Undocumented (for reals)

Yesterday morning I had a melt down.

In a bank.

In public.

I couldn't help myself.

You see, I am currently an undocumented citizen of the United States of America.

Shhhh. Don't tell anybody.

It begin a few months ago when the Indiana BMV (DMV in  my ancestral home of Missouri) declared that my marriage license was not an "official" marriage license and I needed to send off for a new one.

I am pretty sure I am legally married. However, they wanted some kind of seal on my pretty marriage license.

What.Ever.

At the time, I was at the Indiana DMV  BMV is get my Indiana Driver's License. I brought in the necessary paperwork/documents and even had to take a "knowledge" test to prove that I know the difference between a stop sign and a yield sign.

I took the test and after finding out I needed more information/an official marriage license I tucked all of my necessary paperwork/documents into a file folder to be worked on later in the week.

And then I started feeling reaaally bad. My blood pressure shot up to stroke level (I'm blaming it on the Indiana DMV BMV) and I set aside that whole driver's license business.

And then.

I couldn't find that handy dandy file folder with all of my necessary paperwork/documents in it.

My driver's license.

My social security card.

My pretty (un)official marriage license.

AND my birth certificate.

I couldn't just pop down to the courthouse to get a birth certificate reissued either.

I was born in Nicaragua in the early 70's. I have to get any copies of my birth certificate from the State Department.

I know this because the last time I needed a copy was in 2006. That copy has Condoleeza Rice's name on it.

True story.

So after doing doing some research on the whole gnarly process, I gathered the necessary documents and proceeded to find a notary public who could verify that I am who said I am.

Do you know that a notary public will not verify anyone's identification without a PHOTO ID?

Problem.

I DON'T HAVE A PHOTO ID! I threw it away with my social security card, marriage license and birth certificate.

And we come to my melt down at the bank.

My Poor Muffin. He was with me. I could tell he vacillated between feeling sorry for me and helpless and then feeling uncomfortable because I was crying in the bank lobby.

Eventually, we went to call on someone who had helped us with our health insurance when we first got into town. It was deemed that we would just do the best we could.

All of it rests now on The Muffin's word of honor. He has had to sign certain statements declaring that he can vouch for my existence.

Am I who I say I am?

Good. Grief.

I can't even get a library card in my new town.

You can't understand how devastating this is for me.

I am going to have to turn in my Nerd card now.

Unless I threw it away with the rest of my identification.