So today* I went to the DMV because my pacific northwest driver’s licence had to be unreasonable and expire.
Husband the Man scheduled the day off his Fancypants duties so that he could take care of the children. And play with power tools. Husband the man is a talented woodworker.
Anyway, I took Lucy the Maude, because she, like the four before her, finds artificial nipples an insult to her intelligence and discerning taste. Ergo, until she has more than breastmilk in her diet, she is literally attached. To me.
We got to the DMV, and I was instructed to get into the “green” line. I was pleasantly shocked to see that it was the only line in the place that wasn’t a million people long. Lucy and I got in line, and Lucy, having inherited my sense of humor, proceeded to projectile vomit all over herself, just to make things more interesting, and to complicate the simplicity of a short line.
The vomit was acidic and Lucy was soaked, but smiling and cooing amicably. Like I said, the infant has a sense of humor. I let three people go ahead of me while I stripped her down. Since she’s a freakishly neat baby (normally) I had no backup clothes for her, but fortunately she missed dousing her baby blanket. So she got so arrive at the DMV window naked and swaddled and happily sociable. The DMV worker was much amused.
“You lucky duck,” says he to Lucy, “I wish I could wander around with my shirt off, too.”
Lucy the Maude thought he was hilarious.
I followed DMV man’s instructions, took a number, photographed myself at a self-service driver’s license photo area, and settled in for a multi hour wait. The glory of the DMV is that it’s one of the most diverse places in the wilds of urban Connecticut besides my church. My local church congregation is gloriously diverse.
Like my church, the DMV does not discriminate who it brings in. Everybody welcome! Unlike my church, the DMV legally compels people through its doors. My church, blessedly, does not.
Anyway, as I was sitting there, I got to watch all the people, and speak to several. Even in the age of smartphones, some people are sociable and interesting enough to converse with strangers. Their stories are delightful.
I also got a big hug from a Congolese friend from my church. It was refreshing to break up bureaucratic monotony with an unexpected occasion to practice one’s French.
The lady sitting next to me watched this interchange, and when he left, asked me about him. I explained we went to the same church. She inquired which church. I told her. An eyebrow raised.
“Did he go to your church before he came here?”
I told her I didn’t know, but I think he did.
There is still a stereotype sticking to us that Mormons are generally middle class white Utahns. While there are lots of those, they’re not the majority, not by a long shot.
It should be noted that I, a mostly-white, sorta**-middle class Mormon, have never really lived in Utah. Idaho for college, but never Utah. But I digress.
Over one hundred dollars and five hours of infant toga baby blanket wearing later, Lucy the Maude and I escaped the DMV with a new state license.
My goal is to never return to that circle of Dante’s inferno for the rest of my sojourn in the wilds of urban Connecticut.
*Yes, by today, I mean a while ago, because these things are scheduled in advance.
**Especially culturally. You can take the girl out of the middle class, but it’s much harder to take the middle class out of the girl. If I am very wealthy one day, I will probably still never buy a 4 or 5 figure piece of clothing. To be honest, I’m not sure I’ve ever worn a three figure piece of clothing, outside of my homemade wedding dress. My sartorial needs are paltry next to other’s food or human rights needs. If I am destitute one day, I will probably still never, ever wear leopard print spandex. In all fairness, leopard print spandex plagues all classes, but it afflicts the impoverished most of all.