Sometimes I just want to cry.

I have a simple question I want to ask the DMV. So I call the Salem metro area number listed on the Oregon DMV website, and, after wading through five minutes of menu options and automated recordings, am told that my expected wait time for a real person is . . . 38 minutes. Nope.

So I think I’m going to be clever and call the DMV office in my town. Nope. The local number merely rings into the state DMV number, and I get the same recording. Now I am left with two options: 1) forget about my question and use the online system to renew my registration, or 2) physically go to the local DMV office, mask up, take a number, and be prepared to wait 15 (super-optimistic) to 45 (more realistic) minutes to ask my question.

First-world problems. I know. But at the risk of sounding exactly like my father, who had to walk to and from school uphill both ways through ten-foot snowdrifts (this was obviously before bicycles, cars and schoolbuses were invented), I do miss the days when there were actual humans who were paid to answer the phone and respond to inquiries from citizens whose tax dollars were used for such things.

Least. Inspired. Post. Ever.

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