Lifestyle
TAKE THE GOOD WITH THE BAD
How one DMV trip tested my patience, my hip, and my faith in government math
By OG Strain
There was a saying my old boss, Doug Brister, used to say all the time:
“Take the good with the bad.”
Back when I worked for Tri-City Trees doing groundwork, he’d say it whenever a day went sideways.
Some jobs paid great.
Some paid like the customer thought we were pruning houseplants instead of dropping full-grown trees.
But no matter what kind of day it was, Doug would shrug, grin, and remind us:
Take the good with the bad.
At the time, it just sounded like one of those old-school worksite sayings.
Now I realize it’s basically the official slogan of adulthood.
And after the day I just had, it might as well be tattooed across my forehead.
The Bad: Social Media Sent Me To Digital Jail
My Facebook account is still tied up in appeal.
My Instagram? Same deal.
Messenger? Gone.
Apparently somewhere out there, an algorithm looked at my account and decided I was too dangerous to be trusted with cannabis memes and late-night “yo what’s good?” messages.
And that part stings.
A lot of the people I’ve connected with over the years through this community, I only had through Messenger.
You never think they’re just gonna yank the digital rug out from under you.
But they did.
Which makes the timing even crazier because if there were ever a week I wanted to hit people up, this would be it.
Why?
Because finally…
The Good: OG Strain Is Back On The Road
After years without a vehicle due to health issues, I’m finally driving again.
And if you’ve ever lost that kind of independence, then you understand this isn’t just about transportation.
This is freedom.
This is being able to move when you want, where you want.
No arranging rides.
No waiting.
No depending on everybody else.
Just keys in hand and options again.
That feeling is priceless.
Unfortunately, to reclaim that freedom, I had to pass through the flaming bureaucratic gates of the DMV.
And that’s where things got uglier than a dispensary ounce that somehow still smells amazing.
Enter The DMV Dungeon
As many of y’all know, I’m disabled and dealing with a bad hip.
Standing for long periods isn’t exactly my idea of cardio.
Still, I came prepared.
Paperwork complete.
Everything organized.
Mindset positive.
I waited.
Got called up.
And then got hit with the classic DMV side quest:
A tiny section hadn’t been filled out by the seller.
No big deal, right?
The clerk explained my options.
Either have the seller correct it or let DMV determine the vehicle’s value their way.
Since I knew what I paid, I chose to track down the seller and get it corrected properly.
Mission accomplished.
I came back.
Waited again.
Got to the counter as they were closing.
And suddenly…
Now they didn’t believe the correction had been filled out by the seller.
Apparently I’d unknowingly become the criminal mastermind behind one of the most daring paperwork conspiracies in Schenectady history.
Forget Ocean’s Eleven.
This was Box-17-on-a-title-document.
Without accepting the correction, they moved forward using their own valuation.
Let’s just say by the time the numbers were done being “calculated,” my vehicle had apparently appreciated enough in one afternoon to qualify for collector’s-item status.
At this point I half expected them to tell me I’d accidentally purchased a limited-edition Lamborghini disguised as a Honda.
Meet Greg
Then came the manager.
Greg.
Now look, I’m not trying to roast the man.
Life’s too short.
But if unnecessary tension were a government-funded program, Greg would probably be regional director.
As I explained that repeatedly going back and forth was especially difficult due to my disability, the interaction only got more frustrating.
At one point, he referenced his own physical difference as if that somehow canceled out what I was experiencing.
That’s not how any of this works.
Different struggles are still struggles.
That’s like saying because one person gets migraines, someone else’s broken leg is somehow less inconvenient.
Meanwhile, my hip was throbbing, my patience was evaporating, and my bank account was being introduced to a level of taxation usually reserved for luxury yachts and small moon colonies.
Cannabis: The Real Customer Service Department
After that experience, I needed cannabis the way DMV employees need forms in triplicate.
This rain has had my arthritis acting like it’s auditioning for a dramatic soap opera.
Add in stress, frustration, and enough bureaucratic nonsense to make a monk swear, and let’s just say medicating became less of a hobby and more of an emergency response plan.
Cannabis has always helped me find balance.
It settles the physical pain.
It smooths out the mental static.
It reminds me that sometimes the best response to nonsense is a deep breath, a good strain, and remembering not to let temporary frustration become permanent energy.
Still…
That DMV trip definitely increased my “required dosage of chill.”
The Bigger Picture
Here’s the truth.
I’m frustrated.
Really frustrated.
But I’m also grateful.
Because despite all the nonsense, despite all the hoops, despite enough paperwork drama to qualify as a Netflix mini-series…
I’m free again.
Mobile again.
Moving again.
That matters.
That’s the good.
And the bad?
Well…
The bad makes for one hell of a magazine article.
Catch Me This Weekend
Now that I’m back on the road, I’ll be pulling up to one of this weekend’s canna events — either in Palenville or Fort Plain.
Whichever one it is, I’m showing up ready to laugh, smoke, reset, and reconnect with the community.
Because after a week like this, there’s nothing better than good people, good vibes, and enough loud to make DMV memories fade into the background.
If you see me, come say what’s up.
And if your opening line is “So what was the market value?”…
I’m walking away.
Probably limping slightly.
But still walking away.
Until next time, stay safe, medicate responsibly, and remember Doug’s words:
Take the good with the bad.
Even when the bad comes with fluorescent lighting and smells faintly like government disappointment.