I had to go to the DMV today. The dreaded DMV. My license expired. A month ago. So now it's really expired. And since I am due to drive to Maine in a few days I need a legitimate license.
I dropped Rebecca off at tennis camp and took off to Bridgeport with the boys. I was prepared with snacks, snacks, more snacks, notebooks, pens and a Nintendo DS. I had the address, 95 Sylvan Avenue, programmed into my Nav. I was about 6 miles or 8 minutes away according to the screen. I was braced for some lines and an ugly picture. But I had to do what I had to do. But what the hell do you do when your navigation device brings you to what it says is 95 Sylvan Avenue, but is not 95 Sylvan Avenue? I found myself in the parking lot of a deserted and desolate building across from Home Depot. I scratched my head and wondered whether Bridgeport had lost financing for its DMV. I had seen a sign a while back and decided to try to follow it. And I did. And got lost again. My father once deemed Bridgeport as "the armpit of America." He wasn't far off. With no disrespect if you live there, and I have friends that do in lovely antique Colonials of yesteryear, but the belly of Bridgeport ain't pretty.
I passed the Happy Family Garage that completely ripped us off when they repaired my old Acura. So I knew I was close. And then I felt funny. I felt naked, raw, vulnerable and lost. I felt like a very white girl in a pink and white gingham dress with two towheads in the back in an expensive white SUV. (Don't think a potential car-jacker would give a shit that my cute little dress actually came from Target.) My stomach was starting to do flip flops. And then the red light went on. My gas tank was nearing empty. In the hood. Amidst gunfire and drug busts and gang bangs... Ok, not really... I have a flair for drama. But I was a bit nervous nonetheless. I had about $6.52 to my name. And a credit card. And my checkbook. (Was going to write a check out to the DMV since they won't take "a card.")
I texted Daddy who was in the OR texting me back with directions. Useless directions. I kept driving and stopping at red lights. At one red light I noticed a building with barbed wire. School? I looked again. Big barbed wire. And I thought Attica. And I thought Fuck. That's a prison. I have no gas in my enormous white Lexus. I'm going to get shot. A prisoner is about to escape. He'll see my car. He won't have a gun but I would be too panic-stricken to figure out that he is really holding his hand under his shirt in the shape of a gun. I text Daddy again. I think I said I am lost near a fucking prison. I can text bad language. Kids can't hear it.
As I drive searching in vain for safety I get a text back. I shouldn't worry. Prison is near Park and Madison Avenues. What? I shouldn't worry??? Glad he can be so cool and nonchalant in cool dark chamber. And then I find it, Park Avenue. And just like the avenue of the same name in Manhattan, I feel safe here. I know where I am. I find a spot to pull into. I see Temple Shalom. it seems appropriate. It seems perfect. I bow my head down for a moment and thank God for my safety. (Really, I did do this.)
And proceed to bug my husband some more. I need gas. I need to pee. He gives me instructions. I read them carefully. I find my way to a Mobil station I know well and fill 'er up. I'm pleased that gas is only $2.71 here. It's easily been twenty cents more everywhere else. I run inside and get myself a Diet Coke with Lime. And the boys get to share a Cherry Dr. Pepper. It's a celebration. Of life! Of course what I really need is a stiff drink, but I can't buy Stoli at the gas station... not in Connecticut, anyhow.
$60 later and I am once again on my way. I still have to pee. But I am determined to get there and do what I need to do. I have been in the car over an hour already. I'm ruining our environment, and the crappy navigation system hasn't helped. I retrace my steps and see the old deserted lot and decide to take the right that Daddy has instructed me too. And I do and I keep going and I see the Happy Family Garage... and once again nothing. And once again I am headed deep into the bowels of Bridgeport. And the prison is once again approaching on my left. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. And then I see a Yale New Haven (arguably best hospital in the state) courier. The driver is pulled over and eating a sandwich. I roll my window down and think, well, if I'm going to get shot I'll get taken to the best hospital. (See, I can keep my sense of humor in any situation!) I ask the driver if he knows where the DMV is. He tells me he does and instructs me to follow. And I turn around and do. Past the Happy Family Garage??? and directly across the BMW dealership I turn, past the Ford dealership to find a poorly marked DMV. Boo on you Bridgeport. Now, really. All anyone had to tell me was that the DMV was across the Bimmer Dealership! I could have sniffed that out faster than a pig sniffs out truffles for Godsake!
