I’ll have my motorcycle permit and a loaf of bread please
My tolerance for TriMet drops at a painfully exponential rate with every ride that I am slammed up amongst slovenly unkempt America. And as such I have begun to narrow down my slim amount of alternatives. This would include walking or biking. Walking is sure lovely in the summer time, but now might as well be swimming as the season has recently dictated. Biking falls into the latter excuse as well, plus I’ve recently relocated a top quite a large hill.
The car option. My parents want this. Always asking me things like – Is money the issue? If it didn’t cost anything would you get one? I, on the other hand, have a huge problem with this. A, yes Mom, they are expensive – gas, insurance, maintenance. Makes me a bit nauseas to think of all the mula I’d be just throwing into it for a little convenience. But also I shudder at the thought of me, little old me driving a four seatter vehicle all over town. What a freakin’ waste. I think there is a generational education gab here. My age bracket has been suckled on the idea of sustainability and care of the environment where as my parents don’t see a thing wrong with everyone in the family owning a car.
So I have arrived at the perfect solution.A scooter. A personal transport device with amazing gas mileage (100mpg), a tiny gas expense (it needs premium, but with less than a two gallon tank I think I can splurge for it), and the insurance for the year? – 50 dollars! For the year! Sold. When I find one.
Mean while, I gather some other information. In order for the scooter to travel at speeds that won’t have all of Portland honking at my moving chair, I need to drive something with an engine around 150cc. This means I need a motorcycle license. And this is where my latest frustrations derive.
The DMV. The land of intolerance. As an individual probably as laxest and as flexible as they come, the DMV and I do not get alone. So I prep. I study the motorcycle handbook so I’ll pass the test no problem. And then I set aside three hours of my life to wait. I arrive on the scene, pull a number, and get down the business. I want to make sure I’m not waiting in vain of course, so I go up to the counter and clarify everything is in order.
“I’m here to get my motorcycle permit. What do I need?” – clear question right?
“You need a valid state ID.” – either Patty or Selma, couldn’t tell…
“That’s it? You’re sure?” – this seemed weird, I felt like I would need some more ID.
“Right, that is what I said.” – P or S.
Okay, cool. Well that’s all I had on me so I wait. And wait. Government agencies arrested in so much bureaucracy as the DMV always strike me as what I would imagine the USSR was like during communism. One simple thing to get, huge line, asinine things to do to acquire it, crying babies. It was a long couple of hours. Then. I am chosen. My number is called.
“One motorcycle permit please!” But it was not to be. Apparently the valid state ID was assumed but not verbalized to be an Oregon state ID. And without one I would have to take a test to get one.
“Okay I’ll take the test.” Well, not quite. To take the test you must prove you live in Oregon. I just moved. I’m not on the lease. No bills come to my house, they are all online. I have nothing, absolutely nothing that proves my residency.
“Well better get something.” Is my only consolation from behind the counter.
The next day I am struck with good luck. My change of address notice arrives! My proof I’m not falsifying my identity to ride motorcycles. Until that is, a closer examination of the paper. The post office thinks my name is Jessica Mauler, not Mauer. And after another trip to the DMV I learn they won’t have any of that. Seems obvious to me too. I stole Miss Mauler’s mail as to acquire this permit. Still no license to date. I’ll keep you posted.
The car option. My parents want this. Always asking me things like – Is money the issue? If it didn’t cost anything would you get one? I, on the other hand, have a huge problem with this. A, yes Mom, they are expensive – gas, insurance, maintenance. Makes me a bit nauseas to think of all the mula I’d be just throwing into it for a little convenience. But also I shudder at the thought of me, little old me driving a four seatter vehicle all over town. What a freakin’ waste. I think there is a generational education gab here. My age bracket has been suckled on the idea of sustainability and care of the environment where as my parents don’t see a thing wrong with everyone in the family owning a car.
So I have arrived at the perfect solution.
Mean while, I gather some other information. In order for the scooter to travel at speeds that won’t have all of Portland honking at my moving chair, I need to drive something with an engine around 150cc. This means I need a motorcycle license. And this is where my latest frustrations derive.
The DMV. The land of intolerance. As an individual probably as laxest and as flexible as they come, the DMV and I do not get alone. So I prep. I study the motorcycle handbook so I’ll pass the test no problem. And then I set aside three hours of my life to wait. I arrive on the scene, pull a number, and get down the business. I want to make sure I’m not waiting in vain of course, so I go up to the counter and clarify everything is in order.
“I’m here to get my motorcycle permit. What do I need?” – clear question right?
“You need a valid state ID.” – either Patty or Selma, couldn’t tell…
“That’s it? You’re sure?” – this seemed weird, I felt like I would need some more ID.
“Right, that is what I said.” – P or S.
Okay, cool. Well that’s all I had on me so I wait. And wait. Government agencies arrested in so much bureaucracy as the DMV always strike me as what I would imagine the USSR was like during communism. One simple thing to get, huge line, asinine things to do to acquire it, crying babies. It was a long couple of hours. Then. I am chosen. My number is called.
“One motorcycle permit please!” But it was not to be. Apparently the valid state ID was assumed but not verbalized to be an Oregon state ID. And without one I would have to take a test to get one.
“Okay I’ll take the test.” Well, not quite. To take the test you must prove you live in Oregon. I just moved. I’m not on the lease. No bills come to my house, they are all online. I have nothing, absolutely nothing that proves my residency.
“Well better get something.” Is my only consolation from behind the counter.
The next day I am struck with good luck. My change of address notice arrives! My proof I’m not falsifying my identity to ride motorcycles. Until that is, a closer examination of the paper. The post office thinks my name is Jessica Mauler, not Mauer. And after another trip to the DMV I learn they won’t have any of that. Seems obvious to me too. I stole Miss Mauler’s mail as to acquire this permit. Still no license to date. I’ll keep you posted.
.jpg)
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home