A Painful Day

Sigh. You know the SuperDogs? Those highly-trained, super-fast dogs that do stupendous feats for the crowds at stampedes and exhibitions? They always do these obstacle courses - run through the tunnel, zig zag past the poles, race up and down the see-saw and, for the grande finale, jump over the bars like a show horse. Of course, with every pass through the course the crowd is whipped up into a greater frenzy by the announcer who thunders, "Who thinks that Laddie can do One. More. BAR?!" And so another bar is put on and Laddie keeps going through the course until finally, spent beyond his Kibbles and Bits, Laddie catches the highest bar with his back paw and they all (bars and barker) come tumbling down. But everyone cheers for Laddie anyway, who takes a good-natured turn around the arena before heading back to his kennel for some well-deserved treats.

I feel like Laddie today.

First, the DMV. As an out-of-country resident, I am required to prove my understanding of the rules of the road and have to take the knowledge test. (Better than those poor suckers from outside of North America - they have to take a road test, too. I'd never pass.)

Having pored over the Minnesota Driver's Manual, I headed over to the DMV and waited my turn to take the knowlege test. I had The Boy with me, but I also had the DVD player. Score one for me, I thought. But then there were all those signs - no electronic devices, no talking, no smuggled-in copies of the manual (guess they've got problems with cheating on the test). I was informed The Boy could not sit beside me with his DVD player.

So I took the test. With The Boy on my lap. Barely reading the questions before hurriedly logging the answers, whispering threats, and praying that I would not be overheard and given an automatic fail for cheating.

(For the record, I passed. I got one wrong - I guessed that you need to stop 50 feet behind a schoolbus with flashing signal lights. Apparently those little devils only need a 20-foot margin of safety. And while I'm okay with my 97%, I'm a bit bummed. Made me ask myself, "what happened to the other 3%?" Old habits die hard.)

Having passed my test, I waited again to be called to the window. Once there, the nice man behind the counter looked at my passport and said, "Um, I don't think this is you." This move has given me a few gray hairs, but nothing along the line of The Husband's all-over-distinguishedness. Yup, I'd brought the wrong passport.

So The Boy and I went home for a lunchbreak and a passport swap.

Back to the DMV. Back to another line-up. The next part - getting my license and registering my vehicle - was deceptively easy. Cleared that bar with inches to spare. I had thought, hmm, maybe I can go ahead and register/get plates at the same place - might as well bring my documentation and save myself a trip. Gotta say a kind word for Xauvier - a nicer public official I have yet to meet. In and out in an hour with a provisional driver's license and new plates for my car.

Off to the next obstacle. Immunizations.

The Girl requires the final rounds of Hep B. Or she "could jeopardize her ability to be admitted into/continue on in school." The Boy also has his share of required vaccinations, so off we went to the doctor's office after school. Weighing the pros and cons of giving her some warning vs. springing the ordeal on her, I opted to tell The Girl this morning. Yeah. Won't do that again.

Despite promises of a Target run to get some much-coveted items, The Girl was close to panic when we got there. The Boy, not remembering his last one at 18 months of age, was less upset. We got in the room and the physician's assistant said, "okay, so we're doing two for The Girl and six for The Boy."

Um, no.

I explained that all I wanted was Hep B for The Girl and whichever two were the next up for The Boy. She gave me an impatient look and tossed five of the eight pre-filled needles into the garbage. I volunteered The Girl to go first as the anxiety and anticipation were working her into a frenzy. I held her top half down and the assistant held her bottom half down and rammed the needle into her thigh. The Boy, confronted with the reality of the heretorefore abstract concept of "a needle," proceeded to panic and run around the office screaming, "NO NEEDLE! NO NEEDLE!" So repeat the above (times two) with the added pleasure of a six-year-old incoherently screaming next to me.

(I think the assistant was glad we had opted for only three after all.)

So I hustled two sobbing, limping children into the car and headed for Target with declarations of "the needles in my leg are hurting!" and "I can feel the sickness going through my body!" hurrying us along. But the pain was forgotten (well, mostly) once we got through the check-out.

Got home, checked my email, and found that the husband of the woman who rear-ended me (remember that obstacle from long ago?) has decided that the estimate we have provided is essentially an attempt to scam him (based on the expert opinions of his wife and pre-teen sons who determined at the scene that there was little damage, if any) and is capping the amount he will pay without involving the insurance company at just less than our estimate. He goes on to note that this is a "windfall" for us, but it's our call if we want to go to our insurance company.

(Okay, one more time Laddie. One. More. BAR!)

The Husband came home and I related the day's events.

"You registered your car? We don't have insurance down here yet - you know that you're not insured by Autopac anymore now, right?"

(And the bar crashes to the ground.)

Weary and bewildered but not beaten, I now take my well-earned lap around the arena to all of your wild and kind applause. No doggy treats for me, but the glass of wine is certainly helping. Although it could explain why I fell down the stairs ten minutes ago.