So I pull in. Amazed at all the cars there. And then I see the people. The tons and tons and tons of people. I wonder, momentarily, if the DMV is a temporary home to the Michael Jackson tribute. I mean, there are that many people! And then I see the line... the long line that loops around the building. Fuck. Fuck. and More Fuck. I can't do this. I can't get out. I can't expect my boys to stand on line for I have no idea how many hours. So I turn away and hightail outta there. We have been in the car, at this point, almost 2 hours. I could have gone to the Roger Williams Zoo in Providence, for crying out loud!
I am tempted to go home. It would be the easy thing to do, but I still need my driver's licence and I don't have that many free days left. I head to Norwalk. In the past I have been in and out in no time. I have gas, plenty of it now, but I also have to pee. Badly. As I drive down the Merritt Parkway I try to work out the logistics in my head... get a number and then go pee, but then risk not hearing my name a la Sharon Stone at the Academy Awards... or was it The Golden Globes? As if that matters... Or do I hold it? I don't think I can.
I decide to call my friend Andrea. I owe her a call. I have explained my situation and she tells me to go to AAA. (Duh!!!) and she tells me it's on Saugatuck Avenue. I'm headed that way as it is. I call 411 and get the street number and their phone number. I make a mental note to remember 20 Saugatuck Avenue. Glad it's a short and easy number. I have a hard time remembering numbers. I am numerically challenged. I call AAA and tell them I am on my way. They tell me they are open and there is no line.
At this point Alexander joins me in the Pee Pee Song. He has to go. Badly. He's starting to cry. I pull up to the intersection of Riverside Avenue and Saugatuck Avenue. And guess what? Saugatuck Avenue is closed? For real! Now we have two people who have to pee really badly. And I am not sure either one of us is going to make it. I circle around. Once, twice. The policeman redirects me to the other end of Saugatuck. I sit in traffic with Alexander near tears behind me. Christopher is magnificently quiet. I am glad Rebecca is in camp. She would have been dreadful. Ok, unbearable. I see the carnies setting up for the big Westport carnival. And the construction trucks ahead. And we sit. And we sit. And we sit. Some more.
Finally we go and just as I am about to pull in to 20 Saugatuck Avenue I get redirected! Around the block. And there is no back entrance. Fuck it Fuck it Fuck it some damn. More.
Once again I am forced to put on my Big Girl Panties. I am no more Suburban Blonde Housewife of Fairfield County Mamma in Luxury SUV but Bitch in a Big Bad White Ass Car. I round the corner and Alexander is "leaking" he is trying really hard to hold it. Squeezing really hard he tells me. I pull into Caldwell Banker's (real estate) Office, towhead with one missing flip flop in tow. "We need a bathroom, we need it now!" I declare. The lady at the front desk looks at Alexander with empathy and directs us upstairs. We pass by a broker trying to set up a blog. I want to stop, put Alexander down and offer my services, for a nominal fee. But now's not the time to be re-establishing careers and I carry my bundle of blondness to the bathroom. His pants could be wetter. And they could be dryer.
Meantime I get a text from Daddy. He says I cannot text him 19 times over the course of two hours. He is sorry I am having a bad day but I have to leave him alone. I will. I have my Big Girl Panties on now.
Christopher is next. I feel awkward using the loo as well so I don't and thank the broker who has navigated away from the blog page he was trying to set up. I thank the receptionist and head back to the car with two happier children, one in flip flop and one bare foot. I myself am doing my best to keep my Big Girl Panties dry.
We hop back into the car and circle the block again, this time I roll down the window and tell the workers that I am going to AAA dammit, and they can't refuse. They stop the construction trucks in their paths and let this Badass Mamma through.
I'm excited to finally get my licence and use the loo. We've been in the car over 3 hours.
But first there is one more thing I must do. I must text Daddy one more time. Yes, that will be 20 times in 2 hours. But whether wearing Big Girl Panties, Granny Panties or Thong... I must send him a picture this, what greets me at AAA.
