Good Times, Bad Times..
I'd like to extend a big personal FUCK YOU to the people of the DMV right now. I found my receipt from two years ago. That's right, bitches. The receipt for the ticket and the restoration fees you jacked me for the first time. The VERY SAME ticket from 19-fucking-97 that you just tried to jack me for again. I called them up to inform them of this fact... that I was now armed with the receipt for the original ticket and the fees I paid for it two freaking years ago... and that I wasn't going to bend over to be screwed by their bureaucracy again.
So they told me to 'make a copy and send it in' or 'deliver it to your regional center'. Like it's my fault they tried to screw me a second time for the same damn ticket they screwed me for in '01? I think I'd like to make a copy, write FUCK YOU on the top, and go down there and staple it to someone's big fat governmental ass.
Can you tell I'm just a wee bit annoyed?
Furthermore, they have no record whatsoever of this occurrence on their fancy governmental computers. Three little slips of paper that my father thoughtfully tucked into his little portable safe two years ago are the only things that're saving me from having to pay for this ticket a third damn time. I hate DMV. And I love my dad. Thanks, Dad... wherever you are. Sometimes I hear his voice.. it's hard to explain. Not out loud or anything, but in my head. Today he told me to go look in the safe. I opened it up, and the literal first thing I put my hand on in all that ton of papers was the thing I needed. My mom is always kind of freaked out when I do that. Like when everyone thought we'd have to give up and not have an American flag for my father's funeral, because they couldn't find his Navy discharge. I heard my father's voice like that, telling me where to look. Way up on top of my father's armoire in his bedroom, behind the pictures of me and him and my mother (which, said the voice, were in dire need of dusting)- I reached up and took down an old manila envelope. First thing I pulled out of it after putting my hand in were his discharge papers. There were also old photographs and newspaper clippings and such. I'd never seen it before in my life, nor did my father ever mention it while alive.
So in happier news, we went out to Chinese food. My mother has gotten into the habit, particularly lately, of telling me little stories about how things where when she was younger. I like hearing details of life in past eras, so it's not as boring as it might sound. Among the more interesting things she's told me-
A man with a lighter on a long pole used to light the streetlamps every evening in Philadelphia when she was small. They were gas powered.
My grandfather ate a cheese from Italy that had maggots or worms crawling in it. It was made to be that way - part of what gave it 'flavor'. When one of the little buggers started to wriggle away across the table, he'd catch it, then eat it up. Yum.
Grandfather also made his own wine, some out of dandelions. He used to take my brothers down into the basement and give them some to drink without mom and dad knowing, because he believed wine makes you stronger.
My mom was willful even when she was a kid. Once, when she was really little (maybe three) she was dressed in a pretty dress for church perhaps, and told not to get dirty when she went outside. To be spiteful, she rolled in a mud puddle and got filthy from head to toe.
My grandmother was grandfather's second wife. His first wife had died while pregnant from pneumonia. Grandma had another boyfriend at the time...but Grandpa asked her to marry him to help him take care of his two small children. She did. Aunt Jenny (Grandma's youngest sister) always said it was a good thing that Grandma had lived , because "I wasn't about to marry the bastard next". Her and grandpa didn't get along.
Mom worked at the A&P when she was 17, back in 1946. She said there was a man who always got in her line and flirted with her... while his ten children were right there with him. She also said she hated checking out the old people, because they were very fussy. She admits that she wasn't very nice to customers, but that was okay- because the cashier that was the friendliest always had the longest lines back in those days.
She told me that back when she was a young girl, they used to have chameleon jewelry that 'changed color' with what you were wearing when you pin it to you. Try as I might, I haven't been able to find anything out about this- but it's always made me curious.
Back in the 1930's and 1940's, wearing pants was a shocking thing. Mom remembers one of her friends talking about another girl's mother. "She wears pants! What kind of mother is that! How would you like it if that was your mother dressing like that?"
Mom went to a catholic school. Part of the school uniform was an enormous ribbon that the girls had to wear that was color coded according to their grade. The boys had to wear a tie with the same color-coding system.
Trollies ran down Philly streets when mom was a teenager- and a lot of serviceman rode on them. During one ride, a particularly naughty soldier said "Boy, this trolly has a lot of curves!" while staring at her figure.
