I've spent most of the last two days trying to get all of my personal documentation to match up with who I actually am. Can't register my car, because I can't transfer my insurance, because I moved to a new state, because I got married, which results in a change to my name, which doesn't yet agree with my social security information, which messes up my credit report. Seems like there should be a way to make all of this automatic. But heaven forbid the government should be allowed to track me in such an effective way. This is punishment for my massive tax refund, I feel certain.
Naturally, all of this trouble really emphasizes my original point, which was that no New Yorker in their right mind should ever leave New York for New Jersey. If I had just stuck with my instinct (which was to pretend I was living in NY all along), then I wouldn't be having all of this trouble. My mother-in-law reminds me that when she was married, women left their parents' homes for their husband's home, thereby eliminating all of that in-between nonsense. There was that, and the fact that when they married, they hadn't yet been employed, so they had no social security number to mess around with.
Sometimes when I listen to WFUV, I hear a song that I like, and I think, "I should buy that CD." Then, sometimes, I realize that we already own that CD.
Marc and I rushed around the greater Hudson Valley trying to hit each and every mother we knew today. I may never eat again.
In other news, I'm scheduled to be in the audience of The Rosie O'Donnell Show tomorrow. Break out your VCRs, kids, and watch for me!
It's the kind of night where you jet downtown and meet up with your husband for a Belle and Sebastian show, despite the fact that you're not sure you like their music. You have soul food for dinner and walk back and forth to the car to drop off jackets and bags. The air is humid and cool, and your skin is dry and chill. The show is good, much better than you anticipated. Back in the car, you throw the top down and let your husband drive, winding the way home past the George Washington Bridge and across the Bronx. It's cooler than you thought, and you tilt your head back and watch as the overpasses fly by at sickening speed. Now, Belle and Sebastian are on the radio. It's that kind of night.
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