Bride would have been 36,266,400 minutes old today - Happy Burfday Beautiful

Today would have been Sandy’s 69^th burfday, and she has been gone 8 days, or 11,520 minutes.  They are the longest 11,520 minutes I have ever worked my way through.  They also have been the worst 11,520 minutes of my whole life.  I have been surrounded by, supported and loved by chosen and actual family since about 15 hours after she passed, and that has been a blessing and I will never be able to truly express my gratitude for being present for me, for those who have been already and to those who are still slated to come share space with me as I work through this.

This is going to be a string of consciousness blog, because that is all I have in me right now.  I am eight days into this and am still absolutely numb, unable to even begin to figure out how to begin processing this.  I am pretty sure I am still in shock or maybe stuck between that and denial.  Or maybe someplace else that is not identified on a stages of grief chart.  My brain is absolutely torturing me about it.  The engineer part of my brain is overanalyzing and overrevving on what I know about the grieving process.  Intellectually I know what this journey is supposed to be.  I know it will be hard, I know it will have ups and downs and all the other things we all know will happen.  The emotional part of my brain is over there going fuck you with both middle fingers up, unwilling to start.  Maybe trying to protect me or shit maybe to just torture me I don’t know and I can’t even tell.

I know I have to move forward, one step at a time and one day at time.  I feel in some ways I have used all the folks who have come to distract me from the reality that one part of me knows exists while the other that refuses to even acknowledge it happened.  Someone asked me if I felt angry, I don’t but I know that is one of the upcoming stages.  If my journey takes that path anyway.  I am not angry, I am not really feeling anything yet.  Don’t get me wrong, I have cried and I am profoundly sad my life partner in crime is gone, but I have not yet started feeling it.  I guess that can be normal.  I seem sometimes fixated on what normal is and then i remember, Bride and I were about as far from normal as we could get so this journey will most likely not follow the manual, but in the end I don’t really know.

I am reminded of a song from back in the 90’s about going through hell, the chorus was “If you're goin' through hell keep on going.  Don't slow down, if you're scared don't show it.  You might get out before the devil even knows you're there.”  That could have easily been Sandy’s mantra in life, I watched her keep moving forward through adversity and challenging parts of her life over and over again.  She always got back up and kept moving forward, getting out of it before the Devil even knew she was there.  In light of that, I decided to write down three steps I could take that would move me forward for each day, trying not to show how scared I am.  So each morning I wake up, before anything else I write down three steps I am going to take today.  Not tomorrow, or the day after, just today.  They have been as simple as picking someone up at the airport to making calls to let folks know.

Intellectually I know that this is most likely reinforcing my denial and putting off the inevitable work ahead.  And my emotional side does not care.  This is what my gut is telling me to do.  So, I am, as I have for my whole life, trusting what my gut is telling me to do.  Right or wrong I am not going to deviate from the thing that has guided me through my whole life, regardless of what the experts say about dealing with grief.  This will be a journey that I am not in control of and on top of that, I am an unwilling participant on this bit of the journey.  The ride cares little about any of that, it marches on.  I do know that accepting the path the universe has put me on has always been easier than trying to fight with universe about it.  So here I am, on my new path, no idea where I am headed, no idea how fast or slow I will go or even the route I am going to take.  I know nothing more than the three steps I am taking today. I only know I am going to keep moving and that I will eventually get out of the absolute hell I find myself in.

 

The Oregon Department of Motor Vehicles – you made this way to damn hard for me!!

So, as many of you know I am a technologist by trade.  A technologist is not just someone who writes code, manages servers and fixes transmitters.  A technologist is someone who thinks in systems, interfaces, handoffs, constraints and failure points.  We ask questions like, where does this system break down?  What happens when the edge case becomes the common case systems are built around?  And most importantly we ask which parts of a problem are human, and which are structural.  By default, we diagnose, not blame.  We look for root causes, not symptoms.  We know most outcomes are shaped by design, not intent, and good people will do good work when the systems around them allow it.

I say all of that to frame this blog, which is version 2.  The first version was pretty damn pithy as my Mom used to say.  Some might have called it full Karen, so much so the title was “oegon DMV is at the top of my shitlist.  After letting that rest a couple of days, I decided to pivot away from that approach, which was filled with assumptions and provided no path to resolution.  Just 4,498 words of my pitching a royal bitch.  So, version 2 is a different approach to telling this same story, one that I am filtering through the lens of being a technologist.

Back in June of 2025 we moved from Smithlandia, located outside Sandy Oregon to Lincoln Nebraska.  When we decided to do that, we had four vehicles, two daily drivers along with two old classics, a 58 Ranchero and 63 Galaxie 500 convertible.  The Oregon tags on the Galaxie were expired when we left.  It was scheduled for full modernization, new engine, overdrive transmission, disc brakes and suspension, so it was going to be on the road right away anyway.  I sold the Ranchero in Oregon.

We decided to wait until we were settled into a house before transferring titles, registrations, and driver’s licenses, mostly because I am lazy and didn’t want to change the address on all of that a few months later.  That plan worked perfectly for my truck, with me walking out in about twenty minutes with the deed done.  That same morning, I took Bride’s Escape in, and that’s when this saga started, August 11^th of 2025.

After only a minute or so, the clerk headed to the back, out of my sight.  She was gone for about ten minutes, the whole while I was thinking, this is not going to end well for me, little did I know.  When she emerged, her face confirmed my thinking, not good.  She told me they could not transfer this title to Nebraska.  I asked, why not?  The title did not have an odometer reading on it.  I was like, what?  And when I looked, sure enough, there was no odometer reading.

