When I recited the line like an eagle, Son J was tremendously impressed by the quick memorization. “Now read Line 8 of Chart B,” she continues, gesturing me to now cover left, my only good orb. “Hold this over your right eye and read Line 5 of Chart A,” she orders. Alas, my memory skills ain’t that good no more, so I give it up and leave to fate what happens next. So Wise Wimpy takes the opportunity to peruse the three hanging eye charts, each with eight rows of alphabetical letters. The clerk is humming a tune while fiddling with her computer. Issued Call Number G-83, a quick glance at the numbers board showed G-73, meaning a fairly quick call-up which turned out to be a mere 20 minutes.
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And then finding only five people in the “No Appointment” line was a pleasant shock. Another sign of paranoia, I confess, but amen and so be it.įinding a close by parking spot was the initial good omen.
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And going to the DMV the next day with a driver son in tow had a purpose: I’ve been so salty with these people, the first thing they might ask is how I got there if I went alone without a license. It wasn’t exactly a Mensa moment when son Jeff suggested we try the Lincoln Park office this time around psychologically (and wisely) the smart thing to do. So I wound up singing “Auld Angst Syne” by myself. Totally aware that the new year was starting out with a gong rather than song, staying home during the holiday was the better part of valor.
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Not in chronological order, the reasons why it took so long: a failed written exam (twice) a flunked eye test unpaid car registration no smog clearance and the final embarrassment, not passing the driving test! Even today I have difficulty holding a straight course on the 10 Freeway when driving past the Montebello off-ramp.Īs CR2S readers will recall from last week, I entered Year 2013 sans automobile insurance AND valid driver’s license. Yet it took me six visits, over a torturous four-month span, to get the piece of plastic everyone needs, the one with the ugly photo. Two years ago I went to DMV, Montebello office, to renew my driver’s license, a rather routine chore for most. Why then, you might wonder, would a nondescript government entity hold such a place of terror? Faithful CR2S followers are all too familiar with my DMV histrionics, so a short recap for the benefit of newbie uninformed: I’ve had medical probes of my nose, down my throat, and up my, er, lowest orifice and lived to write about them not to forget having stomach lanced and spine fused.
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What is the accepted standard for true pain and suffering: Root canal? Mother-in-law? Fran Drescher’s laugh? A Kobe Bryant television commercial? Kobe Bryant?Īll are in the running, including the possible disappearance of “O”, but for Crossroads to Somewhere, *hands down, it’s the Department of Motor Vehicles.