DMVed

Well, children, today is my birthday. My last year of twenty. When I turned 23, someone gave me a card that read "Goodbye, early twenties. Hello, early mid-twenties." It seemed ominous at the time, but I clearly didn't know my ass from my elbow.

In addition to heralding the approach of old age, this birthday also marks the expiration of my driver's license. So, yesterday morning I went to the DMV, proofs of residence and identification in hand. And there I sat, for THREE HOURS. I try not to be a snoot (or a liar), but the crowd at the DMV is decidedly unsavory. Unkempt men redolent of old food, women with tattooed images of loved ones, and screaming, sour-smelling babies with lazy eyes. I'm pretty sure that I caught some sort of std just from sitting on the wildly uncomfortable DMV chairs for such an extended period of time. Anyhoo, G100 was finally called and I made my way through the hoi polloi to station 15.

First, the clerk had a problem with my address.

She: "That is not a residential address"
Me: "Yes it is. I live there."
She: "Ma'am, the computer says that is a business address."
Me: "It is not. I live there."
She: "That is not what the computer says, ma'am."

We finally untangled that Gordian Knot, and I was just beginning to imagine a life beyond the walls of the DMV, when we hit another snafu. One that was entirely my fault. My passport had expired on April 1st and had thus been an invalid form of identification for 24 days.

She: "Ma'am, this passport is expired."
Me: "F********ck."
She: "Don't you have a birth certificate or a social security card?"
Me: "If I had either of those on me, then I would probably not be banging my head on your germy desk."
She: "Ma'am you need to realize that you need a valid form of identification. You need to realize what counts for valid. You need to read the list of what counts for valid."
Me: "Obviously, I didn't realize that my passport was expired or I wouldn't have brought it."
She: "You need to read that list and realize what is valid. Don't you have your social security card? You need to realize what is on that list."

So, there you have it - three hours and no license. A year older, and clearly none the wiser.

The Devil Wears Flannel

Yesterday was my Mema's birthday. "Mema" is what I call my paternal grandmother - you know, she's The Rog's mama. She is very dear and lovely and ever-so-Southern. Our conversations generally go something like this:

Mema: Oh, honey. Your Pepa and I were going to the Walmart in Forsyth last week, and we got all caught up in the rush hour. Cars were zooming hither and yon, and I was just all of a dither.

Me: The whole population of Forsyth could fit in the Walmart.

Mema: Well, I reckon everybody was going somewhere at once.

So it was fitting when I unearthed an old Christmas gift from Mema while cleaning out my closet yesterday:


Yes, this is an ankle-length flannel nighty. I'm sure your impression of me just altered irrevocably. But, the nighty does have a funny history:

Mema: Honey, I'm afraid your Christmas is ruined.

Me: Why?

Mema: Well, I bought you something, but I'm not going to give it to you.

Me: Why?

Mema: Well, I think it might be Satanic.

Me: Why?

Mema: It has Satanic symbols on it, honey, and I'm just not going to give it to you.

I eventually convinced her to show me the Mephistophelian item, which turned out to be the above gown, and I assured her that worshipers of Satan did not generally avail themselves of flannel and snowmen, nor did they have a monopoly on moons and stars. She reluctantly handed it over, and it served me well on many a cold grad school night, particularly when I lived in a third floor bedroom that got so cold you could see your breath. But, I think it's time for Satan's sleepwear to head to the Goodwill; I just hope that it doesn't fall into impressionable hands.