I just think little things like that are interesting, you know? I remember when my father told me stories- about how there were no cats in his neighborhood during the Great Depression, but they always had meat on the table- about being in the Atomic Bomb Tests on Bikini... all sorts of things.
I think that we can learn a lot about history if we listen to those who have lived it.
So they told me to 'make a copy and send it in' or 'deliver it to your regional center'. Like it's my fault they tried to screw me a second time for the same damn ticket they screwed me for in '01? I think I'd like to make a copy, write FUCK YOU on the top, and go down there and staple it to someone's big fat governmental ass.
Can you tell I'm just a wee bit annoyed?
Furthermore, they have no record whatsoever of this occurrence on their fancy governmental computers. Three little slips of paper that my father thoughtfully tucked into his little portable safe two years ago are the only things that're saving me from having to pay for this ticket a third damn time. I hate DMV. And I love my dad. Thanks, Dad... wherever you are. Sometimes I hear his voice.. it's hard to explain. Not out loud or anything, but in my head. Today he told me to go look in the safe. I opened it up, and the literal first thing I put my hand on in all that ton of papers was the thing I needed. My mom is always kind of freaked out when I do that. Like when everyone thought we'd have to give up and not have an American flag for my father's funeral, because they couldn't find his Navy discharge. I heard my father's voice like that, telling me where to look. Way up on top of my father's armoire in his bedroom, behind the pictures of me and him and my mother (which, said the voice, were in dire need of dusting)- I reached up and took down an old manila envelope. First thing I pulled out of it after putting my hand in were his discharge papers. There were also old photographs and newspaper clippings and such. I'd never seen it before in my life, nor did my father ever mention it while alive.
So in happier news, we went out to Chinese food. My mother has gotten into the habit, particularly lately, of telling me little stories about how things where when she was younger. I like hearing details of life in past eras, so it's not as boring as it might sound. Among the more interesting things she's told me-
A man with a lighter on a long pole used to light the streetlamps every evening in Philadelphia when she was small. They were gas powered.
My grandfather ate a cheese from Italy that had maggots or worms crawling in it. It was made to be that way - part of what gave it 'flavor'. When one of the little buggers started to wriggle away across the table, he'd catch it, then eat it up. Yum.
Grandfather also made his own wine, some out of dandelions. He used to take my brothers down into the basement and give them some to drink without mom and dad knowing, because he believed wine makes you stronger.
My mom was willful even when she was a kid. Once, when she was really little (maybe three) she was dressed in a pretty dress for church perhaps, and told not to get dirty when she went outside. To be spiteful, she rolled in a mud puddle and got filthy from head to toe.
My grandmother was grandfather's second wife. His first wife had died while pregnant from pneumonia. Grandma had another boyfriend at the time...but Grandpa asked her to marry him to help him take care of his two small children. She did. Aunt Jenny (Grandma's youngest sister) always said it was a good thing that Grandma had lived , because "I wasn't about to marry the bastard next". Her and grandpa didn't get along.
Mom worked at the A&P when she was 17, back in 1946. She said there was a man who always got in her line and flirted with her... while his ten children were right there with him. She also said she hated checking out the old people, because they were very fussy. She admits that she wasn't very nice to customers, but that was okay- because the cashier that was the friendliest always had the longest lines back in those days.
She told me that back when she was a young girl, they used to have chameleon jewelry that 'changed color' with what you were wearing when you pin it to you. Try as I might, I haven't been able to find anything out about this- but it's always made me curious.
Back in the 1930's and 1940's, wearing pants was a shocking thing. Mom remembers one of her friends talking about another girl's mother. "She wears pants! What kind of mother is that! How would you like it if that was your mother dressing like that?"
Mom went to a catholic school. Part of the school uniform was an enormous ribbon that the girls had to wear that was color coded according to their grade. The boys had to wear a tie with the same color-coding system.
Trollies ran down Philly streets when mom was a teenager- and a lot of serviceman rode on them. During one ride, a particularly naughty soldier said "Boy, this trolly has a lot of curves!" while staring at her figure.
I just think little things like that are interesting, you know? I remember when my father told me stories- about how there were no cats in his neighborhood during the Great Depression, but they always had meat on the table- about being in the Atomic Bomb Tests on Bikini... all sorts of things.
I think that we can learn a lot about history if we listen to those who have lived it.