The Crushing Difficulty of Simplification

WARNING: This entry contains extensive bitching and graphic scenes of frustration.

As readers of this blog know, I am attempting to simplify my life by selling my beloved car, Grommit. I recently got Grommit's title in the mail from the bank where I'd just paid him off, along with a letter asking me to make an appointment at my local DMV to get the bank officially released as lienholder on the car. The bank is in California.

I put this task off for a week or two. On Monday, however, I found a guy who wanted to buy the car (yay!) so decided to get the title business taken care of. So yesterday morning I went down to the DMV, which inexplicably is located very near the Capitol so of course has grossly inadequate parking. Having miraculously managed to secure a space on a street a mere 4 blocks away, I walked in, stood in line and explained the situation.

Of course the woman behind the counter had no idea what I was talking about. She suggested I go to the DMV in California. When I convinced her this was not the best course of action, she told me that I would need to

1.) get a DC drivers license, requiring
a.) proof of address
b.) my social security card, and
c.) my birth certificate

2.) surrender my current California title and wait 10-15 days for DC to mail me a new one.

So I marched out in a huff. I hope they learned their lesson.

Then I moved on to plan B: get my form filled out at the Maryland DMV while transferring ownership to Mr. Buyer, who lives in that state. I was scheduled to meet Mr. Buyer at the DMV this afternoon but called ahead to try to determine if plan B would be feasible. Maryland DMV worker was also confused, but seemed to think it could be done. She did tell me, though, that we'd need to print out a bill of sale from the website and get it notarized before coming in. We should be able to get it notarized at any bank, though, she said.

Thus Mr. Buyer and I decided to meet at his bank instead of at the DMV so that he could procure a check at the same time that we got the form notarized. At least I thought that's what we decided. Mr. Buyer thought we were meeting at a suburban metro station. His directions included the name of the major road said station is on, plus the not-at-all helpful information that it was in a downtown-type area and had a bridge to a tall building. By the time I got there I was already ready to strangle him. I really hate driving in this town.

But I did get there, with only a little bit of backtracking, and Mr. Buyer and I were off. Mr. B is a skinny Iranian-American kid with pungent B.O. It's worth noting that he's starting medical school soon. He told me to turn left to get to his bank, and half a mile or so down the road said we'd passed it and had me turn around. It turned out we should have turned right in the first place. He apologized. We eventually got to his bank, where the notary had gone home for the day. A bank employee had us wait for 10 minutes while he called another branch to make sure their notary was on duty, then printed out a MapQuest map for us. This seemed like a nice touch until we were three miles down the road and were most assuredly not on the right track: it was time for another U-turn.

(Later, on closer inspection, I determined that the directions we'd gotten were not actually from one branch to the other branch. There were from some unidentified location in that suburb to the branch we needed to go to, and they'd directed us in exactly the wrong way.)

After about 6 miles of fruitless searching for the branch, during which we became increasingly discouraged about the possibility of reaching the DMV before its 4:30 closing time, Mr. B and I concurred we should just go to any bank for the notarization. I thought this was a good idea because I thought Mr. B had mentioned earlier that he'd already been to the bank that day to get the check for the car--another miscommunication. Mr. B thought this was a good idea because he is an idiot.

There are lots of banks in Rockville. A substantial proportion of them, we found, close at 3:00 pm. Finally we found one that was open (until 7:00!) and had a notary on duty. It was unlikely we'd make it to the DMV on time, but at least the whole excursion would accomplish something. Or so it seemed.

We sat down with the notary. She put our names in her book. She told me to sign my part of the bill of sale.

"This would be the time when you give me the check," I said to Mr. B.

He didn't have it. He apologized profusely.

I hadn't been exactly nice to Mr. B so far that afternoon. He's easily the worst navigator ever to sit shotgun in Grommit. But at that point I lost my cool a little.

"How," I asked, "did you plan to buy a car?"

More apologizing as we left the bank and got into the car yet again. Oh, he thought he'd just get the check when we got the bill of sale notarized, he forgot, this was his first time buying a car, etc.

He decided that the best course of action would be to go back to the first branch and at least get the check today. He apologized some more, and I wished he'd stop because I felt like the ball was in my court to tell him it was ok, and it really wasn't. If I weren't a 20-something vegetarian I would have been worried about my blood pressure. As it was I was worried I might commit vehicular homicide.

I dropped him off at the bank. We decided to meet at a DMV in a different suburb (one closer to the city) at 9:00 am to continue the odyssey.

Stewing in my car on the way back home, it occurred to me that I could make myself feel better by enjoying my car while I still had it. And the obvious way to enjoy my car was to take advantage of Rockville's plethora of box stores and strip malls. My first stop was at the Container Store, where I bought a handy cart (shown eons ago at the start of this entry). That's what people use to shop for groceries when they don't have a car. My other stops were Ann Taylor Loft (no luck this time), Baskin Robbins (nothing like a milkshake to calm the soul), and Trader Joe's, where I stocked up like a girl who won't get back to Trader Joe's for a long, long time. It worked: I recovered much of my equanimity. Only to lose it again when I got back into the traffic hell that is the District and almost hit a blind man.

Will I manage to sell my car before grinding my teeth down to nubs and losing my new job due to absenteeism? Stay tuned.