I dropped Rebecca off at tennis camp and took off to Bridgeport with the boys. I was prepared with snacks, snacks, more snacks, notebooks, pens and a Nintendo DS. I had the address, 95 Sylvan Avenue, programmed into my Nav. I was about 6 miles or 8 minutes away according to the screen. I was braced for some lines and an ugly picture. But I had to do what I had to do. But what the hell do you do when your navigation device brings you to what it says is 95 Sylvan Avenue, but is not 95 Sylvan Avenue? I found myself in the parking lot of a deserted and desolate building across from Home Depot. I scratched my head and wondered whether Bridgeport had lost financing for its DMV. I had seen a sign a while back and decided to try to follow it. And I did. And got lost again. My father once deemed Bridgeport as "the armpit of America." He wasn't far off. With no disrespect if you live there, and I have friends that do in lovely antique Colonials of yesteryear, but the belly of Bridgeport ain't pretty.
I passed the Happy Family Garage that completely ripped us off when they repaired my old Acura. So I knew I was close. And then I felt funny. I felt naked, raw, vulnerable and lost. I felt like a very white girl in a pink and white gingham dress with two towheads in the back in an expensive white SUV. (Don't think a potential car-jacker would give a shit that my cute little dress actually came from Target.) My stomach was starting to do flip flops. And then the red light went on. My gas tank was nearing empty. In the hood. Amidst gunfire and drug busts and gang bangs... Ok, not really... I have a flair for drama. But I was a bit nervous nonetheless. I had about $6.52 to my name. And a credit card. And my checkbook. (Was going to write a check out to the DMV since they won't take "a card.")
I texted Daddy who was in the OR texting me back with directions. Useless directions. I kept driving and stopping at red lights. At one red light I noticed a building with barbed wire. School? I looked again. Big barbed wire. And I thought Attica. And I thought Fuck. That's a prison. I have no gas in my enormous white Lexus. I'm going to get shot. A prisoner is about to escape. He'll see my car. He won't have a gun but I would be too panic-stricken to figure out that he is really holding his hand under his shirt in the shape of a gun. I text Daddy again. I think I said I am lost near a fucking prison. I can text bad language. Kids can't hear it.
As I drive searching in vain for safety I get a text back. I shouldn't worry. Prison is near Park and Madison Avenues. What? I shouldn't worry??? Glad he can be so cool and nonchalant in cool dark chamber. And then I find it, Park Avenue. And just like the avenue of the same name in Manhattan, I feel safe here. I know where I am. I find a spot to pull into. I see Temple Shalom. it seems appropriate. It seems perfect. I bow my head down for a moment and thank God for my safety. (Really, I did do this.)
And proceed to bug my husband some more. I need gas. I need to pee. He gives me instructions. I read them carefully. I find my way to a Mobil station I know well and fill 'er up. I'm pleased that gas is only $2.71 here. It's easily been twenty cents more everywhere else. I run inside and get myself a Diet Coke with Lime. And the boys get to share a Cherry Dr. Pepper. It's a celebration. Of life! Of course what I really need is a stiff drink, but I can't buy Stoli at the gas station... not in Connecticut, anyhow.
$60 later and I am once again on my way. I still have to pee. But I am determined to get there and do what I need to do. I have been in the car over an hour already. I'm ruining our environment, and the crappy navigation system hasn't helped. I retrace my steps and see the old deserted lot and decide to take the right that Daddy has instructed me too. And I do and I keep going and I see the Happy Family Garage... and once again nothing. And once again I am headed deep into the bowels of Bridgeport. And the prison is once again approaching on my left. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. And then I see a Yale New Haven (arguably best hospital in the state) courier. The driver is pulled over and eating a sandwich. I roll my window down and think, well, if I'm going to get shot I'll get taken to the best hospital. (See, I can keep my sense of humor in any situation!) I ask the driver if he knows where the DMV is. He tells me he does and instructs me to follow. And I turn around and do. Past the Happy Family Garage??? and directly across the BMW dealership I turn, past the Ford dealership to find a poorly marked DMV. Boo on you Bridgeport. Now, really. All anyone had to tell me was that the DMV was across the Bimmer Dealership! I could have sniffed that out faster than a pig sniffs out truffles for Godsake!
