California law requires that the buyer of a used vehicle complete registration with the DMV within 10 days of the transaction.  Thus, I found myself in line one morning at 7:30 am, waiting for the office to open.  If you’re curious, thirty minutes before opening is good for the eighth spot in line.

Fifteen minutes prior to the scheduled opening, two women pushed a cart out the front door loaded with clipboards and forms.  This was new to me but anything that increases efficiency sounds great.  They began working their way down the line, handing out appropriate paperwork to people waiting on line so they could be prepared upon opening.  Again, great stuff and I applaud any government agency streamlining their process.

The woman waiting in front of me had brought her dog, Taylor.  Taylor wasn’t a service dog but a friendly gent nonetheless.  I chatted him up for a quarter hour, he’s now on my Christmas card list.  Sadly, The Ladies of the Cart took a dim view of canines on their line.  Who knows, a dog gets in and the next thing you know he’s having his picture taken and a license is issued.  Huge embarrassment potential.  Taylor was banished to the car under threat of not serving his owner.

Their shameless act of discrimination complete, I was next in line.  My completed registration form was checked for accuracy and I received a tepid nod of approval (DMV forms being right up there with snaps and zippers on the difficulty scale).  No-Dogs-Sally then gave me a small slip of paper with explicit instructions which, in the spirit of belt and suspenders, she also verbalized. “Window 14, you are number B.”  Yes, that’s right, number B.

The reward for an early arrival was another fifteen minute wait.  The wait was no big deal but fifteen minutes is apparently the amount of time required for gum discarded on a plastic chair to permanently adhere to gabardine.  Almost certainly, it was left by a Juicy Fruit chomping retriever.  Mathematical note:  Still waiting on confirmation from the lab but number B would appear to be a rational number between 12 and 13.

    I’m just back from a trip to Southern California with my son and his water polo team.  His team plays in several “travel tournaments” each year and it’s always a good time.  Yes, I realize it’s somewhat ridiculous for twelve year olds to travel for sports, their parents plunking down chunks of cash that would otherwise fit quite nicely into a college savings account.  Then again, as a parents of three active kids, my wife and I both enjoy the one on one time with our kids and take turns traveling with them.

For the uninitiated, water polo is much like a swim meet but instead of a flip turn at the end of the pool, one wrestles with an opposing player for 15 to 25 seconds before sprinting back to the opposite end.  There’s a ball, a couple goals and two guys in white who blow whistles and make hand gestures which get any overzealous adults in the stands to moan, whine, hoot and yell.  It’s quite a sight to take in.  Multiple games over the course of a day can be exhausting.  The kids get pretty tired too.

Upon completion of the first day’s action, I was more than a little excited to get checked into our hotel, get a shower and put my feet up.  It was a fairly nice hotel and I was quite taken with the well-appointed bathroom.  There was plenty of space, natural stone, lots of soft towels and, the star of the show, an extra-large shower complete with rain water shower head.  Cool.  Not what we have at home and judging from the circumference of the head, showering would take about ninety seconds.  The rolled up shower mat by the door seemed oddly out of place but I’m no authority on décor, so no matter.

Water pressure is the wind beneath any shower head’s wings.  The pressure here was in the “acceptable” category, several notches down from “majestic”.  Still good enough to hose down both shoulders simultaneously.  The reason behind the roomy shower was quickly evident:  one must step clear of the water to apply soap or it’s washed away on contact.  It took me the first verse of Jim Croce’s “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown” to get lathered and back under the torrent.  Shampoo was gone instantly as was any other visible bubble.  Right about the time I dragged Leroy through his “lesson ‘bout a-messin’ with the wife of a jealous man”, a problem occurred to me.  The water came straight down, not out at an angle and I have not one but two underarms.  My feet and other areas we’ll simply characterize as “tough to rinse” would need a going over as well.  I stood briefly stumped as the rain continued to pound my skyward facing epidermis.

The cleaning staff works in strange and mysterious ways.  As my eyes fell to the corner of the room I was struck by a moment of clarity.  My wife doesn’t believe it but I swear another light came on above.  Maybe the bulb had been loose and steam completed the connection.  Doesn’t matter.  The answer was there.  Changing vocal gears to “Slip Slidin’ Away”, I cast wide the shower door and padded slowly but certainly over the marble floor, crossing the stone encased room like an out of tune Paul Simon at a Red Rocks nudist event.  A few short steps and I had my mitts on the combo shower/yoga mat.

The rest of process was silky smooth.

 

 

 

Only problem was I needed a shower afterwards.

 

My family and I went to a Superbowl party yesterday.  We knew a few people and correctly assumed there would also be people we hadn’t met.  In any case, it would be fun, we’d make some new friends and have a few laughs.  Good times and noodle salad, to borrow a line from Jack Nicholson.  I also got to spend some time with The Smartest Guy in the Room.

It was obvious during the pregame show.  The guys were in the den talking all things football:  players, coaches, interviews and our favorite announcers.  The best dressed guy, seated dead center, then offered a simile which involved Thoreau and transcendentalism.  Oh boy, buckle up.  I wasn’t sure how it equated but it wasn’t my party so I wasn’t going to point it out.  As the day wore on, this fellow would pull his nose out of his Bordeaux to answer any question posed, rhetorically or otherwise.

It’s only fair to say that when I was more immature (hard to believe that’s possible, I know), I would have engaged someone like this differently.  My own insecurities would lead me to demonstrate that I too had read Walden and a wide assortment of other books, thank you very much.  Alternatively, I might have made a show of burying my own substantial schnoz in my mineral water (I don’t drink anymore, turns out I was terrible at stopping).  This is not only overtly unkind but the bubbles tickle my nose and I end up dribbling water on my shirt.  It pleases me to say that I’ve moved beyond that stage.  I regret to admit that I haven’t moved very far, but as I pointed out on the way home, hey, I never argued with the Smartest Guy in the Room.

There’s a better way to have fun with the neighborhood pedant.  It gives me occasion to play the most uninformed and under educated person in the room.  Everyone wins.  Instead of photographic memory, I mentioned a buddy with a photogenic memory.  Instead of a moot point, I alluded to a “mute” point.  I even lobbed an “irregardless” grenade.  A direct hit judging by the wince.

One day I’ll take that next step and become a real live, card carrying adult.  Just not today.