Signs from God and the DMV

I never thought of myself as a very religious person until God started talking to me. He wasn’t saying “Abbie, you sucked this morning when you lost your temper. Try talking kinder to your three sons when you find two alligator snapping turtles in your Jacuzzi. Ask yourself, what would Mary do?”

Most people don’t realize this, but God actually has a wicked sense of humor.

I always loved telling a good story, but sending me to school wasn’t one of my hippie parent’s priorities back in the seventies. Mastering the comma was forever lost on “Twenty-Eight Absences Abbie.” So instead, I honed my verbal storytelling and it worked well while I was a child invited to slumber parties. Even my friends in college enjoyed my beer, I mean my stories, but I never dared to write them down.

Then eventually I got older, got married, and had kids.

One day I realized my twin three year-olds didn’t want to hear about the time God thought it would be funny to have me accidentally drive a brand new car into a chop shop sting in Detroit when I was sixteen. Kids will just stare at you when you mention being frisked. Your spawn will just ask to watch “Jay Jay the Jet Plane” when you mention the police helicopters overhead.

I realized God wanted me to share my ridiculous stories online so other mothers would not abandon their children and go work at one of those all-inclusive resorts in the Caribbean that doesn’t allow kids in.

He sent daily insanity my way, so that other moms may feel normal.

God had my blog in His plan even before I was born. A name that is a librarians dream. A.B.B.I.E. I will forever be butt-dialed by people. PTO moms shall accidentally sext me their boobies. God’s message there was that if you keep naked pictures of your private bits on your phone, you should probably install a password in case your phone happens into naughty teenagers hands.

So God sends me stories for my blog. Sometimes even, God sent me actual physical signs.

I started thinking that I might turn out to be a pretty normal adult when I found my loud-mouthed midwestern self living in a demure gated southern country club community with a physician husband.

God just decided to mail THAT sign directly to my house. It was my shiny new license plate for my new white Suburban, and the plate number was “WTF”.

I was notified by the State that it was a mistake and I could exchange it for a new one.

I decided to keep it.
After all, it was a sign sent directly…from God!

Abbie Gale




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