Dear Karma, I Talked Smack about Acuras and You Got Me.(Sorry, but I'm still not sorry).

I had big plans yesterday. Yesterday was the day that I was going to begrudgingly become a Florida resident. I had been putting this off for a while because I don’t exactly want to be associated with the great state of Florida where killing babies is no biggie, shooting teens is fine, the government accidentally made computers illegal for a while, and absolutely no one can drive. But yesterday was the day I was stepping up and doing it. I checked all the websites, got everything they needed: passport, paystub, bills with my address, my lease, my title, proof of insurance. I’m good to go.

I left work early and was getting hangry (yes, my hunger turns into extreme anger) and I thought I should probably eat because going to the DMV was already going to be pleasant enough without my hangry side coming out and inevitably threatening everyone in my vicinity.

I went to Taco Bell, decided to splurge on an XXL Grilled Stuft Burrito, and figured I’d eat it in my car when I got to the DMV because my car is not too fancy to have food in it.

As I happily drive with my burrito in my passenger seat, I suddenly get hit by, what else, a fucking Acura!

   

Karma, you’re such a bitch, but you’re kind of hilarious, so I love you.

So I call the cops and then call the Florida DMV to tell them that I have to cancel appointment because I got into an accident. Awesome. They tell me to just come in late if I can drive.

This whole time I’m trying to make these calls my assistant, Sara, is texting my about a Backstreet Boys Cruise that’s happening next October because she knows BSB are pretty high on my priority list. While I would usually be jumping in circles and screaming over the news that I can be on the same boat as Brian, Nick, Howie, Kevin, and that dirty looking 5^th guy, it’s a little awkward to do that when you’re on the phone with 911.

Then I realize I have no idea if my car is drivable. How the fuck am I supposed to know these things? This is why I always had a boyfriend or my brother in law. But in Miami, I have neither. My boss was in a deposition, so I couldn’t call him. My assistant Will is a great guy, but he Pinterests, so clearly he has no car knowledge. 

That’s when I had to suck it up and text the Trust Fund Charmer. He was the last person in the world I wanted to contact, but he knows about cars, so I did it. He called me immediately and asked if I was okay. I told him I was fine and I needed to figure out if I could drive my car.

“Pop the hood and tell me if you see any liquid anywhere” he instructs me.

“How do I pop the hood?” I ask. “I’m serious,” I add as I hear him laugh.

“You really don’t know how to pop your hood?”

Did you not hear me? I was just in a fucking car accident and you want to add insult to injury now?

“No. I don’t.” I told him. “I have a vagina. I’m not supposed to have to know these things. I know how to pick out curtains and pretty shit, I don’t know car stuff. That’s why boys exist – to do this shit.”

He explains the process of pulling some lever and laughs as I struggle to unlatch the latch from hell.

“Do you see your radiator?”

For real? Is that a real fucking question?!

“I see plastic.”

“Do you see a clear plastic thing with liquid?”

That narrows it down to like 5 things.

“Maybe?”

He gives up.

“Just look under your car. Do you see liquid?”

“Yes.”

“What is it?”

HOW THE FUCK AM I SUPPOSED TO KNOW?!

This is the point I that have to crawl under my car and touch some mystery liquid which basically violates my number one rule in life: Don’t touch anything that looks sticky. I hate sticky things. This is why I hate kids. They’re always sticky. You can put a kid in a sterile room and it will somehow come out sticky.

I touch it. It’s not sticky. Thank God.

“It’s water, I think.”

“Okay, send me a picture of your car.”

I comply.

My poor Jagger

He texts me: “LOL. You are fine. I thought you were in REAL accident. That is a tap.”

Excuse me? Jagger (that’s my car’s name, duh) is looking very sad. What do you mean this isn’t real?!

Whatever. The cop tells me I can go. I’m finally on my way to the DMV to get my damn license. I get there and tell the DMV lady about my awesome day. She was very interested – I could tell by the dead look in her eyes and the way she tapped her pen.

