Dear Sweet Mama Gets All Motherf*cker

Those of you who have been reading me for awhile have probably built up a picture in your head of my Dear Sweet Mama — sweet, Southern and smartassed, slightly dingbatty (I was gonna put “dingy” but that sounds like my Mama is a little bit grimy like a chimney sweep)  at times but overall very Zen and laid-back.  Kinda like The Dude in a dress, if she ever wore dresses.

But there is another side to DSM, a side that is just as real, though not as brightly lit… A DAAAARK SIIIIIDE….

As the people at our local DMV (ok, they call it the MVA here, but whatevs) found out today.

SCENE:  The Counter at the DMV/MVA/Place Where They Do Car Stuff

Hoody and Dear Sweet Mama are transferring the title of the car from DSM’s name to Hoody’s name (‘just wait, there’s a whole big story behind THAT, as well — later post).  DSM is also trying to get a Handicapped placard since she will no longer have Handicapped plates.

DSM:  So how do I get a placard?

Clerk (poor, poor clerk):  You just have to fill out the application and get it authorized by your doctor.

DSM:  But I just did that to get the plate.  Do I have to do it again?

Clerk (who really should have called in sick today):  Well, do you have the note from your doctor’s prescription pad?

DSM:  I had to turn that in to get the plates.

Clerk (who should have studied harder in college so as not to have to work at the DMV):  Ummm…

DSM:  That’s just not right.

In DSM’s defense, that’s NOT right, but you must recognize that DSM was getting progressively LOUDER with every sentence, to the point where the Supervisor had to weigh in:

Supervisor (who will shortly wish she’d gone on lunch):  Now now now…

Hoody:  Mama, chill… (as y’all know, there is a deputy stationed at the DMV to keep order, and Hoody tries not to get aslant of the law, ever since the Unfortunate Incident — no, I’m not talking about the DUI, I’m talking about this.)

DSM:  Okay, okay, but that’s bullshit… mutter mutter mutter.

Clerk (who clearly doesn’t know who she’s dealing with):  I don’t make the rules, ma’am, I just have to follow them.

OH NO SHE DIDN’T

So Hoody had to talk DSM off the Motherfucker Ledge AGAIN, all because Clerk couldn’t shut the fuck up.

Upshot of all this is, DSM COULD have gotten a placard, since Supervisor was able to look up her records, but actually COULD NOT because she already has one.  And in NJ, you can either have a plate and a placard or just one placard.  Because fuck you, that’s why.  And no, even this didn’t help:

DSM:  Well, in New York we could have a placard for each car…

HH:  C’mon, Mama.

And they managed to get out of the office without getting arrested.  The End.

PS:  DSM says if I’m going to tell y’all this story, I also have to share her latest harebrained scheme brilliant idea.  She wants to put an ad on Craigslist offering to share pairs of shoes with a person who only has one leg — by posing as someone who ALSO only has one leg, but on the other side.  Like:  “ISO woman with missing left leg to share shoes with woman with missing right leg, size 7 and a half.  Please see attached for picture of missing leg.”

PPS:  Yes, you read that right.  “Please see attached for picture of MISSING leg.”

PPPS:  And yes, in case you were wondering, this IS why I’m like this.

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4 Comments

Filed under Adventures with Dear Sweet Mama, I'm Confused, La Vida Loca, Weep for Humanity, WTF???

4 responses to “Dear Sweet Mama Gets All Motherf*cker

  1. I had to get a temporary placard when I had knee surgery. This was during one of California’s many budget crises, and DMV staffing had been cut way down. It took about six weeks. By the time it arrived, I almost didn’t need it any more.

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  2. My mom has one. Somedays she needs it, sometimes she has good days when she doesn’t. Last visit we went to The Walmars and although it was a good day we parked in a handicapped spot. “What if they see us and think we didn’t really need it?” worried paranoid me. “Do this.” Mom said… and we limped in like Igor, humped over and dragging a leg. Then Mom started muttering “Brains. BRAINS!”
    This is why we can only go to out of town Walmars.

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    • A similar incident is why DSM and I are “no longer welcome at Staples,” – she was all hacky and Captain Trips-coughy and I said, “Didn’t that guy from the CDC tell you not to go out in public?”
      Without missing a beat, she replied, “Oh, he didn’t MEAN it…”

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