DMV part two

It was time once again to visit the DMV and attempt to get learner's permits for the boys. I refused to go back to their office in Pleasanton so I scheduled an appointment at the office a few towns over.  The day before I gathered up all my various types of id, proof of residence, forms, and the instruction sheet that was given to me at our last visit.  I say "instruction" sheet but it wasn't.  It was a full sheet of typing in 8 point font, 24 bullet points, from a copier in need of toner, on red paper.  Red.  When she handed it to me, I said, "You're joking, right?"  I don't care how young you are, no one can read this.  Who even stocks red paper? They had to make a special trip to Staples for this 'fuck you'.

Anyway, I handed everything to John and asked if he thought I had enough to advance past the first window.  He looked through everything, spent a fair amount of time, referring to both the "instruction" sheet and the DMV website, then said, "It looks to me like you're good." Then quickly added, "But I am in no way saying that it'll work."  Fair enough.

So wearing my "Nevertheless, She Persisted" t-shirt and armed with all of my documentation, plus a book to read while I was waiting (hope springs eternal), off we went.  We arrived in ample time for our appointment and there were only a couple other people in line - bonus.  We joined the line, behind the rope barrier.  As the next person advanced to the window, the DMV gal told us that we needed to be standing on the other side of the barrier and we all dutifully ducked under the rope. For no apparent reason. I can only assume she'd made a bet in the break room. Or maybe there was a running office pool.  Baaaah.

It only took a few minutes to reach the first window.  This time it was window #5.  Honestly, who is in charge of numbering the windows at the California state DMV and can we just let him go? Perhaps they could use one of those red sheets of paper to tape up a sign that reads "start here". While I started to get out all of my paperwork and gal took the DMV forms, looked them over and handed them back to each boy along with a deli-counter number slip. Then we sat down. Wha. Whaaa. What just happened there? I have all these pieces of paper......

(She also told each kid that when their number was called, they would need to do all the talking because I already had a license. This I very much appreciated and should be said to all teenagers. Or their parents. I would have left them to their own devices except I only had one copy of all my precious paperwork and I didn't trust them not to lose half of it before reaching the window.)

When the first kid was called, up we went. She took the form, his birth certificate, social security card, two pieces of proof of residence, and that's it. Nothing more. She did not ask me to provide any proof that I was the person listed on any of those forms.  There I was, based on my previous experience, armed with my birth certificate, marriage license to prove the Dawson on the BC is the Moore on my proof of residence, passport, driver's license (which I still refuse to believe is unacceptable) and my social security card. I also had the boys' passports and their student id's.  But no, she didn't want any of that. NOTHING.  Then the next kid was called to a window and I walked over and repeated the same process. how how how how. I just don't get it. Why didn't I start at this office? This one even had computers for folks to take their tests on.  The other one still used paper and pencil, and had a guy sitting at a little desk grading. (How do I get that job?) It was like night and day.

So I sat there stunned while the boys had their pictures taken and completed their tests.

They both flunked.

fuuuuuuuuuuuucccccckkkkkkkkkk

Burning Down the House

Earlier last month I decided to reclaim the formal living room.  When we moved in 7 years ago, we decided that it would be the boys' room and it would have a beach theme and was from then on referred to as the Beach Shack.  Now that the boys are older it's turned into a dumping ground for things "I'd rather not put away".  Substitute "I" with the name of any male member of the household.

I wanted to turn it into a museum of all my lovely pop culture collections but John said "au contraire".  He wanted to turn it into a home theater with risers and big ugly recliners but I said "hell no". So we compromised and it's going to be a home theater/display room.  I'd been calling it the 'theater' but I'm changing it to the "war room".  Why? Because every decision regarding this room from the color of the walls to the how many inches above the chair rail the t.v. will hang, has been a struggle.  The fight spectrum begins at Heated Discussion and goes all the way up to Knockdown Drag Out Fight and that's assuming one of the boy hasn't walked in and offered his opinion.  Then it goes up to 11; Why Would You Come in Here and Poke the Snake, You Stupid, Stupid Child?

So last weekend John and I were standing in the war room and he asked, "So what do you want to get done today?"
Me, "I'd really like to get those two shelves hung up."

We had hung shelves above the fireplace and I got two more to go above the two windows that flank the fireplace.

John, "Do we have then here?"
Me, "Yeah, they're laying over there." and we opened up one of the boxes.
John, "These are much deeper than the others."
Me, "Yeah, since they're going to be much higher up, I went with deeper. So if we could get the shelves hung then I can move the desk and bookcase back under the windows.  I've already moved them twice and don't want to move them a third time."

