You may have noticed that the blog has been a bit quiet lately. That’s because my life has been so loud.

The past few weeks have seen me, Mom and Buried, Detective Munch finally make the dreaded highly anticipated move down to Raleigh, North Carolina. First our bodies, then our belongings made their way below the Mason-Dixon.

We aren’t even close to settled-in, and so I have hardly been able to begin dealing with the culture shock that comes with a move from the northeast to the midsouth.

Especially since I was already forced to visit the DMV.

I was forced to take a test just to get a state driver’s license. Huh? NC doesn’t recognize New York’s authority? Did I move to a foreign country, like Canada, or Texas? Is this some anti-Yankee bullshit? Because I’m a Red Sox fan.

Turns out it had nothing to do with baseball; they don’t even have a team in this state. (I KNOW!) They do, however, have a hockey team. (I KNOW!) Whatever. I’m not trying to get off on the wrong foot in my first week in my new state, so I looked into it, hoping I could find a way to avoid a terrifying “License To Drive” type-scenario in which me and Corey Feldman double-team Nicole Eggert. Or was that “Blown Away”? Either way, I didn’t want Corey Feldman OR Tommy Lee Jones anywhere near me.

Despite my displeasure, my hands were tied: we need a car to navigate the decidedly less pedestrian-friendly locale down here, and I am required to have a North Carolina license before I can buy that car. I wasn’t thrilled with the idea of dealing with one of the three most notorious government entities (the others probably being the IRS and the Post Office), but we can’t borrow our friend’s car forever, and we have enough logistical nonsense to deal right now. It was best to get it over with.

So I acquiesced to the strange laws of this strange land and made preparations to take my first driving test since I was sixteen.

Since I have a valid NY license, I was only required to take the written test, which I was actually more nervous about. I know how to drive, but I haven’t had to study in years. And I was warned it would be tricky.

So I did my due diligence: I skimmed the guidebook, paid extra attention to the state-specific rules that reference tractors and cows and what to do when someone spits their dip all over your windshield, and prepared to visit the DMV.

Which I aced: 20 for 20.

So we’ve moved all our stuff, we’ve changed our addresses and I’ve bought myself a cowboy hat. (Just kidding. You’ve never seen a person look worse in a cowboy hat.). Now I wait for my license to arrive in the mail and then I get a car with NC plates. Safe to say we’re on our way to officially being southerners.

Or really to being the least amount southern we can be while actually living here.