Maxine Visits The Department of OMFG

Yesterday, after spending some time hanging with King V, who continues to live up to his name, I headed for the Toyota dealership to see about getting my car fixed. Last week, unfortunately, a woman in a Jeep plowed into the back of my car at a stoplight. The left taillight is jacked; the bumper is covered in jagged, semi-attached chunks of paint; and a plastic section across the trunk that says CAMRY is partially busted. The car is already 17 years old and these injuries fall on a list of craptastic things that have happened to the vehicle ever since I took ownership from King V in 2005. So far, I have:

• Been in a collision (going slowly) that FUBARed the radiator
• Been sideswiped by a van, which resulted in a trashed left front fender and busted the side headlight (whatever it's called)
• Slid on ice (again, going slowly) and scraped the entire left side of the car when I drove into a CVS -- and I mean, drove INTO. I smacked into the building so hard (despite the fact that I was only going about five miles an hour before hitting the ice) that I was surprised the pharmacy staff didn't lean out the window and ask WTF just happened

And now this. The right side of the car is the only one left intact. The car can't look much worse at this point, but it's chugging along like it's only a few years old. I'm glad for it; I'm certainly in no position to take on a car payment. I sure would like it if people would stop driving into my vehicle, though.

So I was headed for the dealership and realized on the way that I would be a block away from the unemployment office. A few weeks ago, I received a letter that told of a mandatory, early-morning, THREE-HOUR job training seminar I was going to have to attend at the office. Luckily, the letter also said I might be exempt if I had a college degree. I located my diploma and headed out the door.

The unemployment office is next door to the probation office. Judging by the clientele choking up one of several waiting areas, I wasn't sure at first that I'd gone in the right door. Things got off to a great start when the guy behind the information counter didn't recognize the letter I'd brought in. I should mention that I, oh so professionally, spilled Pepsi on the letter, so it was decorated with a nice, wavy brown line down the middle and looked like I'd found it in the parking lot under a caffeine-saturated rock. I was handed a number -- 62 -- and told to wait.

I took a seat as number 31 or 32 was summoned to the counter. I came close to audibly groaning. 45 or so terrible, my-turn-is-never-going-to-get-here minutes later, my number was finally called by one of the lackadaisical women behind the counter. Visiting the unemployment office was a lot like being at the BMV -- the same seemingly-endless wait coupled with employees idly chatting with one another while a waiting room full of people wondered why they hadn't just gone ahead and killed themselves yet squirmed in their hard, plastic chairs. I approached the counter and presented my letter. I wasn't surprised when the clerk didn't know what to do with it. Two for two. She took my soda-stained memo and disappeared behind a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY.

Luckily, she was back a few minutes later. Tragically, I was informed, sotto voce, that I had come to the wrong office. The correct unemployment office was located across town. Silly me to think that a satellite office could help me. I scrapped my trip to the dealership as I had to hoof it to the west side (west sigh-de!) of town before the correct location closed. I hopped on the interstate and zipped towards my destination. Adding fun to the mix of not knowing where I was going was the clot of construction I drove into. Lanes zigged and zagged and I, conveniently, drove by my exit. When the interstate in question isn't being fixed, it offers west- and east-bound exits for the street I wanted. During hell construction, apparently there's one exit. And there it went. Zoom.

I turned around and found myself behind a large truck that reeked of tar. It chugged down the interstate and progressively got slower and slower. The traffic behind me didn't, of course. When the truck pulled off the road to deliver something smelly to the clutch of workers protected by the cement girders, there was a half-mile of open road in front of me and a pack of cars bearing down on my-already damaged car. I was glad that my visit to a body shop that morning (where I tried, unsuccessfully, to get the car fixed) had at least resulted in an oil change. It came in handy when I hit the gas and the car didn't protest.

I finally located my exit and started looking anew for the office. I'd been told it was next to a large hardware store. Unfortunately, my GPS was dyslexic. I was told to head west when I should've gone east. (And yes, I accounted for the fact that I was turned around.) After ending up by a high school that had just belched its students onto the streets, I got directions at a local Taco Bell, where I finally, at 3:30 p.m., scored lunch. I headed in the correct direction and found, with ease, the hardware store. The road that allegedly led to the unemployment office was closed by, you guessed it, more construction. I finally found the office BEHIND the hardware store. I suppose that's technically NEXT to the store. In that obscured-from-view, ha-ha-you're-never-going-to-get-there, you-don't-have-a-full-time-joooooooob-so-sure-drive-around-all-afternoon! kind of way.

Diploma in hand, I hopped out of the car. It was almost 4:00 p.m. by this point and I remembered, from visiting the unemployment office's website, that they closed around that time. Luckily, they were still open and blissfully air conditioned. (Despite fall's rapid approach, we're still experiencing a cloying mugginess.) There was no one in the waiting room. In fact, two somewhat-bored-looking women sat behind the counter. I approached. Third time's a charm -- the employee didn't recognize my letter. At that point, I really could've argued the merits behind justifiable homicide. I explained what the letter said, that I was likely exempt from the training because of the degree I so preciously held, and the employee said, "Where's your training schedule?"

Um. What?

"Your training schedule. You said you had to attend train-"

I cut her off. I didn't care; I was too fried from the journey AND the sun to be polite any longer. The wild goose chase needed to end and soon. I raised my voice slightly and pointed to the paper that she hadn't even bothered to read, let alone touch. (IT'S JUST PEPSI!) Thankfully, she finally glanced at the lengthy bit of text and gathered my crispy letter, IDs, and the diploma I gingerly handed her -- knowing it hadn't been out of its protective cover in the seven years I'd had it -- and made photocopies of everything. I was assured that the woman who wrote the Magical Mystery Letter That No Other Employee Had Ever Witnessed would be informed of my official exemption status.

The rest of my trip was uneventful, save for the driver who viewed a yield sign on the interstate entrance ramp as a stop sign and was patiently letting cars woosh by his van while unaware drivers like me were treating the ramp like a launch pad gradually accelerating in preparation to floor it and go the hell home. I remember, from studying for my driving exam, that yield signs are to be seen as stop signs under certain circumstances. I just don't remember any of those pertaining to high-speed situations like A Semi Is Chasing Me; Step On It, Grandpa. That said, what do I know? I like to spill Pepsi on things and drive around aimlessly.