Deranged Ludicrous Demons...

...Also known as the Drivers Licence Division of Utah County.

A million years ago when I got married, I had to change my licence. I wandered down to the facility in Provo all starry-eyed, and plopped myself into the nearly-empty office and waited my turn, which took about 29 seconds. I got to the desk, and the person looked up at me in dreary disgust and said, "We need your driver's licence, social security card, birth certificate, your last known temperature, a clean pair of underwear, and your wedding licence."

I threw everything onto the desk, and waited expectantly.

"Miss, we need a wedding licence, not your wedding certificate." The person then used my clean pair of undies to blow their nose. Ew.

"So, you need to go back and get another clean pair of underwear and your wedding licence."

I was less than happy, and by the end of it all, I would have eaten my naughty children, if I had had any at the time.

Seven years passed...

And I had to renew my stupid licence.

I loaded up my three kids, took my self and my credit card down to the DLD, pulled my kids out of the car, put two in the stroller, held onto the eldest's hand, and carted this all into the building. I looked around for where I was supposed to get a number, and found a sign that said,

"Before you can get a number from the information desk, you must first fill out an application in triplicate, stand in line for a minimum of 20 minutes, and turn over a clean pair of underwear."

I filled out the application while Josh played with the chained pens, and Lily and Eva stared in wonder at the underside of the counter top I was standing at.

I stood in line for a minimum of 20 minutes, and frazzled, dragged everything up to the counter.

"Okay," said the 13-year-old girl working the desk (I am sure there is some labor law violation going on there). "I am going to need your driver's licence, social security card, birth certificate, your last known temperature, two pair of underwear, your big toe, and since you moved, two official pieces of mail with your name on them with the new address."

"Wha...???"

"Do you have any of these things?" Her beady little eyes glared out from behind her glasses.

"Uh, I have my kids, does that count?"

"No, sorry."

Abashed, I started to walk away. But then I thought of something.

"Um, I don't have any official mail sent to me, really, because the utilities aren't in my name, so what do I do??"

"Oh, just mail two letters to yourself, and then bring them back here."

I then dragged my entourage back outside and loaded everything into the car. Bleh...

I went home crabby, and then wrote two letters to myself and popped them into the mail. One said, "You can make it!" and the other, "You aren't as bad a mom as you think!" Right.

So, time passes, and I actually DO get some official mail with my name on it, and decide to get myself coordinated and went back to the DLD.

The line was 3 times as long as before. What the...

I walked to the very end of the line and resolved myself to being there for the rest of the day. An older gentleman, looking as bewildered as I felt, wandered in behind me and started asking me, in a frantic tone, what he was supposed to do.

"Have you filled out an application?" I asked, wrestling my children into submission.

"Uh, no...?"

"Okay, here is an application..."

"Oh, thank you..."

"Do you have a pen?"

"Uh, no...?"

"Okay, here is a pen."

"Want an Altoid?"

"Uh, yes...?"

"Okay."

We then inched along the line.

When we finally got our numbers and sat down, he sat next to me (I was his security blanket, I guess) and we waited. I looked up at the number screen. It said, "Now Serving 592." I looked down at my number: 269. Bob ( I don't know if that was his name, but I will call him Bob) looked at his number: 270. I then said, "I think they go all the way to 1000 and then start over." He looked at me horrified, and then started breathing again when I told him I was kidding.

Now, the DLD has a nasty sense of humor. As I sat there the numbers went like this:

E592...E593....A252...H799...Z49999999.

They do this because they think it's funny to watch people stand up when they think it's their turn, and laugh at their crestfallen faces when they realize it was just a dirty trick.

At one point, Joshua turned to me and said, "Do we have to wait 1000 hours?"

"Yes," I thought.

When my number was finally called, I plopped everything onto the clerk's desk. He looked at me, looked down at my application, looked at me again, and then down again, and then glared.

"What?" I stammered, starting to sweat.

"So, 140 lbs, huh? Are you sure?" He then tapped at the affidavit at the bottom of the paper that said I had put the information down accurately.

"Uh...well, I, uh...would you believe 142 lbs?"

He tapped his fingers impatiently.

"OKAY, FINE! 144.8, without my clothes on! THERE! HAPPY!?!?!?"

He smirked and moved on to the vision test.

"Read the first line for me," he said, trying to sound bored.

I looked in the lenses and I looked again...and again...whoa. It seriously, I kid you not, was Russian. For a second, I thought was losing my vision.

"Uh...I can't..." I said, feeling incredibly stupid. "It looks like Russian."

"Russian, huh? Let me..oh, sorry."

Apparently he had put the right eye and the left eye up at the same time, so all the letters were blending together. Eeya.

Bob was already gone at this point. My clerk was taking his time typing one letter at a time, making commentary on my handwriting, taking a donut break, did some yoga, all while I was trying to keep my children from exploding into tiny atom bombs. A kindly grandma-ish woman came up and held Lily (who looked terrified of the nice little old lady) since she was screaming. Eva was screaming because she wanted to take the vision test, and Joshua was saying in his all-too-loud voice that he wanted some little circles (Altoids), two of them, to be precise, and were the 1000 hours up yet.

Finally, FINALLY, it was all over. Until I realized that the address was wrong on the temporary licence. Here we go again...

It was a quick fix, but by the time I got to the car I had already eaten Lily and was working on Eva's foot.

I went home, and Mom and Dad came over.

"You know," Dad quipped in his quippy way. "You can set up an appointment online and be in and out in 10 minutes."

I then regurgitated Lily, who was only a little surprised and startled, and felt put upon by the great state of Utah. Stupid Utah.