So I pull in. Amazed at all the cars there. And then I see the people. The tons and tons and tons of people. I wonder, momentarily, if the DMV is a temporary home to the Michael Jackson tribute. I mean, there are that many people! And then I see the line... the long line that loops around the building. Fuck. Fuck. and More Fuck. I can't do this. I can't get out. I can't expect my boys to stand on line for I have no idea how many hours. So I turn away and hightail outta there. We have been in the car, at this point, almost 2 hours. I could have gone to the Roger Williams Zoo in Providence, for crying out loud!
I am tempted to go home. It would be the easy thing to do, but I still need my driver's licence and I don't have that many free days left. I head to Norwalk. In the past I have been in and out in no time. I have gas, plenty of it now, but I also have to pee. Badly. As I drive down the Merritt Parkway I try to work out the logistics in my head... get a number and then go pee, but then risk not hearing my name a la Sharon Stone at the Academy Awards... or was it The Golden Globes? As if that matters... Or do I hold it? I don't think I can.
I decide to call my friend Andrea. I owe her a call. I have explained my situation and she tells me to go to AAA. (Duh!!!) and she tells me it's on Saugatuck Avenue. I'm headed that way as it is. I call 411 and get the street number and their phone number. I make a mental note to remember 20 Saugatuck Avenue. Glad it's a short and easy number. I have a hard time remembering numbers. I am numerically challenged. I call AAA and tell them I am on my way. They tell me they are open and there is no line.
At this point Alexander joins me in the Pee Pee Song. He has to go. Badly. He's starting to cry. I pull up to the intersection of Riverside Avenue and Saugatuck Avenue. And guess what? Saugatuck Avenue is closed? For real! Now we have two people who have to pee really badly. And I am not sure either one of us is going to make it. I circle around. Once, twice. The policeman redirects me to the other end of Saugatuck. I sit in traffic with Alexander near tears behind me. Christopher is magnificently quiet. I am glad Rebecca is in camp. She would have been dreadful. Ok, unbearable. I see the carnies setting up for the big Westport carnival. And the construction trucks ahead. And we sit. And we sit. And we sit. Some more.
Finally we go and just as I am about to pull in to 20 Saugatuck Avenue I get redirected! Around the block. And there is no back entrance. Fuck it Fuck it Fuck it some damn. More.
Once again I am forced to put on my Big Girl Panties. I am no more Suburban Blonde Housewife of Fairfield County Mamma in Luxury SUV but Bitch in a Big Bad White Ass Car. I round the corner and Alexander is "leaking" he is trying really hard to hold it. Squeezing really hard he tells me. I pull into Caldwell Banker's (real estate) Office, towhead with one missing flip flop in tow. "We need a bathroom, we need it now!" I declare. The lady at the front desk looks at Alexander with empathy and directs us upstairs. We pass by a broker trying to set up a blog. I want to stop, put Alexander down and offer my services, for a nominal fee. But now's not the time to be re-establishing careers and I carry my bundle of blondness to the bathroom. His pants could be wetter. And they could be dryer.
Meantime I get a text from Daddy. He says I cannot text him 19 times over the course of two hours. He is sorry I am having a bad day but I have to leave him alone. I will. I have my Big Girl Panties on now.
Christopher is next. I feel awkward using the loo as well so I don't and thank the broker who has navigated away from the blog page he was trying to set up. I thank the receptionist and head back to the car with two happier children, one in flip flop and one bare foot. I myself am doing my best to keep my Big Girl Panties dry.
We hop back into the car and circle the block again, this time I roll down the window and tell the workers that I am going to AAA dammit, and they can't refuse. They stop the construction trucks in their paths and let this Badass Mamma through.
I'm excited to finally get my licence and use the loo. We've been in the car over 3 hours.
But first there is one more thing I must do. I must text Daddy one more time. Yes, that will be 20 times in 2 hours. But whether wearing Big Girl Panties, Granny Panties or Thong... I must send him a picture this, what greets me at AAA.