An Untitled Document...

...stares me in the face this morning, the 10th day of November in the year two thousand and seven.
I joined NaBloPoMo to punish discipline myself to write more. I've done this kind of thing before. There was the time I took that online writing class. Then there was Fansotry, which I still secretly attend to once in a blue moon. (What does that mean?) And the fall writer's conference. With all that inspiration, I can still stare at the computer screen and think, what should I write about today?
I click open Word.
What do you want to do?
Open a new blank document?
Open recent?
Save?
Save as?

I think I'll bring this ditty around to how short life is.

Here I am (was yesterday, anyway) sitting for the 30th or so time at the Secretary of States' office. (Heaven knows, Grove has never had to run this errand, and the renewing online slash mail-in deadline has passed, along with my birthday: hence a $20 late fee AND this run-on sentence)
I find it strange, yet comforting that the majority of society that sits and waits alongside you usually shares a birthday, within a few days of your own.
As I wait patiently for my turn (I own number 43) a heavily Michigan accented voice from behind the government-run wall of china has just called 19.
I reminisce about years gone by at the SOS/DMV office.
They've redecorated. And not just with your typical university choices of vanity plates, but with a wallpaper border of cartoon like evergreen trees. Lovely.
My thoughts are interrupted by a big friendly (is it politically correct to indentify people by their skin color or size? For instance, would I say to you; a skinny, unfriendly, white guy sat down next to me and struck up a conversation? Probably not and mainly because they don't.)
ANYWAY.
He comments on the 3 flatscreen HD TV monitors, mounted on the walls, and playing"Pure Michigan" commercials on a loop. "You'd think since they went ahead and spent the money they'd play some BET or CNN on here for our waiting viewing pleasure."
I chime back, "You'd think! At the very least "The Price Is Right."
He doesn't miss a beat and quips, "Advertising Michigan seems kinda redundant at a Secretary of State's office." He continued to whomever was within earshot, "Since we paid for these TV's, (he holds up his registration and waves his cash above his head, can we turn the channels?" "The little lady here wants Price Is Right."
I laugh really, really loud.
Not to be outdone by a customer, another straight-laced ticket agent reprimands an unsuspecting mother. with a baby on her hip, "Didn't you see the sign?" She points to a placard in 96" Arial font which clearly states, "End your cell phone conversation before approaching the counter."
Most everyone clutching numbers between 24 and now, 58, has started to chuckle and are redirected back over to our side of the room. It's like we've all become commrades. Newbies are chosing to sit on our side and people on the other side are wishing they could join our party.

Some actually start to switch seats when, once again, in his outdoor voice, he exclaims, " Ya say you want a revolution?"
The security guard figets in his seat beside the door. A couple of white men in black business suits (all's fair, because they were) act somewhat bothered by our carousing. Either that or they're on their "cells" and dangerously close to having their number called. Pretty sure it's the former.
Then, as if the gods in heaven were judges on Last Comic Standing, my new best friends' phone rings. He lowers his voice somewhat, but I can still hear. "Whadup, yeah, I'm over here at the DMV. If my number gets called I'm gonna halfta letcha go, it's the law.
"Forty-three!"
I start to head to the counter, he winks at me, covers his hand over the phone, and loudly finishes his stand up routine, "Hey if I don't getta holla atcha again, have a happy birfday!"

Lord willin' and the creek don't rise (what does THAT mean?) I'll be back at this office next year around this time. And so will he. Register online? Are you kidding me?
No one is promised tomorrow.
Death, taxes, and vehicle registration.
Time will go on.
Die another day.
Carpe diem.
You have a good one!