The DMV

In Colorado it comes around every 5 years.  Or, according to the signs haphazardly posted around the Driver’s License office (could you call it an office?) more often if you want to get your driving privileges back by paying your tickets and child support.  

The need to renew my license slipped my mind.  I have my reasons.  I only discovered I’d been driving on an expired license for over a month when I left it behind at the rec center and the girl behind the counter was trying to find me based on my listed address of seven moves ago.  When I came back for it I realized a couple things.  1. We move way too much. 2. My name is no longer unique. (So much for that one-in-a-million speech in 8^th grade) 3. My license had expired.  Really expired

I walk in, Jack in tow, and present myself at the first counter.  A humorless lady asks what I want.  “A renewal.”  I hand her my current license.  She asks boy or girl.  Boy, I tell her.  “How old?” 11weeks. “Here’s a number, you need a statement with your address and we only take cash or check.”  My bank is at the other corner of the shopping center so I drag Jack a block down in 100 degree windy heat (feels like a convection oven) and return with cash and proof of address.  Next line.  It’s assumed that you’re going to spend a considerable part of your day in line at the DMV when you’re unfortunate enough to have to go there but I’m still never quite prepared for the experience.  The place is packed.  Is there a DMV that isn’t?  I’m all the way in a different line and the lady back at first counter asks again how old my kid is.  And she does it in such a way that makes me look around to see if there are any other kids because A: she already asked, and B: was just awkwardly quiet enough that I honestly didn’t know she was talking to me, until I realized she was talking to me.

I make it up to counter #2 to talk with socially awkward DMV worker #2.  He asks me a series of questions so quietly that I wonder if I’m losing my hearing.  I see his lips moving but its hard to know if I’m answering questions correctly and then I start to panic because what if, horrors, I answer incorrectly and lose my license forever?  Or will be forced to pay child support to some other child I don’t know I had?  Apparently I answer stunningly because after only a couple minutes he smiles and motions for me to wait for counter #3 where I will get my temporary papers and photo taken.  I ask him if I can just keep my photo of 5 years ago.  He smiles and says no.  Here’s the thing with Colorado: Your license is good for 5 years, like I mentioned before, and I feel a lot of pressure to have a decent photo.  I already look be-draggled.  Sure its only one in the afternoon but I’m not one to put a whole lot of stock in my morning beauty regimen so by noon my hair was in its typical matted frazzed (yes, I just made that word up) bun-ponytail and after spending even a moment out in the heat my face had procured a greasy glaze.  I gave myself a pep-talk.  “You are not vain, you don’t care, the glimpse you got of yourself in the shop window was decent enough and for heaven sakes you have a 14lb 11 week old you’ve just toted around for the past hour like an Olympic medal depended on it.  You’ve got your smile. Just give a good smile and maybe it will distract from the fact that it looks like a band of chimps attacked your hair.”

I wait in line for counter #3.  It’s the changing of the guards and another humorless lady steps up to the desk.  My name is called.  I step up.  She mumbles for me to verify everything on the slip of paper.  I repeat what she says to make sure I heard her right.  She glances at me like I’m an idiot.  She asks me to sign the bottom of the paper but to stay inside the box.  I passed the vision test without my glasses, kept Jack happy and quiet the entire time and offered to donate my kidneys.  I got this.  I madly sign what I think is my best signature yet.  This is NOT one of those times when you want to step outside of the box.  A piece of a letter slips outside the box.  She scowls.  “Ugh, I have to get another one.” Oops.  This time I tone it back.  Not my best but at least I stayed in the box.  She asks me to step up to the hanging blue background and look at the blue dot.  OK. Now is my time to shine.  I may look ridiculous but I can pull it together with a smile.  I stand there smiling not wanting to miss my opportunity.  She mumbles something else and just as I’m about to say “what?” she flashes the camera.  Crap.  I lost my smile and I’m fairly certain I blinked.  “I think I blinked” I tell her.  She says to wait a second.  “Uhmm, Its fine” She responds.  “Your new license will be sent to you in the mail within the next 30 days.”  “NEXT!”  (And was that a smirk I detected?)  I’m pretty sure she planned that.  Glad I could make her day.  

