Thursday, March 08, 2007

DMV Deathstar Strikes Again

Do you believe in miracles?

I think we should contact the Vatican for verification, because (insert angelic music with horns trumpeting) we have more than one working vehicle at our house!

Of course (being us) it came at a price.

Monday we had a medical emergency. Once the threat to life and limb was handled, we returned to husband’s car to discover a flat tire.

One of the four very new, very expensive tires.

Husband replaced the offender with the mini-tire from the trunk. He checked the deflated tire for signs of damage, expecting (being us) to see Satan’s pitchfork imbedded in the rubber.

Finding nothing, off we wobbled, (the Neon does not like having the donut tire installed and tried to shake it off all the way there) to rake the tire man over the coals for selling us a tire that would choose to euthanize itself.

Tire man blamed a bad valve stem. I shook my finger at it mightily, while scolding, “Bad valve stem! Bad!”

Tire man replaced the naughty valve, and husband and I returned home, expecting a quiet day.

What fools we are.

Son had the day off, and had vanished while we were gone. Not unusual, he disappears better than Houdini.

Then the phone rang.

“Uh, mom, is dad there?”

I hate it when conversations start like that. I said yes (being an honest though leery mother). Then he uttered those beautiful words. “I think I’ve found a car to buy.”

After the disaster of his last vehicle purchase, he had decided to have his father take a look at it before handing over his hard-earned McMoney.

So off we went on the Great Car Adventure.

The seller was a minister (thank you, Jesus). The car was in tip-top shape, with complete maintenance records. If you can’t trust a man of God to sell you a used car, the world truly is going to Hell.

So the purchase was made, and the next day the lad headed for the DMV for licensing.

The Deathstar DMV. The same DMV office I was in, when a native of Calcutta asked me, “Is this place always so hot and crowded?” (Read my experience at the DMV ( Diarrhea Mathama Voodoo) post here)

Prior to entering the gates of Hell, the lad had visited the plasma center to sell his bodily fluids for dollars to appease the Sales Tax gods. It left him in a weakened state, which is never a good idea when you are entering the gates of Hell.

The queue was (as always) massively long. The temperature of the room was just shy of being inside a blast furnace.

Son began to feel faint.

Later (after the ambulance was called) he told me that he was woozy but didn’t want to lose his spot in line. Unfortunately they do not save your place in line when you collapse, passing out cold onto the hot tile floor.

Yet he persevered. (That’s my boy!) Once the medical personnel revived him and he refused to be carted off to the hospital (because Spike the cat had warned him that hospitals are very bad places) he called me.

“Uh, Mom? You’re not going to believe what happened.”

This is never the way to open a conversation with your mother.

“The emergency medical technicians are gone now.”

Oh Lord. I thought they were going to have to call one for me if the conversation continued along these lines. I urged him to be a bit more specific.


So he related the tragic tale. I insisted he return home so I could verify that he was breathing. Then the brave lad traveled to a different DMV and completed his business.

I was so proud.

So now (insert angelic music with horns trumpeting) we have TWO cars that run, at our house.

Don’t tell Satan.

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