That furniture had to be moved so I could paint. I was using two different shades of purple so I painted the one color and then moved the furniture back because it was totally in the way. Then I pulled the furniture away from the wall for the second shade and once the shelves were up, everything could be put back into those corners and not be moved again. Ever.

John, "You know the deeper shelves would work well above the fireplace because they'd be lower and you could see more..."
Me, "but I only have two and we'd need three above the fireplace and that would be moving the furniture again and I really don't wan..."
John, "No, I wasn't suggesting we switch them out, just thinking out loud."
Me, "Okay. so, if we can just hang the shelves..."
John, <turning around and looking at where the t.v. will eventually hang> "We still need something to put the electronics in."
Me, "Yeah, but we don't need to do that now...."
John, "Didn't we find something we liked at Cost Plus?"
Me, "Yes, but you really didn't like the price."
John, "Oh yeah."
Me, "And we don't need to do that now. We've got tons of things around the house that we could use as a stop gap until we find something else and if we get the shelves hung we can move on from that side of the room."
John, "Yeah, uh-huh uh-huh, so want are you wanting to get done today?"
Me, "I WANT TO HANG THE SHELVES!"

ffffffuuuuuuuucccccckkkkkkkkkk

Top of the Lake

So I liked season 1 and season 2 is even better.  But, you know what I hate?  Nicole Kidman is in season 2 and they've got her in this kinda frizzy grey wig and a scattering of age spots on her face and  she's still fucking gorgeous.   fuuuuuuuuuckkkkk  I used to really like Nicole Kidman and now she's a demon.  A youth stealing demon.  She must be burned.

Sophomore Year is going....Okay

So, Sam had to make 5 (five) 'All about Me' posters at the start of the school year.  One for each class except p.e.  <sigh> <heavy, heavy sigh>  He kept this away from me because he knows, quite clearly, how I feel about scrap booking projects.

Anyway, he came up to me the other day after school because something odd had occurred in his geometry class. After everyone had presented their posters, the teacher approached him and asked which algebra teacher he had last year and what grade he received...

<interrupting> "she can find that out herself, why's she asking you?"

Sam, "I don't know." Then he continued his story, he told her the name of his previous teacher and that he didn't remember what his grade was exactly.

<interrupting again> The fact that he couldn't recall his grade did not bother me in the least.  There are far too many people in this town who can tell you the exact grade their child received in every class they've ever taken, and can further more explain exactly why the child did not receive an A+ and it's always the teacher's fault.  These people and their children are in for a hell of a shock when, after graduation, they realize that no one gives a shit what their gpa is. The world is run by C students.  In fact it is currently being run by a failing student whose father bought him a diploma and whose vocabulary is worse then KoKo the gorilla's but I digress.....

Sam, "Then she said, some of the projects are going to be good and some will be not so good."
Me, "What does that mean?"
Sam, "I don't know, but it didn't make me feel very good."
Me, "Well, what were the other posters like?" <I was not about to call a poster, a "project">
Sam, "Some were covered in picture, others only had a few.  Mine had a few but I typed up details about each picture."
Me, "Okay"
Sam, "They're all hanging around the classroom. She moved some of the good ones around to balance out the other not-so-good classes."

Oh, my sweet jesus. This is fucking high school. I can't believe I'm having this conversation.  So the teacher is concerned with the optics of her pasting-activity and how it reflects on her teaching abilities?  Is this what's going on here? Did I mention this is high school. And a MATH class.

Me, "Okay. Did anything else happen?"
Sam, "Well, a lot of kids talked about school; 'advanced at this' or 'highest score at that', blah, blah, blah but that's boring.  Who wants to hear about that?  I got laughs! Even the teacher laughed."

<third interruption> Now, I'm the wrong parent to tell that to; maybe John should have been fielding this.  In my opinion if you get laughs, then you win. John would probably have asked about the actual content. to-ma-to, to-mah-to

Me, "Well, maybe she thinks you're 'special'."
Sam, "That's not helping, Mom."

So we looked up his algebra grade from last year. It was a B.  Well, it was way too early in the school year to start wading into the "a B is a good grade' waters.  It's bad for my blood pressure.
<Deep Breath>

Me, "Why don't you send her an email and let her know what your grade was and then say something like 'let me know if you need anything else'. Then you've left the door open and she can say what she was getting at before.  If she wants to."

So he did and we haven't heard anything back so problem solved.  Right? Right. We can, now, move past the pasting issues and on to bigger things.....like penmanship or the fact that none of them can type. What are they going to fall back on if they can't type? Now that's an important question.....

I've never felt so old

standing in the laundry room, realizing that my iron is from the Reagan administration.