But what of the little red biros? What will become of them?...

A jolly little update from the DMV. As part of the unpredictable odyssey of changing from my maiden to my married name I had the pleasure of revisiting the DMV. Twice. In one day. I have been informed that I have visited the DMV more times than a normal Californian would do in a decade. Hey ho.

I have to admit that booking an early appointment is THE ONLY way to do this. I had to wait for a few weeks for an appointment, but the ease with which I strolled to the front of the queue (**actual experiences may vary) and was sent to a booth within 10 minutes was totally worth it.

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Sadly, updating one's driving license when not currently an American citizen seems to be such an alien task that they don't carry all the pertinent information on their website, so I was not equipped with my I90 (my actual visa, inside my actual passport with my actual new name in, plus my old passport with my old name, plus my actual marriage certificate were not enough. Neither was accessing my I90 online, despite the fact that it is an online form that you have to print out at home. M'kay.) This meant that, having been ushered swiftly to the front of the queue I was told to book another appointment and come back again. Swallows throbbing rage. I smiled, went to my car and booked another appointment later that day at a DMV much further away. Still, I was adamant I was going to get this shit sorted in one day.

Seriously though - as if they don't get thousands of people in the same position as me? Non-citizens who want to legally update their details using their passport - the document that allows them into and out of any country in the world. FFS.

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Anyhoo, off I trot to my next DMV appointment, a myriad of documents in hand. This is the low point of the day - finding a parking space at the DMV. Yes, the place where you actually get your license, that is not on any public transport network, and that expects you to bring your own car in which to be tested, does not have enough parking spaces. Let me repeat that to allow the irony to fully sink in. The DMV does not have enough parking spaces. Are you fucking kidding me?

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So, having nearly caused an accident in my frustration, and swinging the car round to nab a space, I get in, am swiftly moved from one booth to another, getting rubber stamped at each stage, and come to the highlight of my day: discovering that the theory test can now be completed on a computer!! Welcome to the twentieth century, DMV!

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I'm genuinely relieved that they've advanced to this stage - I was starting to get worried. Although now I'm sad for the little man with his red pen who spent all day marking people's tests. What will become of him? And his box of pens? Who will feed and cloth the little red biros?

The continued farce of personal security

I appreciate that with each new development in personal security the scammers find a work around, but its like everyone has just given up?

Its taken quite a while for the US to follow the rest of the fucking civilized world and get their chip
and pin shit together, and it would appear that one reason is that a 4-digit number can be more readily cloned/stolen than your signature. Yeah - that squiggle that means jack shit is apparently waaaaaay more secure than a 4 digit number. The squiggle that no-one checks. The squiggle that last week looked a lot like "Mickey Mouse" after an experiment in Safeway (seriously - try it. Its actually quite fun to sign the electronic pads with something other than your signature. Maybe next time I'll try "Michael Jackson" or "Marilyn Munroe" with a little heart in the "i"? Or how about no words at all? Just a line drawing of a cock and balls?) The squiggle that, when the clerk randomly does ask to see my ID clearly chooses to overlook the fact that my ID has a different last name. I'm glad my personal identification is secure in the hands of these highly trained till monkeys.

Well, you might say, that's still better than a 4 digit number. OK, shall we explore the other personal numbers that an individual is supposed to know by heart? Lets start with the SSN - Social Security Number. Issue 1: not everyone is entitled to an SSN (me included), but I am allowed to have a big girl bank account, so that won't work. Add to this the fact that although all the advice is that you shouldn't give out your SSN willy-nilly, you do, in fact, give out your SSN willy-nilly. When every other fucking organization wants to use your SSN as proof that you are who you say your are you end up putting it on all sorts of random application forms and even giving the last 4 digits over the phone to some strategically shaved till monkey in a shirt in order to update your contact details with Comcast.

So, SSN is a bit of a joke.

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Lets try something else that EVERYONE has - a phone number. Hold on there - surely thats a bit presumptuous? What if someone doesn't have a phone number? Well, hold on there indeed. You have hit upon one of the issues with this way of checking that your are who you say you are. The second issue is that phone numbers appear not to be exclusive and are regularly recycled. Lets take a walk down to Rite Aid. As with most points cards you are asked to put your phone number in at the till to identify you on their database and award you those glorious 3 points from the pack of Pringles and Neosporin you just purchased. But, wait! My phone number is apparently already registered with someone else's card. Well how do you like that? And, seeing as I've had the

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phone number for over a year and Plenti only came out last month, how the fuck is that possible? Join me, again, as we stroll over to Bevmo for the same story. The solution? Call up their customer service team who will sound surprised, talk to themselves for a bit while they look at the database, ask you if you have any other phone numbers you can use (you mean, aside from my actual phone number? A second one I have lying around for when I want to spice things up a bit? No.), ask you if anyone else lives in your house by the name of "Kumal" (You mean Kumal? The man who lives in my closet and uses my mobile phone to setup random store cards? No.) and then flap around with no serviceable resolution.

