I have a car named Ted. I love him.
A lot of folks give me props for having a car named Ted, as it is a rather good car name. However, I did not name Ted. Rather, when I got Ted, his license plate started with TED: built-in name!
An awful thing happened Monday night. I discovered the license plates that had arrived in the mail were not for my roommate, but for me. Turns out, Minnesota, rather than issuing me a little sticker to keep my license valid for another year, issued WHOLE NEW PLATES. I am not sure if this is a regular happening here. My roommate says she thinks it is, but she still hasn’t changed her plates over from Georgia, so I’m not convinced she is the best authority.
Ted’s new plates are just about the BORINGEST EVER. Not only do they not say TED, they now say MAH. Which is NOT EVEN A WORD.
Anyway, I just about cried. Ted being recognizable by name is one of the simple pleasures in life that I currently get the most out of. I really don’t understand why why why issuing new plates makes more sense than sending me a sticker.
In my distress, my roommate suggested personalized plates. I looked into it. They are not too expensive at $100. Now I’m stuck deciding between fixing the whole nameless plate debacle or fixing the giant-ass scratch that a stupid plow inflicted on poor Ted’s bumper.
Moral of the story: Minnesota, bite me.