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Duel Action

Posted by: Liz | From: October 05, 2006

My parents definitely have little personality quirks, most of which I have to be careful about harping on because you never know how genetics is out to screw you later in life. I know I've already developed a hatred of television commercials, which they instilled in me at an early age. When a show I'm watching goes to commercial, I'm likely to flip to another channel and watch two minutes of another show before flipping back. I've developed a highly attuned sense of the span of most commercial breaks, so I rarely miss getting back to the right show on time. I wouldn't say this is J's favorite behavior of mine, but he lives with it. But now, NOW he sees from whence the habit sprung, and he understands I have but a diluted version of the true potential of the television neuroses. My parents like to mute the commercials, and sometimes the flip the channel. But if you really want to see a quiet freaking play out on J's face, you should really go for the triple whammy that my mom pulled last night: turn the television to the Food Network, mute it, and leave the room. During the Lost premiere.

They also seem adverse to throwing much of anything away that might still be of some use. The first night I was here, my mom pulled out a little tube of goat cheese from the fridge and said, "Oh, we still have this. Do you think it's any good?" People, this was some goat cheese we got for our Denver wedding reception A YEAR AGO. She only threw it away with great regret. My dad also made a point of telling me that there was a television in our bedroom. He said this in such a way as to imply a bonus, when in fact the television does not have sound. Or, it does, but only intermittently, and only if you let it sit there in silence for several hours to "warm up" (what??), and even then you have to slap it every once in a while when it goes out. It should also be noted that there are three other televisions in the house, but at my evaluation that the television was basically worthless, they both seemed a little hurt. Even though last I checked goat cheese and televisions weren't sentient beings.

J and I had interviews at the same temp agency this morning and the whole way there we joked about going in and asking what kind of Duel Action Jobs might be available to Power Team Liz and J. Then one of the first jobs they offered us was riding around together on public buses to dispense and collect surveys. Ha. I would laugh if it didn't hurt so much.

We spent the rest of the afternoon at the DMV, which we escaped from just before our souls were sucked out. There's a person who checks your documents when you come in the door to make sure you have everything you need, which would seem to be very helpful (wait for it). My change of last name took a long time, but J's out-of-state license switch took even longer. When we got there, they were serving number 124, and he got 189. When I finished, an hour and a half after arriving, they were only at 139 or so. We waited. And waited. I spent a lot of time reading the little scrolling marquee they had above all the stations, which streamed interesting facts like, "The first cheeseburger was patented by a Coloradoan," and "We are only half staffed from 11am to 2pm. Thanks for your patience!!" and "We do not do photocopies" (wait for it).

Finally, an hour and a half later, at 155, I convinced J to take a walk up and down the strip mall with me. And lo! There was a cheap hair cutting place! J needed his hair cut in a bad way, but we'd packed the clippers, so we had been on the lookout for a place to get him shorn. I loved this lady right away because she draped J in a zebra print bib thing (I completely lost the name for those things). Then she got to cutting, and ended with (extra funny if you know J and his aversion to product) a blow dry and lots of gel. Twelve dollars well spent (in entertainment value for me). But when we got back to the DMV, they were only at 159.

Luckily, they pulled some out-of-state license people out of the seating pen and put them in a separate line. Just when I thought it really might be possible to die of overexposure to gray walls and florescent lighting, J was at the front of the line. Then he was next to me telling me we were leaving. Apparently they needed photocopies of his passport, which they neglected to tell us when we came in, and which they couldn't do themselves.

At this point, I believe I spontaneously, and heartfully, did a "Oh NO they di'nt." I was not about to have waited for four hours and walk away empty-handed. We busted into a car insurance place four doors down and pleaded with them to share their copier services. They helped out ($.50 a copy, they get it all the time) and let us know we'd actually need two copies. WELL THANK GOD FOR THE STRIP MALL CAR INSURANCE PLACE. We went back, and they informed J that he would also need copies of his marriage and drivers licenses. Several loud curses and another trip to the car insurance place later, we were finally free.

And I think it still went more smoothly than it would have gone in Brooklyn.

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