It's Official

I'm a Rhode Island resident.

Yesterday, I stood in line at the DMV for an hour and a half and surrendered my Virgina license in exchange for one from the Ocean State.

I planned to shoot a cool picture of me holding the license with my extended arm, a close up on the card, with me kinda blurry in the background. Then, I'd write:

"Ta-dow! How you like me now?"

But, as you can see, that ain't how it's going down today. Let me tell you why.

I took my eye test, registered to vote, became an organ donor and went over to the camera to take my picture. I'm waiting to the side for them to hand me my card and I see all these people walking away with papers - not licenses. I'm thinking, "No big deal. That was a kid. He was just getting a permit." Then it was my turn.

"Telya," the burly clerk barks from behind the camera/computer setup. I spring over to the counter, expecting to get my license, fresh from the printer, in my hand.

Instead, I got a printout of my license. On 8 1/2 x 11' paper. And a red stamp validating it. The man told me my license would be mailed to my address in about two weeks. I took the paper, confused at where things had gone wrong. I've had many an address in my day, but only two licenses: one from MI and another from VA. Everytime I went to renew or transfer my license, I'd go to the DMV, take my test, show some forms and walk out with a shiny new card. I had no reason to think my venture in Rhode Island would be any different. But, I should've known better.

After all, this is Rhode Island.

So, I walked out of the DMV, slightly dejected. I folded up the paper and put it in my wallet, praying I wouldn't get stopped so I'd have to explain. I can just imagine the conversation with the copper now:

"'You know why I stopped ya cah, ma'am," he'd say. "Let me have ya license and registration."
I'd fumble for my paperwork, and hand them to the copper, almost blinded by the flashlight he's shining in my face. He'd look quizzically at me, then at the paper, then back at me.

"Whaddya trying to pull heah, huh," he'd yell, referencing the flimsy paper that said I was allowed to drive in the state, coupled with my Mississippi license plate.

"Nothing, sir," I'd say, "Whatever do you mean?"

"I wasn't born yestahday, girl," he'd say. "You stole this car, didn't you? DIDN'T YOU?"

My mind would be spinning with images of me assuming the position on the hood of my car, about to be hauled off to jail. I could see the headlines now - "Reporter dies mysteriously after confusion during traffic stop."

My case would never be solved.

So, to avoid all of that, until I get my plastic license, I'll be driving slow, homie. Real slow.

In other news, I'm one step closer to getting renter's insurance. I got two quotes yesterday (I was very productive) - but they're both higher than everyone is telling me I should expect to pay. They're asking about $125 to $175 a year. I was told to expect about $50 to $70. I'm going to call around and check some other prices. I can't be having my new couch damaged by any apartment malfunctions, I know that.

Also, I've been informed that my "secret" is out. Sammie has been identified. Maybe it was changing my status on Facebook that did me in. Ah well. So much for trying to have some privacy. But since I've been outed, guess I'll give him a shoutout.

Hey, boo.

Think that's enough for now. If you need me, I'll be baking a cake for Sammie's birthday: Yellow cake with chocolate frosting. Behold my culinary skills and recognize.

Bow down.