No Tooties.

After three years of driving the car my parents gave me while I was in college, they are finally kicking me off the insurance and cutting ties with the car, gifting it to me and A., and thus requiring me to register and title it -- two grown-up actions that, while pretty mundane, I've never done in my entire life. And hence, today was my initiation into the world of car ownership.

Because I was receiving this car from out-of-state, state law requires that I have a police officer do a Vehicle Identification Number inspection. So I bundled up and lugged along the Punky and we were off to the police station -- which by the way, in our fair city, is in the ghetto. I don't mean, oh hey, a few ramshackle buildings, it's cute and quaint. No, I mean fucking ghet-TO. Like, I seriously am pretty sure I drove past a drug deal going down. And even though my car was parked in the gated lot across the street from the station, I locked it and took anything of value with me, and clung on to Punky tightly for fear that she might be snatched and sold into slave labor, or for drugs, or something.

Setting things up with the receptionist wasn't anything noteworthy. She took my information and directed me to sit in the waiting area and an officer would be with me in a minute. Okay, cool. So we sat. And waited. And waited. And waited. It was in this wait time that I began to watch the people around me, and casually listen and figure out their stories.

The most notable -- and the most dramatic, not only in the story itself but the dramatic display -- was a young mother come to "spring" her 11-year-old son out of jail for, and yes, I'm serious, allegedly selling cocaine at school. She was understandably distraught, hugging herself and rocking back and forth in her chair, loudly moaning into her cell phone, "Oh LAWD, oh LAWD... I done TOL' Tootie not to bring his drugs an' shit into the house! He keep doin' that and I'm gon' lose my babies!" Further inconspicuous evesdropping led me to believe Tootie is Mom's boyfriend.

Whatever, I mean, sometimes my kid takes her diaper off and smears her poop everywhere. Nobody's kid's perfect.

Then the Mom started giving me childraising advice. "Don't ever let yo' baby grow up, next thang you know she gon' be sellin' drugs and you gon' be here too." I smiled tersely and thanked her for her advice. I silently made a personal note to keep Punky away from Tootie, whom I believe is a bad man.

The Mom was also wearing a sweatshirt with Tupac and Barack Obama airbrushed on. I'm not sure what the collaboration between the two of them is, nor did I realize such merchandise existed, but I guess considering I was an ardent supporter of Obama throughout the election, I should just be glad she had some sort of propoganda on. Whatever. We won, yes we can, ya'll.

By the time the officer came out and helped me with the process -- which took all of 30 seconds, in the end -- I was apparently so completely and utterly out of my element and frightened-looking that I was advised that you can call and have an officer dispatched to your house to do the VIN inspection. Which is convenient since it's actually a pain in the ass to go through this process of police station-to-DMV while lugging around 25 lbs. of sheer uncooperative toddler. Shoveling goldfish crackers and cheerios into them only works for so long toward staving off a fullblown "FUCK THIS SHIT" baby meltdown. How long? Til about halfway through the DMV experience, when you're to the point you need to sign paperwork and shit -- in case you were wondering. So I think I'll take the "put my tax money to work and have an officer come to my house" route. It's a route I wholeheartedly plan on pursuing next time.

That, and keeping my baby away from drugs and Tooties.