Last week, I took my life and my old social security card into my hands, and made the trek to the Schenectady social security office.
Y’all. I really expected better from you. You KNEW I had to do this—and not one of you bothered to warn me!
I thought we were friends.
I cheerfully walked into a dirty gray room on the 8th floor, and my blue eyes widened because HOLY CROWD, BATMAN. The waiting room looked suspiciously like a third world three ring circus, with one very bored blue-uniformed officer [Officer? Officer of WHAT, pray tell?] attending a mass of rather suspicious looking reprobates. The aforementioned “officer” and I were the only native English speakers in the room, a commonality that got me approximately nowhere when I falteringly asked her for help. Barking, she ordered me to check in at an outdated computer, where a flickering blue screen unapologetically informed me that my case would NOT be served in the order in which it was received.
Oh, good. Because that makes sense.
I was going to be there as long as they felt like keeping me there. Which, unhappily, turned out to be for HOURS. I was one of those line-waiters that other line-waiters are deeply concerned about, and also deeply afraid to speak to lest they become emotionally unhinged. I began sending a flurry of angry texts to my friend Nancy, who sympathetically reminded me that if I managed to escape the social security office alive, I would still have the DMV, my passport, my credit card, my frequent flier miles, and eleventy billion other scraps of my life as “Ashley Peterson” to change.
So you’re telling me I have nothing to live for.
I called Kellan, and in a voice strangely reminiscent of Simba’s criminal Uncle Scar indignantly informed him that if he didn’t come home holding something that started with “molten lava fudge”, he didn’t need to bother coming home at all.
I could hear him grinning over the phone. Honey, you’re becoming a Dickens!