So, ladies and gentlemen, the mobile phone number is, I propose, even less valid as a means of identification than the SSN.

Where do we go from here? Who knows. Don't say email address because there are at least two of my namesakes in Berlin and London running around giving out the wrong bloody email address because in the past month I have been wished a happy birthday and congratulated for joining a medical institution in countries where I do not live. Idiots.

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Smug British scoff of the day

Thank goodness I was on my own in the car when I had my little smug scoff earlier. The chap on NPR (publicly funded American Radio 4 with adverts and less radio drama) announced that the successful stage production "One man, two guvnors" was coming to the Bay Area. Having never actually seen the production I am assuming that, due to the spelling of "guvnors", it is referencing a "guvnor" as in "boss"? Non? And the pronunciation is fairly important - a "guvnor" is different to a "governor", who is someone who presides over California or a school. The dude on the radio clearly wasn't aware of that distinction, as he announced "One man, two governors", starring, presumably, Arnold Schwarzenneger in one of the governator roles? You can, presumably, hear the sarcasm in my tone? Yeah - that. Completely unnecessary and totally unfair. I am a dick.

It did get me thinking, though, about all the little colloquial ways we refer to each other in the UK that impart a HUGE amount of meaning, more so that the cutesy turns of phrase in the US (Whats up, buttercup?):

"Alright, guv" is a cheery colloquial greeting imbued with deference to a more senior individual - the verbal equivalent of doffing one's hat.

"Alright, me old cocker" is something you might hear in an old man pub between two older working class chaps.

"Listen, sunshine" - similar to "sonny jim", this would be used by an older or more senior person to a younger man. There is a slight implication that the younger man is a bit of a scamp - there's a certain ring of discipline about it, like a policeman talking to a naughty school boy.

"Whatcha, cock" - my personal favorite - like "me old cocker" you'd most likely hear two older guys exchange this greeting. See also the hilarious Carry On style gag that include the line "have you got the time on yer, cock?"

Seriously, the more I have to explain the logic behind some of this British stuff the more I realize that it is all hilariously nonsensical. Its no wonder the world thinks we're all eccentric nutcases.

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Surprise cinnamon has a savoury ally

We know the food in the US can be delicious as fuck. The sweet and salty combination that has only recently appeared in the UK (and is still viewed with suspicion by popcorn eaters) is clearly superior to either plain salty or plain sweet. Its not an unnatural abhorrence - peanut butter, yeah? - but a naturally complimentary flavor combination.

However, there are other flavor combinations that are NOT acceptable. I have two main issues here - the first is cinnamon, which I have already touched on. (Calling something Pumpkin Spice is fucking NONSENSE. Its cinnamon and nutmeg. But mostly cinnamon.) 

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Stop putting cinnamon in and on everything sweet. Apple tastes lovely - it does not need cinnamon. A buttery cookie is delicious - why have you desecrated it with this powdery shit? And, y'know, if you're going to ruin it at least have the decency to tell people. The thing I hate most is surprise cinnamon. It immediately ruins the thing I am eating, for which I had high hopes, and I want to hunt down the arsehole who baked it, roll his nuts in cinnamon and see how he likes it? 

Well, lucky me, I have discovered the savoury equivalent of surprise cinnamon. Surprise fennel. I was starting to get suspicious of pizzas - there was a weird flavor that didn't add anything to my enjoyment of tomato, cheese, dough, garlic and pepperoni. An incongruous notion that kinda took the edge off of everything. Then I bought a "Tomato & Basil" pasta sauce yesterday, thinking that the dominant flavors would be tomato and basil. Yummy. I was so very wrong. I could smell the fucking fennel as soon as I opened the lid and it overpowered the tomato, the basil, the spinach pasta, the pesto and the cheese. 

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Again - why are you messing with a delicious flavor combination by adding an incongruous and distracting turd of a flavor? Does someone in Congress own a fucking fennel plantation and there is a fennel quota that all italian food manufacturers stateside must adhere to??? Stop the madness!! 

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Keep on trucking

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Time for a road trip! A work thingy beckoned us down to Pasadena this week, and we thought the drive might be fun. (It was, although possibly because we're still noobs - nodding donkeys, immense wind farms, stunningly bleak landscapes and the biggest dairy farm we have ever seen are probably not as exciting if you've grown up with this shit).  And despite having an American made car (wah, waaah - stop criticizing American made cars - they are the best! USA! USA! Blah. You know they're mostly not. Big, wobbly tin cans with inefficient engines and the turning circle of a dead mammoth. As much as I admire the fact that cops here mostly drive the American made Crown Victoria, having actually piloted one myself I am more than slightly concerned that they might be doing any high speed chases. It was like steering a barge) the Ford Edge is a splendid and comfortable little fella. Plus, its a new car, so we've not had to do anything to it yet (I am proud to say that I have helped my dad fix a slipping cam belt, changed a tyre and would regularly check the oil and tyre pressure in my old VW Golf).

