Today’s fun after giving Mistletoe a bit of a belly rub before totally betraying her and putting her into her crate is to head downtown and take the two oaths of office to be commissioned an Electronic Notary Public which took a little longer than I’d planned due to a lovely bit of reading non-comprehension.
The journey to the Wake County Justice Centre was certainly interesting. A North Carolina Highway Patrol trooper was sitting on the side of the road and pretty much had his pick of whoever he wanted to pull over.
I wasn’t particularly concerned as I’d already lifted off the accelerator in a move let the two cars on either side of me look like they were going much faster than I was which reminded me of a ticket that my father received for overtaking on the right whilst he was stationed in Germany. Dad could be notoriously prickly if not breathtakingly judgmental when my driving attracted official notice but I’m pretty sure he regretted having me collect and read through his mail whilst I was visiting him in Heidelberg in the summer of 1983.
He was driving on the autobahn in his massive Plymouth Trailduster SUV (a very obviously American truck!) as he and a Porsche were approaching an overpass in one of the few bits were there was an imposed speed limit. The Porsche in the overtaking lane dumped his brakes to avoid getting nailed by the member of the Politzei wielding a radar gun from the top of the overpass. That had the effect of putting Dad’s truck into the lead but from the overpass it looked like he overtook the Porsche on the right which is strictly verboten. That’s a very definite contrast to North Carolina where undertaking much slower traffic in the overtaking lanes is the only way the traffic ever moves round here.
Anywho…even back then, the Germans were the model of efficiency and sent Dad a very politely worded letter that indicated that he was observed and found guilty of overtaking on the right on that autobahn and that the fine was 25 deutsche marks. He was welcome to request the picture of his offence but that would cost an additional 25 deutsche marks.
Nowhere in that letter did it say the Germans had any interest in his arguments to try to get out of the ticket.
He certainly could appreciate the irony of the Germans employing the same view of justice that the Uniform Code of Military Justice (UCMJ) often does when it takes notice of naughtiness amongst the members of the Armed Forces. Dad would have a smile when he’d describe how it tended to work in practise…”we’re not there to determine guilt per se as that’s already been done by drawing up the specifications…we’re there to determine the punishment!”
Needless to say, not only did he regret that he had me screen his mail but I’m pretty sure he wasn’t pleased that I’d actually put that German language quick immersion course to good use prior to arriving and he couldn’t exactly fault my translation of the letter.
Fortunately, the dollar was trading at 2.71 deutsche marks so he decided to quietly swallow his pride and paid the ticket. Given how notoriously cheap he could be (which I really can’t dunk on him too hard as you’ll read soon enough), he chose not to get the glossy evidence of not anticipating being screwed by a more observant Porsche driver in the overtaking lane. 😉
The question of who the trooper would choose to have a bit of a chin wag with was settled quite nicely by a black Dodge Challenger who came screaming up on our little formation of potential traffic offence victims and then decided to go from the inside lane across four lanes as if he were going to catch I-40 east.
He never made it that far and the rest of us fish decided to let the shark have his tasty snack. 🙂
Fortunately, the rest of the trip downtown was free of incident if you discount me biffing finding the entry to my preferred parking garage which is way cheaper than neighbouring lots that are no closer to the new Justice Centre. At least it only took one lap round the block to remember that it’s off an alley across from the cop shoppe. 🙂
From there, it’s a pretty quick walk to get to the Register of Deeds office but I did enjoy the scenery. For an older city from the 1790s, Raleigh’s downtown can be pretty especially when the oaks are full of leaves.
Whilst waiting in the queue, there was entertainment on offer in the form of two breathtakingly adorable little girls who were doing laps round the bookcases in the centre of the room and generally leaving their harried and flustered mother in their dust. She’d corral one just in time to see the other leave her chair and begin a new lap and then her little sister would also take off when her mother’s back was turned. Ah, the memories of trying to corral kids with far more energy than I’d ever have.
Eventually she’ll figure out that it’s a better strategy to let them tire themselves out a bit as long as they weren’t annoying anyone else. And they really weren’t annoying anyone…if anything, we were pretty amused at the Raleigh Grand Prix.
Sadly, I had to leave the paddock and take my turn to do the identification and take the oaths thing and watch the poor lady enjoy the fun of networked printers that didn’t want to print properly or even be networked and she did her own version of the Raleigh Grand Prix with several laps to the printers and back.
At least this time I didn’t biff the oaths due to being a bit nervous.
The Register of Deeds is acting as the notary so they get a $10 fee for their part in the play.
Remember when I said my father was notoriously cheap? Let’s say this apple didn’t fall from from that tree and when offered the choice of the $10 statutory maximum fee or $12 to put it on a credit card, you shouldn’t be surprised that a $10 bill came out of the wallet and went across the counter.
That was the moment the poor clerk who’d already experienced printer hell opened her drawer and freaked out when she didn’t see any cash in it. She didn’t go completely ape but you could tell she was truly scared wondering if the money had disappeared and given that the previous Register of Deeds went down and served time for embezzling money, I can understand her momentary sense of terror.
Fortunately, her colleagues came to her rescue and asked her if she’d actually pulled her station’s change pouch which she actually had but had gotten distracted and hadn’t put it into the cash drawer because I was apparently the first person who came in that day to actually pay the fee in cash. I wasn’t the last because the gent two booths to the north also paid cash but this clerk’s drawer actually had the money so no panic attack this time. It never rains but it pours!
Certificates in hand, I’m enjoying the stroll back to the garage to get in the Traverse and try to figure out where lunch was going to be after getting some petrol in the tank with the kid schlepping due to occur in about ninety minutes.
I get to the bottom of the ramp to the pedestal where you insert the ticket and then dip the credit card to get out of the garage.
That’s where we meet Mrs Unctious who comes off kind of aggressive and obnoxious so obviously a role that involves contact with other human beings was clearly the way to go. Not.
After several attempts at getting the card reader to try to read the card, Mrs Unctious wants to try her “special touch” because the card reader can be “finicky”. She then proceeds to jam my card into the reader as hard as she can and then pull it out quickly which leads to the same “CARD READER ERROR. TRY AGAIN.” message I was getting. But I think we’ve discovered the root cause as to *WHY* that card reader is completely FUBAR if that’s how she dips cards. With the force she used, it’s a miracle she didn’t break my card into pieces.
As it was, she went ahead and lifted the gate so I ended up getting out without paying the $2 parking fee and didn’t have to stick round Mrs Unctious any longer. Double word score! 🙂
Getting petrol at Sam’s (which is usually cheapest of any of the stations in the area) was uneventful if you discount the idiot who refused to move at the exit of the petrol station and then as I’m waiting to turn right onto South Saunders and soon onto the motorway was about to move until a guy in a massive 4×4 truck decides that waiting to do the U-turn at the stoplight 100m to the south is for sucks and hops over the concrete median and comes right at me before correcting his course.
That at least made the decision of where lunch would be much easier. If I’m going to be dealing with jerks on the road, there’s nothing better than to get into the mood with a bit of the good tastes from New Jersey. Frank’s Pizzaria just up the street from Enloe it is! Mmmmmmmmmmm…yummy! 🙂
