a full day
Sep. 20th, 2005 09:46 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dragonlady7My hips are killing me, and sadly the only thing I did that could possibly explain that is stand for nearly two hours in the line at the DMV. No crazy sexual acrobatics are to blame. I hope they feel better tomorrow; I have a lot left to do. I did do laundry and plant the clematis (it will be so sexy on my porch, at least insofar as a flowering vine can be considered sexy), but I have 10 hyacinths, 12 muscari, 25 snowdrops, 50 crocus, and 3 giant alium left to plant. And, like, other stuff, too boring even to recount here.
I did run some errands today-- went to the post office, but![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
lenine2, I forgot your Package of Randomnity! Bah. I did get postcard stamps, so for everyone else, bizarre postcards should ensue. (Please, anyone who is remotely bored or in need of mail at some random point in the future, do email me your address; I have an abiding love for sending strange postcards, albeit never ever in a timely fashion.)
Today we bought Z a helmet and ordered me one that should be in tomorrow at Radioactive Cycles on Sheridan. I liked the style with the face shield, and the display model they had in the store fit me fine, but it was... baby pink. And, no, I am not the girl who wears pink. Not on a red scooter. They laughed at me for being picky, but god damn, I'm not spending $75 on a baby pink helmet that makes me look like a Power Ranger. Z got a perfectly unexceptional matte black 3/4 helmet with a detachable visor, and a pair of close-fitting sunglasses designed to be motorcycle eye protection. He wants to get really nice prescription goggles, so these are an interim step. Me, I figure a face shield is my best bet, so I'm not going to bother with goggles-- I wear glasses most of the time anyway and it'd just be a pain.
We then gave Percy $800 in cash money to get the title to the scooter, so that we could minimize the number of times we'd have to wait in The Long-Ass Line at the DMV. We got there at 3:15; I went and got a place in TL-AL (which was Long-Ass indeed) while Z waited in the less-long line at the Information desk to make sure we had everything we needed. We got everything, and all was well, and then Z joined me (ha! six people from the end already, just in the 5 minutes it took him to get sorted out) and we proceeded to stand in line. We stood in line like champions, like real pros; I only sort of regret that I was wearing my Day Off shoes, which have heels and are utterly unsuited to any real serious Standing Around duty. (I can stand around like a pro because indeed, that is my profession. I blame my subsequent weakness on the fact that I was improperly equipped. But damn I looked good!)
An hour and a half and some change later we finally got to the front of the line. In the meantime the line behind us had doubled; I've my doubts that some of those people would even get seen to before closing time. I wonder if they just close up and tell the people in line to fuck off? The end of that line had to be at least a 3-hour wait, and the place closed in less than two when we left.
We went separately; it took me approximately a minute and a half to get my motorcycle permit, and the woman behind the counter said that they've had their Internet connection severed by the construction workers down the street no less than three times so far. "We're almost starting to get used to it," she said. I shuddered: what horror. I also told her how I admired the way they'd handled the crisis, although I'm not sure she took "brutally efficient and effective" as a compliment, but she did smile.
I went over and Z was midway through getting his registration taken care of, and she'd done the permit paperwork already. (Why, I wonder idly, is the DMV almost entirely staffed by women? Is it because they're the only ones that can put up with the arcane shit? Or is it more that the irate customers are far less likely to deck a woman? I duly note that the counters are constructed in such a way that you'd have to be Superman or eight feet tall or have Gumby arms and souped-up reflexes to actually make contact with the worker behind them.)
Finally, somewhat after 5:30, we escaped, with a laminated plastic-and-metal license plate of miniscule size and assorted paperwork, and two temporary motorcycle permits. We promptly went three driveways down on that street to visit Kentucky Greg's, to share a rack of ribs, some baked beans, black-eyed peas, cornbread, cheddar fries, and a bottle of Labatt's for under $30. This is the joy that is Greg's: I would argue their ribs, taste-wise and texture-wise, are better even than Dinosaur BBQ's, and far surpass those of Fat Bob's (who won Best of Buffalo for ribs this year, due entirely to being located just off Allen St. and two blocks from the newspaper's HQ), but dinner for two there is just plain ridiculously cheap. And their black-eyed peas are good.
We still don't have a scooter, but now we own one, which is a start. I'll get my helmet tomorrow, and Percy says we can get the scooter after 5 on Thurs. Yays!
Meanwhile my sore hips and I are sharing a White Russian made with a generous splash of real heavy cream I haven't yet used in making ice cream. (It's not all cream. But I've gained a pound just from pouring it. Ahh. It tastes good.) The real true joy of alcohol as a painkiller is not so much that it stops the pain, so much as that it stops you caring, which is really, in the end, just as effective and a bit more, er, artistic I suppose.
Perhaps I'll have another. ... Or perhaps I'll ingratiate myself with my liver and simply go to sleep.
In the meantime, to any Opera users, I will pass on Z's anguish. He decided to give it another whirl and it fuxored his dock entirely, and he cries out to you: "It's like I want to use it, but it just won't let me." I don't think I have any web-dev fanatics left in my close circle of friends, but I've known my share of Opera fanatics and at the (inconsiderable, I admit) risk of having them flame me: Baby, why your browser gotta suck so bad?
