Kitty Litter

Want a free dose of humiliation with a side order of sweat? Ever wondered why nearly everyone looks hideous in their driver’s licenses? I’ve uncovered the secret, and I’m going to share it with you. It’s all in the process.

I renewed mine early last week to avoid two things: 1) the penalty they slap on you for doing it late and 2) the horror of trying to get it done on the day of your birthday.

They say the mind blocks out traumatic episodes in your life, and I’m inclined to agree, because I trooped to the San Juan LTO with a vague memory of having had a good experience there three years ago. I had the impression that they were far more efficient than the LTO on East Avenue, which is riddled with fuckers, oops, fixers. cheerfully expecting to be done in half a day. I was wrong; I got my license in two hours. Good, right? Not at all. “You gotta be kidding me” is my catchphrase of the day.

This is how it happens. You get a form from the guard (though the official directions tell you to go to Window 3). He staples the form to the receipt that comes with your license. You get your drug test, where the attendant unstaples your forms, staples the drug test application form to it, then when the results come in, unstaples the whole mass of forms then staples the results to the bottom. (Want the excruciating details of the drug test? It’s a total “You gotta be kidding me” moment. It’s gross, so if you’re sensitive, forget about it.) You line up again at Window 3, wait for your forms to be unstapled from one another, assessed, then restapled together again. You are then directed to get your medical examination (which Miss Window 3 says you should have done so earlier, but how were you supposed to know?) upstairs, where a gaggle of small medical testing clinics sit together. Incidentally one sign says “Medical Test P 50 Urine Drug Test P 250 Mineral Water P 10”. You hope they aren’t handling the bottles of pee with the same hands that hold the mineral water.

So I lined up (again) for a medical test, and when my turn came, the quack (I have my doubts as to whether she was a doctor) asked me in a loud voice, “HOW MUCH DO YOU WEIGH?” (Amounts greatly exaggerated from hereon in) I said, “Uh, one ton?” She replied, “ARE YOU SURE? YOU LOOK MORE LIKE TWO TONS TO ME!” The others waiting for their tests were now looking at me interestedly, probably thinking I was reluctant to reveal my weight—which I was willing to do but not in a public forum. “GET ON THE SCALE,” she ordered.

The good news? I’ve lost fifteen pounds, probably thanks to the stress at the office. The bad news? Quack didn’t know that, and announced my weight to the world. “UY YOU WEIGH ONE AND A HALF TONS. OKAY!” She proceeded to write the pound figure for my weight, but added “kg” at the end, effectively doubling it. I just had to speak up. “Excuse me but based on the weight you’ve written there, I should logically be unable to fit behind the steering wheel.” “OH YOU’RE RIGHT! OK LANG YAN, YOU’RE GETTING THERE ANYWAY,” she chortled. She then asked me if I wore glasses, and made me read the eye chart on the wall I’d memorized in the time it took to call me to be examined.

On my way out, her assistant greeted me an advanced happy birthday. I bit my tongue to keep from retorting, “Not anymore, thanks to your boss.” She unstapled my papers then stapled the medical test results to them. Scrap metal from the staple wires were gathered in small plastic bins on her desk; for what earthly purpose, I have no idea.

After Miss Window 3 unstapled my forms yet again and arranged them neatly, she then stapled them back together…neatly, set them aside, and instructed me to wait for someone at Window 5 to call me.

I took a seat in the crowded, unventilated waiting area. By now I was soaked with sweat, and so were the people around me, 99% of whom were male. I remember thanking whatever gods there be that I already have Wynn; the waiting room was filled with enough unattractive men to make you go lesbian. Here’s the thing; while I don’t mind men who are physically imperfect (I am, after all, dating a man who looks like Hagrid, and I love him that way!), I do object to men who pick their noses in public, spit on the floor, scratch their crotches, spread their legs wide, smell awful, are rude, and who are all of the above simultaneously.

Twenty minutes later I was called so that they could take my photo. I hate having my photo taken because cameras hate me with a passion. In addition, I was tired, sweaty, and puzzled about the whole staple business; environment-conscious blokes would have kittens if they ever saw what went on at just one branch of the LTO (I bet they go through a ton of staple wire a day). That didn’t stop me from taking one of my most horrid license photos ever; those who have seen it (just Wynn, actually) have had to fight acute cases of giggles. I look fat and sweaty and tired, all at once. The kindest comment I’ve heard is that I look tired. Personally, I think I look like an overweight terrorist in drag but then that’s just me.

Thirty minutes later, I was called to pay almost P 300 for one of the worst photos ever taken of me. Another thirty minutes later, I had my license.

Maybe it'll scare cops when they try to ticket me. It's the only consolation I can think of.

Addendum: I just glanced at it and got past the hideous photo to look at my stats. They got my weight wrong: 47 kilos. I think they weighed my left leg to get that figure. Now I have to go back and replace it. But not very soon.

Labels: funny bureaucracy, humiliation