Playing hooky from work today - well, not exactly. I'm not sure it counts as genuine hooky if there has been prearrangement and permission from The Boss, but in any event I'm not at work. I had things to do today.

First off was a visit from the security system repairman. He's had to come 2 or 3 times in the last couple of years but in all fairness, I haven't had a single issue with the system during the first decade or so that I lived here, and the system wasn't new when I moved in. This time, a sensor had gone bad (just through age) and was showing an open door where there wasn't one. The guy showed up on schedule, fixed the problem and went on his way, which was disconcerting and made me rather uneasy (because things went properly without myriad problems, I mean), but at any rate meant it was time for Phase Two of my errands.

I needed to go to the Social Security office of the United States Gub Mint in order to change my card from my maiden surname to my married surname. The form is a bit confusing (no, really!) and the list of "Required Evidence Documents" even more so. Apparently I needed photo ID in both names, proving who I was and who I wanted to be, which is interesting because it's against the law in Georgia to have more than one driver's license in one's possession. [Not that that has ever stopped me, but that's beside the point.] I did not entertain high hopes for this excursion, because whenever I have to do something involving the Gub Mint (federal, state or local) it is usually a total freakin' nightmare, with problems cropping up from totally unexpected quarters.

For example, the form requires that I put down both my parents' names, their places of birth and their Social Security numbers. Now, my dad used to be employed by a military branch of the Gub Mint and during some of his employ, was involved in...er, somewhat secret, generally covert operations. (Oooh, I hope that sounded appropriately mysterious). So anyway, once I put his Social Security number on that form, I fully expected claxon warnings to go off, police and/or army personnel to descend upon the scene demanding to know how I obtained knowledge of such a number and some shaved-head paramilitary type to cuff me and take me in for questioning, saying, "According to our records, that Social Security number belongs to a person who never actually existed! At least not officially! We'd be very interested to know how YOU came by that number and what YOU know about the files to which it is attached. You and your ALLEGED husband can stay in prison for as long as it takes for you to produce this SO-CALLED father you allegedly have. Hope you like rat stew!" --er, but that didn't happen. Something weirder did.

This is the weird part: we got there and had to take a number. I was #323 and they were just calling #319. That's right: it didn't look like we'd be there until I was old enough to qualify for Social Security benefits, which foiled my clever plan of killing two birds with one stone. When we were called, the lady checked my forms, asked for documents we owned and had actually brought with us, made me sign something and let me go. We were in and out in less than an hour. No, really! No, I have not been brainwashed by the MIB's flashy-thingy.

But I want to tell you about this chick that was waiting when we walked into the office. I don't know why, but whenever I have to go somewhere official, like the courthouse or the DMV or like today, none of the other people look like they bathe regularly, have ever purchased soap, or have purchased or laundered clothes in the current decade. Seriously - where do normal, literate, middle-class people go for drivers' licenses, Social Security cards, permits, etc.? Because I can tell you, they don't go any-damn-where near me. So we walk in and there's no one official in evidence, except people at windows helping the grimy. Apparently you have to walk up to a machine that looks kinda like an old Commodore 64, punch in some buttons delineating what you're there for, and the machine prints your number. I know this because this hippie dude told me - he was clean, but he was an old hippie so he only counts half a point. They had a television up over the number-generator and at first, I thought the snoring was coming from that. Then I realized the TV was showing adoptable pets from the Atlanta Humane Society, and the snoring came again, louder, and I was thinking, "Geez, they should take that whippet to the vet!" as I turned around.

It wasn't the whippet on TV.

There was the most ginormous woman sitting in two of the chairs in the waiting area. She was so fat she was taking up the whole space between the rows. I'm overweight, okay, but this woman was CIRCUS FREAK FAT. She was grungy and unkempt, wearing a stained denim dress and flip-flops, and her nasty stringy hair almost trailed the floor because her head was thrown back and she was SNORING. She was SNORING loud enough to drown out the TV, the hustle-and-bustle of a Gub Mint Office at Work, she was snoring and snorting and smacking away. What. The. Hell. I mean, how long had she been there? We had to wait like 10 minutes! How long does it take to go so far to sleep that you snort and snuffle and choke SO DAMN LOUD that you drown out conversations but don't wake yourself up?

After snoring lady was awakened and taken down a hall, Alan said sympathetically, "She's probably here to get her Gub Mint checks for disability, because she can't work." Which is dumb, because she was SO FREAKING FAT, not the boring kind of fat you can see any old day at Wal-Mart, so I'm sure the circus wouldn't have fired her just for snoring.