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A long, long, long time ago, just before my very first visit to the Department of Motor Vehicles, I had trouble sleeping. After reviewing the textbook from my driver's education class for the 53rd time, I kept tossing and turning in my bed trying to decide where I would drive first with my brand new license.

Ready at the crack of dawn, I sat reviewing the textbook as I waited for my mother to get ready. By the time she showered, dressed and consumed her first cup of coffee, I'd scanned every chapter eight more times.

Every pore of my body screamed, "Let's go already;" however, the words never passed my lips. My mother's eyes had already shot a resounding, "Do not speak until the sun is fully visible over the horizon or you will be sorry," in my direction as she passed me on the way to the coffee pot.

My first experience at the Department of Motor Vehicles turned out to be a nightmare. Sure, there was the usual wait that lasted hours, lines that went on forever and paperwork that seemed endless. But, the nightmare didn't begin until I took the written test.

On the long wait with lots of grumpy people and in my interactions with the overworked, tired DMV officials, my only fear was parallel parking during the road test. I'd practiced it over and over, but it still wasn't my sharpest maneuver.

Never, in my widest dreams, did I imagine the written test would be my downfall. I was a straight-A student. I'd never failed anything in my life. However, our driver's education instructor never gave us copies of the state driving manual. We only had decades-old textbooks that were written to cover the basics for driver's education students in any state -- or country for that matter.

None of the information covered in my textbook, the one I'd practically memorized, was on the written test. I was not aware of the statewide speed limit. I had no clue about blood-alcohol limits. I had to guess as to the number of points one received for passing a stopped school bus.

My head hung low as the DMV official slashed through more than half my answers with her red, felt-tipped pen. When she gave me my score, I could not speak. A tear rolled down my cheek. She handed me the state driver's manual and told me I could retake the test in a couple of weeks. Then she looked at the person behind me and yelled, "NEXT!"

Even though a couple of weeks later I scored 100 percent on the written test and parallel parked like no other driver in the history of the road test, DMV-dread was forever burned into my heart.

When I renewed my license at the turn of the century, the process had greatly improved. I'd made an appointment and only had to take a couple of hours off of work. It was still crowded, but the appointment shaved off hours, which put me a much better mood. The overworked DMV officials were still a bit brusque as they worked to get everyone served before the end of the day. But the short, intentional directives chanted by officials seemed less grating on the shorter, more organized visit.

Recently, it was time once again to renew my license. DMV-dread kicked in as soon as the postcard reminder arrived. I called to make my appointment and was thrilled to get a 9 a.m. slot. The official making the appointment seemed cheerful -- I figured he'd just gotten back from lunch or won the lottery.

The morning of my appointment, my mom, who was visiting for the holidays, smiled as I walked into the kitchen for that first cup of coffee. She said, "Good morning," in her sing-songy way. I cut back with my eyes, conveying a stern, "Not until I get back from the DMV," message.

Arriving a bit early, I noticed that there was a ticket machine and a display showing the number of the customer now being served. For a moment, I thought I was in a bakery. I didn't expect to be home before 11 a.m., so I pulled out my magazine.

Within a few minutes, the DMV official approached and I told her I had a 9 a.m. appointment. She looked at the clock and then pulled out a ticket for me. As she handed me the ticket, she said, "We can probably get you in before nine."

My eyes were saying, "Yeah, right," but I took the ticket, sat down and picked up my magazine. But before I settled on a page, my number was called.

Now, I hope you are sitting down, because you will never believe this next bit of information. I promise, even though I tend to embellish a lot in my columns, this is the truth: I was on my WAY HOME from the DMV before 9 a.m.!

Now, if we can just get the medical field to adopt this cutting-edge, DMV-bakery approach to customer service.

Micki Bare is a columnist for the Arkansas News Bureau and the Courier-Tribune in Asheboro, N.C., and author of the book, "Relative Expressions." She lives in Asheboro with her husband and three children. Her e-mail address is mickibare@inspiredscribe.com.