So I Married an Axe Murderer

Or a fugitive. Or a serial killer.

OK, wait, let me back track and explain.

This weekend, Mr. Martini and I went to the DMV to register our new address with the powers that be. What we thought would be a simple, quick visit, where they slapped a sticker on our licenses and sent us on our merry way was not to be.

As it turned out, we needed to pay for entirely new licenses, plus have our pictures taken. Really, this shouldn’t have taken too long, but it is the DMV after all, so it’s always got to be more complicated than it needs to be.

After filling out the appropriate forms, we were assured they would accept a credit card for payment, for an extra $2.50 fee. Then I took out my Visa. Whoops! Sorry! The DMV only takes MasterCard and Discover. (Who takes Discover over Visa? The DMV, apparently.) I was pointed to a non-name ATM machine which charged me a $3 fee for use. You win this round, DMV!

From there, Mr. Martini and I lined up to get our pictures taken. Now, we hadn’t planned on needing new photos, so neither of us had really done any extra “about to have a picture taken” primping that morning. I ran a brush through my hair, checked for food in my teeth, and figured that was as good as it was going to get.

Mr. Martini wasn’t worried. “I mean, really, who sees this picture?” he said.

As it turned out, as we walked up to get our pictures taken, there was some hullabaloo behind the counter. About 5 people had just had their photos taken and licenses printed without their signature on the card. So they had to have their photos taken again.This caused great consternation behind the counter, as there was much shouting of names and angry words and extra people lining up, who had already been through the DMV circle of hell once and didn’t really want to replay the entire picture taking process.

I managed to avoid most of the confusion and got a decent picture. But as Mr. M. stood in front of the camera, the distracted photographer rushed through is shot, without giving him any time to compose himself.

When his name was called to pick up his license, he showed it to me.

His photo made him look INSANE. The photographer didn’t crop it correctly, so it looks like he’s trying to sneak out of the frame. He’s not smiling, but the left side of his mouth is curled up in a snarl. He’s got a look in his eyes like he’s daring you, just daring you, to piss him off, and then he’ll go off and show you just what a crazy mofo he is. The shadow from his stubble really just adds to the sinister look of the shot. It is, without a doubt, the scariest, meanest, closest-thing-to-a-mug-shot photo of Mr. Martini that I have ever, ever seen. He looks like someone you’d see on America’s Most Wanted.

Needless to say, I burst out laughing when I saw it. In the middle of the DMV, a place where no one laughs. Because I know Mr. M, and while he’s a bad-ass (aren’t you, honey?), he doesn’t necessarily look like this much of a bad-ass on a daily basis.

After looking at the picture, Mr. Martini had a realization.

“Oh, crap,” he said. “I’m never, ever going to get through airport security ever again now. They’ll take one look at this picture and send me aside for a cavity search.”

“Forget ever talking your way out of a ticket,” I said. “You’ll be all respectful to the cop, then he’ll take one look at this picture and ask you to step out of the car while he runs your priors.”

“But at least no one will f— with me at a bar.”

“True. Just flash this picture to the bouncer or the bartender, and you’ll be left alone all night.”

At random intervals all weekend, Mr. Martini would flash his license at me, and I’d break out into hysterical laughter. I hope he keeps this license photo forever, if only for my amusement. As long as he never, ever gets pulled over, I’ll find this funny forever.