The DMV and riff-raff

The license has expired. It's been a decade at least, and then suddenly it came. Quick. Too quick. "Shit, now I have to go to the DMV!" Maybe I can renew it online. Login. Click, clack, sigh. Sorry can't do it. Next up a call goes in to the labyrinth of hell. "Your wait will be about 10 minutes, please hold or call back at another time," was the voice on the other side. Probably from a guy who no longer works there, but Jenny in the "operations" department thought José's voice sounded perfect for the recording. Since then José has left for greener pastures to work in the jury room of the Sacramento county court house. Onward.

I wait. Put the phone on speaker, burn my shitty AT&T minutes and hope that something will come from it. Finally, a voice. Annoyed, disgruntled, flat-out wondering why I have disrupted her morning. I can hear it in her tone. I get through it, make the appointment for July 29, 2009 at 10:30 am. Sweet, an appointment. Like with any appointment this will go well. Wait, like most appointments in the real world, this means nothing, zero, zip, nada. Go the dentist for the 9:30 am on a Monday, and it soon becomes the 10:30 am. Same with the car dealership and everything else. But here's the reality: if I went by this motto and arrived an hour later it would be just my luck that the dentist, or doctor or pissed-off DMV employee would somehow, magically, by the grace of God, be on time and have the best performance day of their career. Can't use that motto Skippy. Gotta go earlier than 10:30 am, maybe 9:45. I do.

I get there at 9:45 am. Pull into the driveway and park. I head over to the line that is always there, any day, all day, all the time, forever. Why is there a line forever? Who are all these people? Why do they all look like they just fell out of bed, or jail, or came from a fight? The DMV seems to be full of riff-raff. I said it, and I believe it. I am going on the shallow assumption of initial appearance but I survey the crowd and make grand assumptions below my breath: "That crazy looking Asian kid was caught with pot, speeding and wrecked his lowered Acura," "That beat looking white trash woman lost her license because her dirty boyfriend got a DUI and she was holding the Schnapps." Everyone, in my head, has a tragic story pinned to their shirt. Likely most are here to do what I am doing, renewing my license. Others like the fresh-faced teen is getting her driving permit or license. And that old man over there with no teeth is taking a test. Where's his huge Lincoln Town Car, I wonder.

This line, do I have to stand in it? I go to the front and ask the tiny Asian dude who is the master of ceremonies. He's directing people here, there, down there, back over there and on and on. Most have to stay in line while he directs me to sit on the bench, the dirty one over there with the other people and the discarded Carl's Jr. cups and wrappers that for some reason the jackass who brought it couldn't put it in the trash can three steps away. I push it aside. We are the appointment crew. The smart one's who made the choice to get a time and not the retards who decided that standing in line was the best choice. He asks in broken English: "Wuh ime you hab pointmen?" "10:00 my friend." "Ohhhhh you too ewlee."

So I sit and wait. I make eye contact with the maestro so he doesn't forget me. He looks at me with a face that says to me, "You stupi whi boy. Come too ewlee. Naw tin clock yeh. Phhhh." Finally he orders me to a line. I head down rambling through people, jockeying for position in the appointment line where the clerk behind the fiberglass processes my information and gives me a computer generated number. I am now "G14". I sit in the dreary waiting room while people on my right wait for their own stuff: taking a driver's test. The computer screen and computer voice spit out numbers, it seems, at random: "A20, D25, G10..." There's no science to it. It's pure American inefficiency. If it were Germany the place would be organized and rebuilt from the ground up with concierge and a beer garden. Here I am in Pasadena in a run down 1970's building with build-out upon build-out. Sitting there makes me wonder about infrastructure and service. "Sure we are rich and powerful, but we can't even figure this basic shit out?" Finally "G14, window 25." That was easy. Shouldn't doubt my country!

Up to the window and 20-something Asian guy process my stuff, one finger type at a time. He must be new, or maybe they don't expect a lot from Window 25 guy. Whatever. He asks me to read the top two lines of letters to "test" my vision. It's five feet away and the type is huge. Easy. What a joke. If you need glasses to read those things, you are in deep trouble. Off to the next line where I get my picture.

Around the corner and past all the snarling riff-raff I get to the picture line. A couple people in front of me touch up faces and the old Asian man currently talking to the picture clerk can't speak a lick of English. His USC-educated son is translating. "Now you have to take a picture. A picture. A picture, dad." I am assuming he's saying this but I don't know for sure because, well, he's speaking Chinese.

My turn. I scribble my signature on the disintegrating digital pad. Do it once. "No good" says clerk. Do it a second time and the end result is half print, half cursive that looks like a 7-year-old did it. Whatever, take my picture. Snap. "Looks good" says picture clerk. What a dreadful job he has. "Four to six weeks, you will get it." What the fuck takes so long. Isn't it essentially done right there? I don't get it. Why not five weeks? Or two days?

Two weeks later I get it. Looks nice, though I am rounder in my face and heavier in my weight listing. I remember thinking when I filled out the information: "Oh man, I would love to be 155 pounds still. Should I put that in there? That's what my old one said. Nope, can't do it." Didn't.

Two-thousand-fourteen is when my new license expires. I can bet with certainty that the DMV will have the same type of people, the same lines, the same chaos, the same dirty building and the same (well different people) type of grumpy, somber people working there.

