Pet Peeves #7 featuring the DMV, where no good mood is safe.

This building should be much less attractive for
the way it can snap a perfectly
good mood right in half.

I was worried about me recently. 

I realized that while I enjoy writing my Pet Peeves posts, sometimes I'm too okay with things to spot them whilst out and about. 

Then I had to go to the Department of Safety, Division of Motor Vehicles, and I was not worried anymore.

Herewith, Pet Peeves #7

The DMV

This is a tired complaint, but I'll make it anyway. There is not a person I've encountered at the DMV who does not seem a tiny bit relieved when they have to a) send you to another line that has the population of a small town standing in it, or, b)  tell you that you'll need a vital document that you can't remember laying eyes on, or, c) tell you it's not even something handled by  Motor Vehicles, but Fish and Game or Transportation or Comcast.

Nine times out of ten, that apologetic smile is as real as the perforated tab that never opens the rice box. 

The perforated tab that never opens the rice box. 

It doesn't. What happens is that when you flip the corner tab and try to tear along the "dotted line," nine times out of ten, you have to get scissors or a serrated edge knife to finish the job and then you're at risk for cutting yourself, not that I did that last Tuesday.

People who say "nine times out of ten" 

They do this to bolster their point, as in "Look at any car on the highway that almost ran you off the road. Nine times out of ten, it's a Volkswagen driven by someone who's had their license for fifteen minutes and has moved the driver's seat back as far as it can go in order to slouch like a badass and drive with a fully extended arm."

This percentage of 90%, like the perforated tab on the rice box, is fake. 

Junk Mail. 

I don't only hate junk mail because it takes up space in the box, I hate it because in my zeal to throw it in the trash, nine times out of ten I'm at risk of throwing away something I really need, like a tax document that is stuck between the pages. Not that I almost did that last Thursday. 

And, I hate junk mail because your tiny hope, that among all those items might be yummy, old-fashioned personal mail, is dashed.

People who think through their calendar out loud while trying to make a date 

It goes like this. Date requester asks, "When can we meet and discuss (whatever)?" And Date describer responds like this. "Let's see, Monday I have a conference call with (whoever)  and in the afternoon, I'm attending a fundraiser and on Tuesday, I'll be in Boston and let's see...hmmm...Wednesday won't work, it's my day to (whatever) and, how about Thursday? Does that work? Oh, wait. Not Thursday, I'm seeing the dentist, but actually, you said Friday might be good, right? Let's see.. Friiiiiiiiidaaaaay. Friday, Friday Friday. That could work." 

I've polled people on this. Everybody wants everybody to stop doing it. 

The use of the word "snowflake" 

The use of the word "snowflake" unless it refers to pretty window decorations of kindergartners, has become a way for older, cynical people to describe younger, progressive types who don't want things to be like they were back-in-the-day, when girls were girls and men were men and nine times out of ten, people were having silent nervous breakdowns because therapy was only for crazy people.

Here, is a piece I didn't write on the subject, but wish I had. 

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This concludes Pet Peeves #7, but check back for specials. I haven't even begun to talk about winter weather in New Hampshire, or Facebook newsfeed ads. And - bonus - I have a conversation with our town tax collector coming up which already sounds like it will qualify for #8. 

Stay warm and friendly, and if possible, out of the DMV.