It’s Not Thmbr, Dammit

I wanted personalized license plates. Laugh if you want, but as an early birthday present to myself, I got online and ordered a set in July. Three months ago.

In Saturday’s mail was a notice from the DMV that my plates were ready for pickup at the local office. Yay. It took freaking long enough, but I was going to be stylin’ in my spiffy black ragtop with my very own Thumper plates.

Getting an appointment was going to take about a week an a half, so today we braved the chance of a Very Long Line and just showed up, old plates and registration in hand. And we were happy, there wasn’t a long line. Heck, there were chairs to sit in. We could wait in relative comfort.

Twenty minutes later they called our number. Yay! I was =this= close to my spiffy THMPR plates.

The clerk went to the back to get them, and when she returned, I watched as she slowly pulled them from the plain brown wrapper. Yay! My plates.

The Spouse Thingy peered over the counter and said, “They’re screwed up.”

And dammit, they were.


So for the next 45 minutes, this poor clerk tried to get it straightened out with the main DMV in Sacramento; in the end, it’ll probably be another 3 months before I get the correct plates.

Another clerk suggested whoever made the plates couldn’t read my handwriting. Nice try, but I applied for the plates online, and the receipt that came in the mail had the correct spelling listed.

You can bet that the DMV had my money 5 minutes after I ordered the plates, and it’ll be at least 6 freaking months all totaled before I see them.

I want my spiffy plates.

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