I Am...I Said...

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Day 14 in Las Vegas
The Coffee Bean

I've been putting this off for while, but now it's time to "get-ur done": order a certified birth certificate and replace my social security card.

Now at first glance it doesn't seem all that important. I've lived most of my adult life without a wallet-sized social security card, and I've never seen an official copy of my birth certificate. Somehow I survived college and graduate school, and about 30 years of adult-career-grown-up-type jobs without ever having to produce either a birth certificate or a social security card. I guess I've been lucky.

So the time has come to do the adult thing and acquire these two all-important, identity-proving documents. Since the 9/11 attacks and the birth of Homeland Security, proving one's identity has become a little more sticky. More employers are doing background checks and double-checking the proof of your identity. So it's become apparent that everyone should have both a certified copy of their birth certificate and an official social security card. (Unless you're an illegal allien...then all you need is the ability to speak Spanish and look really sad.)

I asked my father, "So...where I do go to get a birth certificate? The hospital I was born in? Have you got a copy?" My father's response, "Well...you probably need to go to the county clerk's office."

My father is usually smarter than me when it comes to these things, so I took his advice and went to the Nacogdoches County web site and sent an email to the County Clerk for instructions on how to obtain a birth certificate. I was emailed back with these instructions: "...pay $23 and send a letter requesting the certificate and tell us why you want it." Tell you why I want it? What kind of nitwit are you? "Well, I'd like to frame it and place on the wall next to my embossed driver's license!"

My next chore was to visit the Social Security Administration office this morning on S. Buffalo. I walked into the "Card Center", took a number, and waited for about 20 minutes. The lady behind the bullet-proof glass was kind enough, though a little tight around the buns if you know what I mean. She was all business. But she did have a nice manner about her. After filling out a form and showing my driver's license I was given a temporary form proving I exist. I was told I would have to wait a week to receive my card in the mail. "Don't laminate it," she said seriously as if to imply that if I did, Leon Panetta would send a CIA operative to my house to go Jason Bourne on my ass. "Yes, ma'am," I said and I quickly left the building.