So its only fair to expect to have to pump up the types a bit after a whole year of car ownership. No problemo. The little light comes on and we pull in to a service station and look for the little "water & air" station.

Hmm. Its not obvious, but it must exist, right? Right! Although not in the same evolved form as we know it.

First of all it was a tiny little area at the back of the gas station car park. Secondly, it was called the "RV station". Really? So, only RVs require water and pressurized air? M'kay. Thirdly, and this is the biggest issue, and the main reason we drove past it a couple of times before we realized what it was, it is a small metal box with the two tubes poking out. And nothing else. No little screen that measures the tyre pressure and presents you with the information. No little number pad where you select the correct tyre pressure that you want to inflate up to. Just a box, a tube and a nozzle. Oh, and a sign that says "Please see attendant for service". Really?

Yes, really. So, the hubby checks on the suggested tyre pressure in the car's manual, trolls into the gas station and asks the attendant for "service". It would then appear that he turns the machine on. That is all. He was very sweet and informed the hubby that he'd need a manual tyre pressure gauge. Yes, manual. Its like a small metal straw with another metal tube inside it, and when you put it over the tyre valve it thrusts the inner metal tube up and you read the corresponding little number etched into the metal straw. Wow. We appear to have left the 21st century behind somewhere in Pasadena?

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The hubby sorted the tyres with no trouble at all, although its all a bit hit and miss - pump up the tyre, then check it, then pump it up a bit more, then check it, dealing with the ever-present danger of over-inflating the tyre so it bursts. I repeat my earlier "wow". Initially I was surprised that the country that invented convenience would allow this nonsense. And then I realized that this option is for plebs. The CONVENIENT option is to take your car to the garage as soon as the light comes on and have a coffee while the little man sorts it out for you. Which, if we're being honest, is sort-of what I did - sipped my Starbucks in the passenger seat while hubby tussled with a pressurized hydra in the pissing rain :)

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Like drop-kicking a corgi

I had a slightly embarrassing attack of the brits* today. It wasn't as severe as when I ask "what teas" they have in a restaurant and then grimace when they don't list Lady Grey, but it is recurrent. And it makes it so much more uncomfortable when it happens in public you have to hold it in. 

I am referring to the standard niceties that I thought EVERYONE was taught as a kid: when someone says "thank you", you counter with "you're welcome". Or "de nada" in Spanish. Or "Kochirakoso arrogate gozaimasu" in Japanese. Or "afwan" in Arabic.  Its as natural as breathing out after breathing in, but apparently some people in my locality have been dragged up by baboons and respond with "uh-huh". "UH-HUH"??? What the fuck is that??? I have to bite my tongue so hard every time someone does that - it's so unnacceptable. And it makes me feel so alien and so far away from the UK. I have NEVER heard this back home. Every time that happens its like someone has literally punched the Queen in the hooter, taken a shit in Hugh Grant's cucumber sandwiches, filled the Prime Minister's teapot with kool-aid and flushed Harry Potter's head down the toilet. I never thought I could get so offended by a simple lack of manners, but it really does grind my gears every. Single. Time. And it is at that point that I feel more British than I have ever felt in my life. 

So, if you don't want to feel the immensity of my British wrath (heavy tutting and possibly an eye roll) repeat after me: "you are welcome". You can thank me later. (You're welcome).

*To prove my point, this is a poop joke. And you can't get much more British than a poop joke.

I'm sure Leo still gets it

Having had a delightful fuck-worthy experience with the lying liars at Comcast I wanted to post a quick update to my earlier entry about the cost of living. Of all the words that don't translate from the UK to the US (trousers, jumper, stag do) the word "total" was a bit of a surprise to me. I am, as usual, being facetious.

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When being mis sold an upgraded tv package I heard the hubby ask for a total monthly price multiple times. Each time he was given a different number. For the purposes of most commercial interactions I'd like to think that the sales person knows that when I ask for the "total cost" I couldn't give a sweaty monkey scrotum how much this will cost to the company or to them personally. I don't care how much of this will be tax collected by the state. What I want is the total that I, as the customer, can expect to be extracted from my bank account. I will, at some point, require a breakdown of costs, which you can tot up to give me a few sub-totals, but my current question is 'what will the total sum of my bill be at the end of each calendar month'? If I subsequently discover a tax, a rental charge for the new HD box, a callout fee for the installation of said box, or a monthly "bevvies" fee that you use to get the beers in at the end of another successful month of being a dickhead sales bastard, I will push my excessively large remote control into one of your orifices.

In short - don't ever expect the total to be the total.