DMV doofus

I went to the DMV today for a replacement title for the S2000. Kris and I are selling it to Doyle, which means finding the title to complete the transfer. Some part of me believes I lost the title on purpose, because selling this car is much, much, much harder than selling the CRX, and selling that car was hard.

Selling this one is going to be fucking hard.

Sorry, Megan, Mom, but the curse word needed to be said. Cover Mirabelle's and Sam's eyes, please, because it's going to be that hard.

The car was the first big purchase Kris and I made together. The whole purchase was an adventure, and a story I certainly enjoy telling. We drove that car on various other adventures, including top down when we were looking for places for our wedding weekend. There are enough memories with the car that parting with it will be painful. Kris says he's okay with selling it: neither of us drives it much, we could use the money for the front yard landscaping, we'd have space in the garage again, Doyle would drive the car as it's meant to be driven. All good reasons for selling it, and yet the thought of selling it makes me cry.

It's one of those decisions I've made where I know it's the right decision intellectually, but emotionally it feels wrong. I keep going through the actions, bringing the decision closer with each step, but every step hurts.

Like going to the DMV today for the title.

I made an appointment, because that's the only way to deal with the DMV. Now, each time I've gone to the DMV, I've brought the printout of the appointment confirmation. And not once has the person behind the counter ever asked to see the print out. Not once, in years.

So, I didn't take the printout, or any documentation that said I had an appointment. I just showed up with the S2000's VIN in hand, on the insurance card.

As I was standing in line, a short fat man in an security uniform approached the line, and asked the woman in front of me if she had an appointment, the two of us standing in the appointment only line, right next to the completely empty non-appointment line. Yes, yes, she had an appointment, and lifted some piece of paper that proved beyond any shadow of a doubt with the officer-wanna-be that, yes, she had an appointment.

So, then the guy turned to me. "Do you have an appointment?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Where's your confirmation number?" he asked, noticing I had nothing in my hands.

"I didn't bring it," I stated, letting a little more annoyance out than I intended.

"You didn't bring your confirmation number?"

"No, I didn't bring my confirmation number," thinking, go away, small man, and bother someone else.

"Well, you need my confirmation number," he continued, all stern and gruff.

"No, I don't," I answered back.

He looked up at me for a moment, then, oh, wasn't he so funny, burst into a big smile and reached out to touch my arm, as I stepped away from him. "Oh, I'm just playing with you. They can look up your appointment information right there."

I didn't smile. If they really needed to look up my information, sure, they could. But they wouldn't look it up, because they never do. They don't need that information, they don't use it. Anyone can go up and say, why, yes, they do have an appointment, and the DMV will take that statement at face value. I knew this. The annoying man next to me knew this, too. Why waste the paper or brain cells with a meaningless number? Right. Don't.

So, the annoying doofus finally walked away, to harass the person standing behind me, as the woman in front of me walked away from the counter and I walked forward to talk to the person behind the counter.

But not before I saw her jam her finger into her ear, dig around for a moment, looking up at the ceiling not unlike the way Bella jams her whole back foot into her ear to dig around. She pulled her finger out, looked at it, and, oh, was this a defining moment in this adventure, decided NOT to put her finger in her mouth.

I'm not sure if the look of disgust swayed her in that decision.

I received the title request form to fill out and the number F92 from the ear lady, using the wrong hand, I might add, and went off to sit for a bit to wait.

Between annoying man and ear lady, I'm not sure this was exactly one of the better DMV I've had. Oh wait, yes, it is. At least this time the DMV didn't lose $550 of mine.

In the end, I guess annoyance trumps sadness. Kris told me I'm allowed to be sad about selling the car. I wish my new car actually felt like my car, and not still Katie's car. If it did, maybe selling the S2000 wouldn't be so hard.