    

What I would have been satisfied with.

   

What I'm pretty sure happened.

Attack of conscience

This was in a package.  From my mother.  In Virginia.

This can only lead me to believe one of several things:
A. Reacher has learned to use the phone to call my mom.
B. He has a secret email account, thus learned to type.
C. Possibly has a Facebook account.
or D. Somehow telepathically communicated with my mother.

I am now worried because:
A: My cat is communicating with my mother.
B: My mother communicates with cats.

Case of the Mondays

While I'm happy with the optimistic forecast, I'm not thrilled with the prospect of three Mondays in a row. I mean, really. Really?!

Confessions of Capt. Destructo

Its their fault for leaving it on the counter above the sink.

Sure, they found it after the horrendous noise the disposal made but by then it had been Dee-Stroyed! and they could only blame themselves for flipping the switch.  It was more perfect than I could have anticipated.

Mwaaa-hahahahhaahh!!!!

How-to get a workout and make yourself angry (in that order)

Since I'm not traveling as much as I'd like or as I once did when this blog was born I now must fill my readers in with descriptions of self embarrassment and other prose, currently mis-entitled blog that it is.

I shall now share a little how-to.

How to attach a dryer hose: (AKA: How to re-attach the dryer hose of a double stack unit after the overpaid dryer repairman left it unattached making everything in our bedroom damp during and after a dry cycle):

Step 1: Tie back loose ends (swim cap works well)

Step 2: (Also part of Step 1:) Switch loose clothing for more appropriate attire (see above example)

Step 3: Perfect the Grunt

Step 4: Use full weight distribution, specifically, hang from the top of the unit with your full weight

Step 5: Grip with every appendage and pull

Step 6: If step 4 and 5 fail to budge the washer/dryer unit, use the full body simultaneous push-pull wedge

Step 7: More wedging

Step 8: Do the squeeze (not to be confused with wedging)

Step 9: Once you've sufficiently pulled the unit and given yourself a hernia, if you still have the energy, attack the dust bunnies

Step 10: Attach one end of the dryer hose to the wall hole and the other end to the dryer hole
Step 11: Hope it stays in place
Step 12: Try to push it back into its wall space gently enough to keep the hose attached
Step 13: Keep trying Steps 10-12
Step 13: Begin a rhythm of crying, grunting and pushing until a full blown tantrum erupts
Step 14: Curl up in the fetal position until husband comes home
Step 15: Watch husband do in 10 minutes what took you 2 hours

Step 16: Pose for final Failed Angry Dryer Ninja shot while husband tries to control his laughter 

Hello Kitteh

I know its been a while.  You don't have to remind me.  Its been so long that it took me well over an hour to try to figure out my login and password and in the process, discovering an email address I forgot I had.  Nothing in the old email but Winter Park promo's and (dare I admit) InStyle updates with of course the usual deluge of penis enlargement and Viagra notifications from unknown friends from around the world, I say friends because apparently we're on a first name basis.  (And while we're on the subject, who continues to generate these emails in the hopes that they actually work to attract business?  I mean, really.  If I HAD a penis I certainly wouldn't jump at the first email suggesting I enlarge it, wouldn't that lead me to believe that somehow they knew it was too small and in that case I'd be too embarrassed to contact them in the first place, thinking, OMG! how does Kachinka know I want to enlarge it and WHY would I confirm her suspicions?)  

Alright.  Enough of that.  Where were we? Cats.  Right.  So my last entry, back in Feb of 2010 was about a suspicious Realtor who speaks to cats and an idiot hiding in the closet.  That was so last year, but, just to bring it full circle, my first blog of resolutions shall be about a cat: our cat, well, our second cat.  I know what you're thinking, Ugh, this chick is turning into a cat-lady.  Not so fast my friend. Well, maybe. We all gotta have our vices.  Don't get judge-y with me.   

