It's a rare weekday that I don't grace you all with my e-presence like bed bugs grace a crack denizen's bed at night. Yesterday, however, was one of those days. Lucky you. But I have a semi-fair excuse! I was watching America show off its French talent by watching on loop
Haspop dance to Crystal Castles. And, of course, I was also dueling with the man.
But first let's talk about Haspop. Holy f*cking
la vache! That guy has rubber joints. If he doesn't win a million dollars I will weep the tears of a
3-year-old with Bieber fever. Seriously, what the hell do they put in baby formula these days to warrant that nonsense? I mean, it wasn't until I was four that I started dry humping television screens showing Michael Jackson's "Thriller."
But enough about the oddities of childhood, let's talk about my gentle(wo)manly duel with the man. So, I just moved into a new apartment in a new neighborhood. The move went swimmingly due to my easy access to a car. However, the after-move has been less than stellar...due to my easy access to a car. Although as a vehicle owner I knew this day was coming, I never prepared myself for its sheer annoyingness. I need a residential parking permit.
This may sound easy, but 1) remember I'm an idiot and 2) this is DC. Nothing is ever easy here, especially when all the street parking has a two-hour limit without a sticker. I challenge the city to answer this question: How is one supposed to get down to the DMV and get the proper permit within two hours of moving in?
According to the DMV's site, I need:
- The original title
- A DC driver's license with your current address on it
- Proof of Valid Odometer Statement
- DC Vehicle Insurance
- DC Vehicle Inspection - Used Car only
My problem's even worse because before I can bring all that sh*t in, I have to change the address on my license so I can get the permit that I need. And yay for life, I don't have any proof of residency. I'm not on the lease. My name is also not on the electric bill, the water bill, the cable bill, or the gas bill. In layman's terms, I suppose I'm technically a squatter. So what's a glorified squatter to do with her vehicle?
I stuck that note on my windshield and hoped for the best. And to my surprise, this actually worked...until yesterday. (I blame the emoticon.) I won't bore you with the details, but basically, it took me seven days to gather all the documents and inspections necessary and the whole time, my postered car remained ticket free. But then, just as I got almost everything I need to make my car its refugee papers, I woke up yesterday to find a parking ticket, issued to me for not having a proper parking permit. BALLS! (But rest easy, I plan on not paying it along with
the rest of my unjustified parking non-offenses.)
And the frosting on this poopcake is that by the time I got the (nearly) final document, it was too late to go to the DMV, so my car is now parked in a Virgina driveway, which is probably where it should've remained in the first place.
And while right about now would be a good time to learn my lesson (i.e. having a motor vehicle in the District is far more trouble than it's worth), I feel like I'm way too far in to turn back now. Oh no! I will fight this good,
freak gasoline fight until the end of days, which means, if you need me, I'll be at the Georgetown DMV watching Haspop dance on a Blackberry Storm2 for probably the entirety of the afternoon.
***
So, it's been five minutes since I wrote this and I'm reluctant to post it because it's f*cking boring. I mean, really, who the hell cares about my parking woes? I barely care. Yet while I'm fine with torturing myself (I do choose to live in DC, after all), I hate the thought of torturing you. I really don't want to turn this blog into a "blahg," if you know what I mean. (Or am I way past that point?)
Well, f*ck it. Here's something interesting and thought-provoking -- a riddle:
Say you die (oh, this is starting well), and you arrive to a place where there are two identical doors guarded by two identical guards. One guard stands before the door to hell and the other to heaven. Or, if you're not religious, one stands before the doors to a bar in Georgetown filled with Late Night Shots kids and an ice luge and the other leads to a world populated only with Flock of Seagulls hair.
So here's the challenge: You can ask one question to one guard to figure out which one is guarding which door. What do you ask? Think carefully, or you may end up taking Jager shots with annoying kids in madras for the rest of eternity opposed to watching multiple Putins lovingly nurse baby elks. *sigh*
It's a rare weekday that I don't grace you all with my e-presence like bed bugs grace a crack denizen's bed at night. Yesterday, however, was one of those days. Lucky you. But I have a semi-fair excuse! I was watching America show off its French talent by watching on loop Haspop dance to Crystal Castles. And, of course, I was also dueling with the man.
But first let's talk about Haspop. Holy f*cking la vache! That guy has rubber joints. If he doesn't win a million dollars I will weep the tears of a 3-year-old with Bieber fever. Seriously, what the hell do they put in baby formula these days to warrant that nonsense? I mean, it wasn't until I was four that I started dry humping television screens showing Michael Jackson's "Thriller."
But enough about the oddities of childhood, let's talk about my gentle(wo)manly duel with the man. So, I just moved into a new apartment in a new neighborhood. The move went swimmingly due to my easy access to a car. However, the after-move has been less than stellar...due to my easy access to a car. Although as a vehicle owner I knew this day was coming, I never prepared myself for its sheer annoyingness. I need a residential parking permit.
This may sound easy, but 1) remember I'm an idiot and 2) this is DC. Nothing is ever easy here, especially when all the street parking has a two-hour limit without a sticker. I challenge the city to answer this question: How is one supposed to get down to the DMV and get the proper permit within two hours of moving in?
According to the DMV's site, I need:
I stuck that note on my windshield and hoped for the best. And to my surprise, this actually worked...until yesterday. (I blame the emoticon.) I won't bore you with the details, but basically, it took me seven days to gather all the documents and inspections necessary and the whole time, my postered car remained ticket free. But then, just as I got almost everything I need to make my car its refugee papers, I woke up yesterday to find a parking ticket, issued to me for not having a proper parking permit. BALLS! (But rest easy, I plan on not paying it along with the rest of my unjustified parking non-offenses.)
And the frosting on this poopcake is that by the time I got the (nearly) final document, it was too late to go to the DMV, so my car is now parked in a Virgina driveway, which is probably where it should've remained in the first place.
And while right about now would be a good time to learn my lesson (i.e. having a motor vehicle in the District is far more trouble than it's worth), I feel like I'm way too far in to turn back now. Oh no! I will fight this good, freak gasoline fight until the end of days, which means, if you need me, I'll be at the Georgetown DMV watching Haspop dance on a Blackberry Storm2 for probably the entirety of the afternoon.
***
So, it's been five minutes since I wrote this and I'm reluctant to post it because it's f*cking boring. I mean, really, who the hell cares about my parking woes? I barely care. Yet while I'm fine with torturing myself (I do choose to live in DC, after all), I hate the thought of torturing you. I really don't want to turn this blog into a "blahg," if you know what I mean. (Or am I way past that point?)
Well, f*ck it. Here's something interesting and thought-provoking -- a riddle:
Say you die (oh, this is starting well), and you arrive to a place where there are two identical doors guarded by two identical guards. One guard stands before the door to hell and the other to heaven. Or, if you're not religious, one stands before the doors to a bar in Georgetown filled with Late Night Shots kids and an ice luge and the other leads to a world populated only with Flock of Seagulls hair.
So here's the challenge: You can ask one question to one guard to figure out which one is guarding which door. What do you ask? Think carefully, or you may end up taking Jager shots with annoying kids in madras for the rest of eternity opposed to watching multiple Putins lovingly nurse baby elks. *sigh*
