nature is pissed off at her ego-maniacal sons. Vixen, the baby reindeer winds up at the dog pound with socks on her antlers! Basically, everything is going to pot!
            And then (and I forget how this happens exactly) but all the children of the world decide it's a fabulous idea to give Santa the year off. Who are these kids? Because as a child there is no way I would have been okay with not having Santa bring me presents! And these kids all start sending Santa gift instead!. Well played, Santa, well played….
            It finally takes some kid singing "Blue Christmas" and crying to get Santa to concede his selfish vacay. He goes back to his one day a year job and everything is right with the world.
            What a story!
            And yet, I will watch it again next year and every year after….

Bridesmaid Dresses

Kerri — Mon, 03 Nov 2008 23:40:28 GMT

Like this article on fashion? Check out my article on the ultimate fashion nightmare ... the Bridesmaid Dress! Click here to be scared.

Top Ten Worst Things Heard on Project Runway

Kerri — Thu, 16 Oct 2008 01:42:55 GMT

I heart Project Runway and I always have a mix of emotions going into the finale. As the Season 5 finale is tonight, I thought I would honor the show with a list of the top ten words/phrases/sentences uttered on this season of Project Runway that I hated the most. Please enjoy!

10. “Garments” – I don’t know why designers on Project Runway feel the need to use the term “garment” when describing their outfit but they do. Every season. And I hate it. Every season.

9. Blayne talking about Mary-Kate Olsen during the Diane Von Furstenberg challenge. Just, the whole part about him talking about Mary-Kate Olsen.

8. Kenley calling people “posers.”

7. Kenley talking about anything with her nasal - sounds like it’s complaining no matter what she is talking about - voice. (But I do love her name – Kenley Collins – good name.)

6. Blayne tacking on the term “licious” to every word. How about this – Mary-Kate Olsen is horror-licious!

5. Suede referring to himself in the third person.

4. Blayne trying to force poor, wonderful Tim Gunn to say “holla atcha boy.” That was just wrong. (And that may be spelled wrong.)

3. Terri – oh Terri – sometimes she scared the bejesus out of me. For instance, while talking about Suede with this infamous quote: "I don't know what he's packing -- balls or vajayjay, but he needs to work that out, 'cause I ain't got no babies, ain't nobody sucking on my titties, so please, man up." Whoa!!!

2. Anyone saying anything about a design aesthetic or not understanding someone else’s design aesthetic or the misunderstanding of their own design aesthetic. Shut up!

And without further ado…

1. Anyone crying!!!

Just in case you were wondering what my favorite thing uttered on this season of Project Runway was – it comes courtesy of Michael Kors:

“Slutty, slutty, slutty!”

The Descent to Cougar-Land

Kerri — Tue, 14 Oct 2008 04:56:22 GMT

A couple of weeks ago my friend, M, convinced me to go out after work. We had some margaritas before heading to a beer-friendly bar in downtown D.C. I don’t remember what we were talking about exactly, but I know we were laughing and having a good time as we sat at the bar.

The only thing that wasn’t too great was the young gentleman standing behind us who was clearly getting drunker and louder as the night went on. I had been wearing a white jacket (gasp – after Labor Day) that I had hung over the back of my chair. Well, Mr. Drunk Man kept putting his sweaty hand right on top of my jacket (I’m assuming to steady himself). This not only annoyed me because of my jacket getting his sweat-germs on it but also because he was invading my personal space.

Finally, I had enough. So when he put his sweat-germ hand on my chair for the one hundredth time I leaned back, knocked his hand off and pretended it was an accident. This startled Mr. Drunk Man and made my friend, M, start laughing hysterically.

He apologized profusely and I thought I had won. But no, the plan backfired because now Mr. Drunk Man assumed he had the “in” to talk to us. He was also super curious as to why M was laughing.

We decided to be nice and talked to him and his coworker for awhile. It was clear that this guy was very young, just graduated from college, at his first job, sweaty, incredibly drunk and somewhat stupid. He wanted to know when we had graduated college.

M and I just looked at each other for a second. My friends and I are in these un-chartered waters of being almost thirty right now and it kind of freaks us out. It was much more fun to answer the question, “how old are you?” with “22 – buy me a drink, he-he!”

Anyway, Mr. Drunk Guy started guessing the year of our graduation with 2008. We kept telling him to go lower until he got to 2001 and replied, “Whoa!”

“Does this make us cougars?” M asked me seriously.

Then he turned to M and asked her how old that made us. Trying to take advantage of Mr. Drunk Guy’s stupidity and increasing inebriation, she decided to lie. “Oh well, we are only 28,” she said grandly.

Yes, decreasing our age by that one whole year truly goes far in our quest to stay away from Cougar-land….

Short Stories

Kerri — Mon, 13 Oct 2008 21:49:19 GMT

Hi everyone!!!

I've decided to add this new section, "Short Stories," to keep you apprised of some of the antics in my daily life. These will be true stories, told from yours truly.

I hope you enjoy and if you have any questions please feel free to leave comments or email me.