Of Lowered Expectations

Yesterday I required the services of not one, not two, but THREE government agencies. What I understandably expected to be a day of hell actually made me realize that not all government agencies are created equal. And not all government employees are homicidal maniacs.

Probably most, but not all. Which made it a mostly good day.

As promised, I found myself in the DMV line as early as I could muster: 7:30 am. That put me third, right in front of a woman who, while we watched the employees arrive, observed that you must be predisposed to crankiness to work at the DMV. True to form, the woman who helped me was sour throughout our entire 7-minute transaction. She refused to smile. I think she has damaged funny-bone DNA.

The guy who took my picture was a much more personable sort. He, and the woman watching over him, were both overly complimentary of my smile. (I gotta look into doing toothpaste ads, yo.) But that picture is still going to look like the standard issue ID photo. Ick.

Since that put me back home by 8:15 am, I'd have to say it wasn't the anticipated dreadful experience. And too short to gather stories on the sorrowful people sure to populate it later in the day.

Next up was the Office of Finance, Van Nuys division, where they make you take a number, like at the deli! Luckily I was, again, the third one called. And though my mother had warned me, I still almost didn't believe the man behind the mirrored glass was quite so accomodating. He actually stated, in front of a room full of witnesses, that they would help me fill out my tax forms next year to ensure I file on time. Wow, really? So I gave him my card. And now, I'm fully licensed to do business in the City of Los Angeles.

But here was where I finally got my weird character run-in, in the form of a young, pregnant, Eastern European woman. She was in to rectify something gone haywire with her business. Her male companion appeared pretty useless and she kept cutting him in their native tongue. All I got out of it was that some fire code had been violated. Guess the bun in the oven put them over capacity.

Imagine an 8-month pregnant blonde 20-something, in a strapless bright pink baby doll, spitting in...Czech, for argument's sake. She was not unattractive, but so disheveled I felt rather sorry for her. At the same time she was pleading for assistance from the person behind the glass, she was shushing her partner rather viciously, and it made the whole sorry scene fitting in its own depressing way. Because the sad sterility of the typical government agency begs this sort of experience, no?

My last stop was the Post Office. I did not have high hopes for the this. It was, after all, 4:30 pm on a Friday afternoon. If anyone was going to be cranky, it was going to be the postal workers. But I had to mail a cd to a client, so I didn't have a choice.

And yet, when the man behind the counter asked if he could further assist me or if I needed to buy stamps, I believe his sincerity. He clearly had no intention to come back and gun down his fellow employees or patrons. He was simply going about his business, doing his job, and seemingly, not hating it.

Whoa.

What kind of day is it when multiple encounters with the government don't leave one frustrated with the urge to move to Canada? Better yet, how sad is it that we've come to expect so little from the people who help run our country?