I did run some errands today-- went to the post office, but
lenine2, I forgot your Package of Randomnity! Bah. I did get postcard stamps, so for everyone else, bizarre postcards should ensue. (Please, anyone who is remotely bored or in need of mail at some random point in the future, do email me your address; I have an abiding love for sending strange postcards, albeit never ever in a timely fashion.)Today we bought Z a helmet and ordered me one that should be in tomorrow at Radioactive Cycles on Sheridan. I liked the style with the face shield, and the display model they had in the store fit me fine, but it was... baby pink. And, no, I am not the girl who wears pink. Not on a red scooter. They laughed at me for being picky, but god damn, I'm not spending $75 on a baby pink helmet that makes me look like a Power Ranger. Z got a perfectly unexceptional matte black 3/4 helmet with a detachable visor, and a pair of close-fitting sunglasses designed to be motorcycle eye protection. He wants to get really nice prescription goggles, so these are an interim step. Me, I figure a face shield is my best bet, so I'm not going to bother with goggles-- I wear glasses most of the time anyway and it'd just be a pain.
We then gave Percy $800 in cash money to get the title to the scooter, so that we could minimize the number of times we'd have to wait in The Long-Ass Line at the DMV. We got there at 3:15; I went and got a place in TL-AL (which was Long-Ass indeed) while Z waited in the less-long line at the Information desk to make sure we had everything we needed. We got everything, and all was well, and then Z joined me (ha! six people from the end already, just in the 5 minutes it took him to get sorted out) and we proceeded to stand in line. We stood in line like champions, like real pros; I only sort of regret that I was wearing my Day Off shoes, which have heels and are utterly unsuited to any real serious Standing Around duty. (I can stand around like a pro because indeed, that is my profession. I blame my subsequent weakness on the fact that I was improperly equipped. But damn I looked good!)
An hour and a half and some change later we finally got to the front of the line. In the meantime the line behind us had doubled; I've my doubts that some of those people would even get seen to before closing time. I wonder if they just close up and tell the people in line to fuck off? The end of that line had to be at least a 3-hour wait, and the place closed in less than two when we left.
We went separately; it took me approximately a minute and a half to get my motorcycle permit, and the woman behind the counter said that they've had their Internet connection severed by the construction workers down the street no less than three times so far. "We're almost starting to get used to it," she said. I shuddered: what horror. I also told her how I admired the way they'd handled the crisis, although I'm not sure she took "brutally efficient and effective" as a compliment, but she did smile.
I went over and Z was midway through getting his registration taken care of, and she'd done the permit paperwork already. (Why, I wonder idly, is the DMV almost entirely staffed by women? Is it because they're the only ones that can put up with the arcane shit? Or is it more that the irate customers are far less likely to deck a woman? I duly note that the counters are constructed in such a way that you'd have to be Superman or eight feet tall or have Gumby arms and souped-up reflexes to actually make contact with the worker behind them.)
Finally, somewhat after 5:30, we escaped, with a laminated plastic-and-metal license plate of miniscule size and assorted paperwork, and two temporary motorcycle permits. We promptly went three driveways down on that street to visit Kentucky Greg's, to share a rack of ribs, some baked beans, black-eyed peas, cornbread, cheddar fries, and a bottle of Labatt's for under $30. This is the joy that is Greg's: I would argue their ribs, taste-wise and texture-wise, are better even than Dinosaur BBQ's, and far surpass those of Fat Bob's (who won Best of Buffalo for ribs this year, due entirely to being located just off Allen St. and two blocks from the newspaper's HQ), but dinner for two there is just plain ridiculously cheap. And their black-eyed peas are good.
We still don't have a scooter, but now we own one, which is a start. I'll get my helmet tomorrow, and Percy says we can get the scooter after 5 on Thurs. Yays!
Meanwhile my sore hips and I are sharing a White Russian made with a generous splash of real heavy cream I haven't yet used in making ice cream. (It's not all cream. But I've gained a pound just from pouring it. Ahh. It tastes good.) The real true joy of alcohol as a painkiller is not so much that it stops the pain, so much as that it stops you caring, which is really, in the end, just as effective and a bit more, er, artistic I suppose.
Perhaps I'll have another. ... Or perhaps I'll ingratiate myself with my liver and simply go to sleep.
In the meantime, to any Opera users, I will pass on Z's anguish. He decided to give it another whirl and it fuxored his dock entirely, and he cries out to you: "It's like I want to use it, but it just won't let me." I don't think I have any web-dev fanatics left in my close circle of friends, but I've known my share of Opera fanatics and at the (inconsiderable, I admit) risk of having them flame me: Baby, why your browser gotta suck so bad?
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no subject
Date: 2005-09-21 03:23 am (UTC)Take your time with any randomosities you want to send. I'm hitting the road on Saturday and won't be home until the dark of night on Oct 1. I will have a house sitter, but she will most likely be tangled up in the tons of hair inflicted by two shedding collies and won't be able to make it to the mail box.
Last time I was at the DMV I was obediently standing in line, when a guy found out he had to PAY money to get his license renewed and threw not only a fit but the "Please Wait Here" sign and it hit me. The workers didn't even look up to see if I was bleeding or dead or whatever.
Isn't it fun?