Naïve me thought it was fixable in that moment.  I said the vehicle was right outside, that we could walk out there, get the number, and move on.  That assumption was wrong.  Nebraska, as I later learned every state, requires the odometer reading to be printed on the title itself.  Zero exceptions.  The clerk informed me that she had contacted the Oregon DMV and that it was an easy fix for them.  All I needed to do was contact Oregon.

Once I got home, I called the Oregon DMV.  After navigating telephone hell, punching this number and then that number, hoping to get to the right person, I eventually did.  The person assured me this was indeed simple.  She walked me through the form I needed to download and explained the steps, even waiting to ensure I’d gotten it downloaded.  During that process, I noticed there was going to be a fee of $106.   I was a little confused. Why was I paying the Oregon DMV to fix an issue they themselves created by issuing a title without an odometer reading?  After another call, I learned the fee was non‑negotiable, pay it or stay stuck.

I filled everything out, included the check and a letter explaining my situation, and sent it all to Salem, Oregon, where the DMV is headquartered.  I didn’t know at the time that there would be five snail‑mail round trips in this saga.  But there were.  The shortest took five weeks to come back, needing something else, and after the twelve week turn around, they were still asking for more.  Bride’s tags had long since expired, and she was forced to either Uber around or rely on me to take her places.  She wasn’t comfortable driving my truck.  I lost track of how many calls I made or how many stamps I bought.

I did call, a lot.  In those calls, I learned that the people answering the phones are not actually at any DMV and don’t have access to DMV systems beyond a knowledge base.  Like calling the cable company, where someone types your question into a system and reads whatever comes up on the screen.  Only this wasn’t about cable, this was state government.  I spoke to representative after representative, all telling me how simple this was and that I should “just go into the DMV.”  That it would only take minutes to resolve. I was surprised to learn, or at least be told, there was no escalation path.  No way to route a call to something like tier‑two support.  No way to reach someone who actually issued titles.

The last packet I mailed back included two different forms and a release of lien letter I had to obtain from a Florida credit union I hadn’t been a member of for over ten years, shout‑out to Community First Credit Union in Jacksonville for saving the day.  I told Bride that if I got another fat envelope back, I was flying my ass to Oregon to deal with this.  When I left, I told her I was either going to get this sorted or she might need to fly out with bail money if I lost my shit over some unknown new requirement.

We were wheels down at PDX at 1:18 p.m, taxied to the gate and grabbed a rental car.  At least I had miles for the flight and points for the rental.  My appointment was at 2:30, and I arrived at 2:00 and was handed number A978.  That number made me smile.  It was the hull number of the first ship I served on in the U.S. Navy, USS Stump, DD‑978.  While I waited, I thought about those years, the chaos, the problem‑solving, and how even in worse conditions, systems somehow worked better than this.

At 2:38, A978 was called.  As you know, I count things, so I started the stopwatch on my phone. It was already pulled up.  I showed my title, with the release of lien from 2015 printed on it, and explained that it didn’t have an odometer reading and Nebraska wouldn’t accept it.  Dan told me no state can accept a title without mileage. According to him, transferring a title without it is illegal, and their system wouldn’t even allow them to print one without it.

I pointed at my title with a bit of a smirk and asked, if it’s illegal, how exactly did I get one?  He explained the system had changed in 2016 and mine likely slipped through before the safeguards were in place.  As he typed, I mentioned my call‑center struggles.  He apologized sincerely and said he had no idea there wasn’t a way to reach someone like him directly.  He asked me to sign the pad.  I asked if he had everything he needed to issue the updated title.  He said yes, and I signed.

Then came the words I expected but still spiked my blood pressure: “That will be $106.” I asked if there was a way to dispute paying for an illegal title that Oregon had issued.  He said yes, with a smile, but it required traveling to Salem.  I stopped him mid‑sentence and reminded him I’d flown in from Nebraska and was leaving shortly.  I paid. I wasn’t happy, but I paid.  When I stepped into the parking lot, the whole thing had taken six minutes and twelve seconds. It really was simple and easy, if you are there in person, at the DMV, in Oregon.

What this experience ultimately reinforced for me is that people are very rarely the problem in these sorts of things.  Dan wasn’t the problem.  The call‑center staff weren’t the problem.  Most everyone I interacted with showed up trying to do the right thing within the rules, tools, and authority they were given.  The failures I encountered weren’t personal.  They were structural, the predictable outcome of systems that make it hard for capable people to produce good results for the folks they are supposed to be supporting.

I am a technologist by trade, which means my instinct is to separate people from problems. When the same failure happens repeatedly, across time and across individuals, that’s not a character flaw.  It’s a design flaw.  Attaching problems to people gives the issue a face.  It brings in all the feels, all the emotions and makes blame easy, and solving the problem harder.  Once blame enters the room, diagnosis usually leaves, at least that is my experience.

My work, whether I’m dealing with technology, organizations, or bureaucracy, is about fixing systems so ordinary, well‑intentioned humans don’t have to rely on heroics to get reasonable results.  Good systems absorb mistakes, expose failures early, and make the right thing the easy thing to do.  When they don’t, frustration becomes inevitable, as it did here, not because people failed, but because the system and structures did.

Maybe I should offer to consult with the Oregon DMV on improving their systems and structures.  This is probably an edge case that will never receive a moment of investigation.  That’s the sad reality.  In the real world we must build systems to solve for the majority of things, not the outliers or exceptions to the rules.  I know that to be true, and it was way too hard Oregon DMV!