It took Paul and I one year and seven months to finally settle on a name for our first cat.  She is officially known as Salander, of course with her gambit of nicknames that have coursed through the beginnings of her life here with us.  We named her after the "Girl with the Dragon Tattoo", it just seemed to be more appropriate than all the rest.  Our second cat was named the night we got him.  Reacher.  Lee Child novelist fans, you know who you are.  Of course he wouldn't be fully inducted into the Taylor household if we didn't have at least one nickname for him.  I'm pretty sure he asked for this one: Captain Destructo.  Toddler proofing a house is not enough for this little hairy wonder.  At least we know now to zip-tie the fireplace screen shut for our future firstborn.  (Don't get excited.  I meant to say our distant future firstborn)

Reacher :: 1 -- Lampshade :: 0

Reacher is a lover and when he needs to be, a fighter.  In the short month we've had him I've had at least three people suggest they might kidnap him due to his overwhelming cuteness.  (But wouldn't they call it cat-napping instead of kidnapping?)  I take no responsibility for his personality and blame my little brother Ethan entirely for the untold hours he spent in the cat-house holding and petting Reacher and his sister as kittens. (I know what you're thinking and no, get you're mind out of the gutter, its a doll-house turned cat-house.  Wow, that didn't make it sound much better did it?)

So that's about it.  I guess we're all caught up.  See you next year.  Same place, relatively same time.


          

Hello Kitty

I have hide 'n go seek jitters that come from the anticipation of being discovered. I'm sitting in the closet. I've been in here for 15 minutes. My feet are already going numb and my back is cramping. Why did I think this would be doable for two hours? I'm anticipating Paul's call or text inquiring where I am.

I think I hear a door shut....My hands stop typing....My ears strain to detect noise but my sinus infection hopelessly clogged them...I pray they don't notice my computer cord.

I won't liken my condition to Anne Frank. This predicament is of my own choosing and while I could get in trouble for this little charade my life wouldn't be at stake, at least I hope it wouldn't, if it is, then the real estate business is worse than I thought. I had 30 minutes to find a suitable place but honestly I am too sick and too exhausted to look for something outside of the house.

I can hear the central heating turn on...thirty minutes now....still no show. I'm stocked with everything I need: tea...check....snacks....check....water, cell phone, computer, headphones...check, check, check and check....dang, forgot tissues. If my nose starts to run I'll have to sacrifice the tank top. The nervousness is starting to dwindle. Confidence builds as time ticks by. Hopefully the monument of duffel bags will obscure any outsiders vision of the stowaway in the back of this closet perchance they open the door. My phone rings. I hope at first that its the centralized showing calling to say they cancelled. I could get out and stretch my legs. Heck, I could get out and start dinner. Its Paul. "hello?" I whisper. Paul: "What are you up to?" Me still whispering: "hiding..." Paul, now whispering because its contagious: "Where?" Me: "in the closet...i feel too sick to bike anywhere and they scheduled another showing at the last minute" Paul: "so I'm guessing I shouldn't come home right away?" Me: "Do a drive by, if there is no car, come inside and hide with me, if not, wait. I'll text you when they leave." "I think I hear something...Gotta go." Click.

Definitely a car door shut. My heart is starting to pound. Confidence vanished. Doorbell rings. I don't answer. Obviously. Someone rattles the lock box and comes inside. By the sound of the footsteps its only one person. All the gusto I've built up comes crashing down. I suddenly feel very vulnerable. My pits are sweating profusely. Someone is looking through my things, well, I guess its mostly the staged things, but my things too. I'm not worried that he or she will find me. I pull a blanket over my head as purely precautionary. Footsteps come closer. "Hello Kitty" Its a male voice. I'm guessing Kitteh's head peeks over the pillows surrounding her lair. She always does that. Either that or I'm in much more trouble than I thought. Footsteps back away. They head upstairs. Sounds like this is a quick looksey. He's in the master bath now. Wait. What is that? He's PEEING?! He flushes. I can't tell if he washes his hands. Footsteps coming down the steps. It sounds like he's moving something in the living room. The door suddenly shuts. Did he leave? Is he coming back?

My phone rings. Its centralized. "Ma'am?, Mr. Delaney has left the building and you are free to return to your home." Me: "Thanks." Click. I begin to extract myself from my fort.

I text Paul: "He came.Said 'Hello Kitty'.He peed.He left.What a dip-shit.U can come home."