Thursday, February 21, 2013



When I visited Ann to pick up her passport, I had suggested to her, "You never know, I may be back for fingernail clippings!  It's also possible I'll need to collect a few strands of your hair!"  Quite ironically,  now I am pulling out big clumps of mine! (I figure you can figure that I'm figuratively speaking, Reader Dear.  I am stamping my foot quite figuratively, too!)

"Would you like to speak to my supervisor?"  asks the Social Security clerk.
"Yes, yes, by all means," I respond, and am ushered readily into a room for difficult cases.

Now then.
The Supervisor looks at Ann's passport and tells me it is outdated.
The Supervisor hears the travel story of my five previous trips to this location (though he is not made privy to the plethora of details I have given you, Dear Reader!)
He glances at the  paperwork I carry with me.
He listens to my tale of indignation.
He excuses himself to "check into things further."

While he is gone, I finish up my coffee.
I am emboldened by it.
There's a small likelihood I found amusement in forbidden activity.

Some time later, the Supervisor returns.
He has something to explain to me.
"There are three separate sections to these government records," he says. "There is healthcare, which is Medicare.  There is employment, which is Social Security.  And there is taxation, which is the IRS."
I am listening intently.
"Because two of these files have the correct birth date," he continues, "we are able to correct the file on record with Medicare."

(Stunned silence)

"What are you saying?" I ask.

"I am saying" he explains, " that's it's all taken care of.  You can inform anyone who has submitted claims to wait a few days, and then re-submit.  It will take about two days, but the error will be corrected!"

(There are a few more nano-seconds of brain processing on my part, Reader Dear)

"So... all of those trips, and all of this," I motion to my handful of papers, "was not needed?"
(It was a rhetorical question.)
And, just like that...


(As I leave the Social Security office, I throw up quietly in the shrubbery  [figuratively speaking, Reader Dear, only figuratively speaking!])

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