Tuesday, August 11, 2009

I'm sure people accidentally adopt orphans all the time

Last week B and I went to get our marriage license, because unlike the act of procreating, you need a license to get married in Pennsylvania. And what's that about, anyway? Because after a week of blatantly staring at people people watching on the beach, I'm pretty sure I picked up just about every way how NOT to be a parent. And shouldn't people have to take some kind of test before they're allowed to start poppin' em out? True of False: Dressing your 12-year-old child in water shoes and one of those bathing suits with the built-in flotation devices while on the beach will cause him to be single forever and never move out of his childhood bedroom and call you mommy until the day he dies. TRUE. Fill in the blank: Calling your child fucking annoying on a crowded beach is a ____ idea. Answer: bad. Multiple choice: A good way to keep track of small children on the boardwalk is to a) hold their hands b) use a stroller c) strap them to a leash. As for the rest of you, it's called birth control.

Anyway, B and I weren't entirely sure what to expect with the licensing process. Would WE have to take a test? Would there be a written component? Was an instructor going to take us out into the parking lot and ask me to make a pot roast? Would B have to demonstrate how good he is at picking up dirty socks and hanging up wet towels? Because I'm pretty sure that would be the equivalent to the parallel parking part of the driver's test for dudes and if so, B would fail and THEN what would we do? My mom would NOT be happy if we had to change our reception from the Hyatt Regency to the Las Vegas Love Shack.

Turns out we just had a fill out a form but even that was slightly nerve wracking because we had to go to the county's Orphans Court to do it and what if we checked the wrong box and ended up accidentally adopting an orphan? And it's not like you can just RETURN an orphan because didn't you ever see "Annie?" That Miss Hannigan is just the pits. And as we've already established, you don't need any kind of license to get a kid, so it's totally possible. Also, I'm pretty bad at filling out forms because I get bored about half way through and start rushing and don't read things carefully and end up with a non-refundable lifetime's subscription to FlavaMen Magazine.

But when we got there we didn't have to worry about any of that because it turns out they fill out the form FOR you. All you have to do is sit there and answer questions like social security number and mother's occupation and father's middle name. Then we had to put our right hands on the Bible and swear that we didn't make stuff up because I get a real thrill in lying about where I was born and what B's dad does for a living. And in case you were wondering, yes, swearing on the Bible in court IS everything "Law and Order" makes it out to be.

When we were done, B stood up and was all "woah so are we MARRIED?" And the state worker with all the heart shaped picture frames on her desk gave us exactly the type of look TV makes you think state workers give all the time. In other words, she basically told B to go stab himself in the face with her eyes. It was amazing. So no, we are not married, but we are licensed to wed, just like that lame movie. And surprisingly, after all that, I didn't even have a single dream about being pregnant. I'd call that a success.

4 comments:

Sole Matters said...

LOL this post cracked me up! Thanks for lightening my day, for a few brief minutes! ;)

ScrambledJill said...

Nice. When my husband and I went to get our marriage license at the DMV one of our bar buddies showed up and started giving us crap about getting married. I'm sure the lady who was filling out our form was like, "yeah...this is really going to work out."

Shelley Greenberg said...

WE'RE DOING THAT ON THURSDAY! God, you're so ahead of me on the to-do list.

rory said...

That happened to me once.
I was getting a driver's license and accidentally adopted an orphan.
Ya need to be careful, they eat ALOT.

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