Kids, eating out and bathrooms

I have fond memories of the days before kids. Lazy weekends spent on the couch eating pretzels, sipping a frosty Sierra Nevada, watching bad television, or a This Old House marathon. In between this glorious laziness were 15-minute power naps that were complete with heavy snoring, slobbering and the realization when I woke that another episode of Huell Howser is on. Sweet days. Days that are gone.

Kid number 1 came, then 2, now we are 7 months into number 3. Numbers that add up to beautiful days and long ones at the same time. While the world is full of schedule mongers and helicopter parents, our style is loose. When is nap time? When baby girl is tired. When is bath time? When they are dirty. When do they go to bed? When it's time. Why create a schedule when it functionally messes with your life? To each his/her own.

So our life continues, though in a much more chaotic manner compared to the glory days of doing whatever, whenever. Now there's a crew in tow. Simply going to the market whether normal or flea is a process. Cole (10) is self-sufficient, Luke (5) is getting there, and Hope (7 mos) is a baby nugget. Enough said. But we do it because we want to. Simple exposure to daily life unsheltered brings experiences that they may not remember completely, but exposes them to life unfiltered, unscheduled, uninhibited.

Same goes for going out to eat. It too is an adventure and we don't do the blue-plate special schedule of 4:00 or 5:00 p.m. We go when we go. When the crew is ready. When shirts are on right-side out, the diaper is refreshed, and toys are tucked away in the bag only to see the light of night when a possible meltdown may occur. Preparation is key of course for the excursion to the local haunt. Spare diapers, wipes? Check. Cash? Yep. Onward.

While it's always nice to actually go out to dinner with just mama and I, it's not always feasible so the army of 5 hit it. Wait for a booth. Sit down. Get the Chianti rolling, the milk, the Sprite, the formula too. All set. Order the pizza, get some bread, maybe a salad. Bingo! All ordered, time to look at each other, chat, people watch. Things are rolling along fine. Luke has his cars. Cole's drawing, baby girl is giggling at the old man in the next booth... The cheap Chianti tastes like a million bucks. Here comes the bread and salad. We dig in. The cheap salad tastes like a thousand bucks. Life at this very moment is off the charts. I have restaurant high. It's similar to a workout high where you have this feeling of levitation of maybe 1/2 inch off the floor. The sweaty, springless, naugahyde booth bench can't be felt. People watching is at its all-time high. "What did they order? Why is the middle-aged couple not talking to each other? Damn this cheap Chianti is good." Then the pizza comes. Eggplant, basil and tomato. The best pizza on earth made even better by my restaurant high. Scoop a piece out for each character, mama first of course. Then the boys, then me. "Oh sweet Jesus, this fruit you bring me renders me speechless," I think. One successful bite, washed down with Chianti interspersed with cold tap water that tastes like a hundred bucks... Restaurant high catapulted.

Then it happens. "I need to go poop," says a grimmacing 5-year-old. "Grunttttt, ughhhhh, errrrr," says baby nugget. Mama and I look at each other. Default is she handles nugget and I handle the pooper. The high drops a few levels back to where I began at the beginning of this adventure. The seating situation creates another drop in the "high" level. Luke scurries out from under the table. The "cool" family out late is now the center of attention, but we never let our guard down. We have experienced this before. It happens. Shit happens. The schedule folk don't know this because they are done with the bath, reading stories, sheets tucked tight. Our mojo has a slight dent, but nothing that can't be fixed with a slight tap. The goddess of patience (mama) takes nugget, taps on her back, flips her around, gives a few sweet "Shhhhhhhhsssss" and baby girl is back to her wide-eyed, dimple faced freshness.

Meanwhile I am off to the outhouse. Single toilet, paper on the floor, the john in need of a second flush. Little Champ climbs aboard the seat, telling me to look away. I do. The moment last a few minutes. I sense a lineup outside the door. Whatever. Hold up hipster, this little fella has some business to tend to. We're done. Hands washed, stomach cleared, back to pizza. At this point baby Hope is passed out on the naugahyde, Cole's playing cars and Luke crawls under the table to his spot. The restaurant high is still flat-lined, but another slice and gulp of the sweet juice will bring it up a notch. It does. Kids are in check, doing their thing, nibbling, sipping, playing. Chit-chat about life, things, work, travel, gardening, you name it. Another slice, more Chianti. I am back up to the level I was at before things slightly unfolded moments ago. Tables turn over. An old couple compliment us on our kids, things are good.

The check comes. Nugget is still asleep. The boys are tired. I'm full, as is mama. I scoop up baby girl, Cole takes the leftovers, Luke the toys and we're off. Into the car. Back home we go. A successful outing. Not unlike the hundred other times we've headed out. We don't fear meltdowns or scowls or situations. We confront them when they happen and remedy the situation. We are all on the same playing field. Our life is not determined or dictated by a schedule. This exposure is important, children are resilient and I think deep down they are truly enjoying the adventure.

So while those days of being kidless sitting on the couch watching Norm Abram rebuild an interior wall or Tom Silva frame-in a window, the deep naps and cold pizza are long gone, there's really nothing better than a posse of 2 kids sitting on naugahyde (1 in the high chair eating mashed bananas) chowing on pizza, a fresh-faced 10-year-old giddy about a Lesney Matchbox purchase for a bargain, or the deep-dimpled strawberry blond ball of fire with a blow up guitar impersonating Pete Townsend at the local concert in the park. These are priceless, unscheduled moments that will be brought up in conversation on the front porch days later and perhaps years down the line. "Remember that one time..."