“You bring the papers?” she interrupts my amazing story.

“Yes!” I hand them over proudly because I actually had my shit together.

“Your paystub doesn’t have your social security number on it” she informs me.

“The website told me to bring a paystub. That’s a paystub.” I can play the obvious game too, lady.

“Come back when you have one with you social security number. Bye.”

ARE YOU KIDDDING?! THE WHOLE REASON I LEFT WORK EARLY AND GOT INTO AN ACCIDENT WAS TO GET MY DAMN FLORIDA LICENSE & YOU’RE REJECTING ME? FLORIDA IS REJECTING ME!? OH HELL NO.

I was not giving up for the day. I was going to accomplish something dammit.

I went to the Tag Agency to try to get plates. They close at 5. I got there at 4:55, but they liked me so they let me in. They liked my paperwork too, unlike old Dead Eyes back at the DMV. They also liked my $500 I paid to get one damn license plate.

I know it has oranges on it, but still not worth $500.

As I waited for them to process my paperwork, I smelled something delicious. “It smells nice in here” I felt compelled to tell them since it’s just me and the staff now.

“I’m eating cookies” a guy tells me.

Then it hits me. The mention of food triggers my hangry side. I never got to eat my damn burrito!

“You’re eating a cookie and you didn’t offer me one?! It’s because I’m in a wheelchair, isn’t it?”

The guy legit spits out his cookie from laughing. The next thing I know, we’re sharing a tin of delicious cookies and he’s insisting he’ll put my plate on my car for me. Good. You’re a boy. That’s what you’re supposed to do.  “Sweet!” I tell him. “When you’re done you can come to my apartment, put up my curtains, change my light bulbs, and hang my pictures.”

“Okay. Where do you live?” Umm no. I was kidding. You can change my license plate and feed me cookies, but that’s as far as our relationship is going.

He changes my back plate, but can’t get the front one because, no joke, he’s using a quarter as a screw driver.

I finally drive home after my awesome day and I call my assistant, Will, because even though he Pinterests, I’m hoping like hell he has a screw driver & will take off my front plate so that my poor Jagger, who has already been through enough today, doesn’t have some sort of identity crisis because the front half of him has an NY plate and the back has Florida. In a sense, Jagger is currently business in the front and party in the back. While I understand that some people think this is an acceptable look, if Jagger were human he would certainly have all of his teeth, therefore the Mullet Mentality is not his style.  

Will tells me that he does have a screw driver, in fact, he has a whole manly toolset. Thank goodness because I really didn’t want to call the Trust Fund Charmer and ask for his help again. He tells me he’ll bring the screw driver to work tomorrow so I can use it.

“I’m sorry, do you think I’m doing it?”

“Right. I’ll do it. You continue to emasculate me every chance you get and I’ll do everything you ask.”

SOLD! Thanks Will!

Then I go in my building and found that I have two packages! I LOVE PACKAGES! I love them so much that my security guard likes to fuck with me by saying “Oh leeeetle girl Stephanie! You have a package!” (He thinks I’m 12.) “Really!?!” (I always fall for it.) “Haha. No. Just keeeeding.” I hate you.

But this time the packages were real. My friend Dave sent me a pink santa hat and my friend Ali sent me a snowman gift bag filled with candy! Best way to end my eventful day.

Also, my car smells like burrito now and I don’t mind at all. And I still hate Acuras.

Abridged Version:

Got in an accident with an Acura because Karma is hilarious. Got to listen to my ex make fun of me for not knowing how to pop the hood of my car. Got rejected by the state of Florida (or at least their DMV). Got a license plate with cookies (my only success of the day). All is well now that I am wearing a pink santa hat and eating candy for dinner.

Lessons Learned?

1.  Karma will get you for talking shit about Acuras.

2. How to pop the hood of my car, but I still don’t think I should have to.  

3. The DMV sucks no matter what state you’re in.

4. My car will not rock a mullet.

5. Cookies and candy and a santa hat can turn a terrible day around.