So, I am legal. Meaning that I now have a cute little card crammed with information and a picture which I wasn’t ready for after waiting an hour and a half.
It turns out that now, for those of us who want licenses, you need a state or national (I forget) birth certificate. But if you are like a lot of people, you only have a hospital one. Well, no biggie, you can send a copy of your original in for an official one, but if the makers of the official ones accept your old one, why not the state people at the DDS?
No, have no fears of my flattening you in my moms nineteen-year-old Volvo,..I wrecked it on the way home. Actually, I don’t even have my learners. Fortunately for your convertible (or your twenty-year-old Volvo), it’s only an I.D. and I’m in no trouble. Unfortunately, for my Mom’s car, the side is still bashed in and the car is in effect, honorably wounded.
The very reason that I needed this photo I.D. was to confirm I’m underage so that I can go to this Philmont trip I’ve been raving about, via airline without the proper papers confirming that I’m not a terrorist. Though how they could even suspect someone like me…
Airport security 1: I don’t know, George, that one on the left looks like she’s an alkidea [I can not even spell it 😉 ] terrorist.
Airport security 2: Never can tell with seemingly teenage girls, Frank…Oh look, she’s packed a pocket knife and some toothpaste in her main bag…gonna have to see some photo I.D. please, miss…
Another thing I’ve been doing lately is writing a prolonged kids story. The goal was four pages….I am now on twenty-one…and counting. Did you know the Vikings spoke something very like Icelandic?