Bride-zilla in training

Today’s mis-adventure comes to you from Flint, Michigan.
It is sponsored by Stupid Rules and Budget Cuts.

Today I had a couple errands to run so I packed up myself and his highness prince chubby cheeks and took off for a drive to the Genesee County Courthouse in Flint. I had to apply for Jon and I’s marriage license. We arrived at about 10:15am. I thought that this was going to be a short 30-40 minute trip. I was wrong. So, so wrong.

First, I found a parking spot across the street. I picked Harrison up out of the car seat and jay-walked to the building, up two medium length flights of stairs, through the doors to the station where you get metal-detected, and spoke to the cops manning the entry. They informed me that the clerks office is on the second floor, but that I first have to take my cell phone out to the car. Stupid rule #1. Apparently you are not allowed to have a cell phone in the building. So, I trek my ass all the way back out to the car to remove the cell phone from my person, walk all the way back, up the stairs, through the metal detector (where the door-cops ogle over the baby again) into the elevator, up and to the clerks office. In the clerks office I begin to fill out the marriage application and it goes smoothly ’til I get to the spot for Jon’s social security number. The number just happened to be in a text message on my cell phone. (This is where the cursing in my head starts.) So I take the application all the way downstairs, out the building to my car to get the number. I walk all the way back in and up to the office (explain to the officers that yes, Harrison is heavy) and begin to wait in line. As I am waiting, I look around at all the signs, notice that one apologizes for any delay, but they are understaffed due to budget cuts, I smile to myself because I am 2nd in line, then notice another sign. This sign tells us that they do not accept debit or credit card for application payments. What. The. F***. Stupid rule #2. I walk out of the office, exasperated and sweating by this point, and ask if there is in ATM in or near the building. Of course there isn’t, so I had to leave the courthouse and drive all the way to the damn bank. By this point, the officers assume I’m leaving for good and leave me with some parting child-rearing advice to “enjoy him while he is this age because then they grow up and get snotty.” I reply (in my head) that I would enjoy it if he could f*cking walk because my arms feel like jello. So, I return from the bank, park in nearly the same spot as before, jay-walk to the building and up the stairs where I am greeted by the same officers who then inform me that my cell phone is in my purse. By this point, I am so damn sweaty and annoyed that I couldn’t stop the “fuck” that escaped from my mouth. The officers had a good giggle over this and I was not amused. I repeat the process again, get up to the clerks office and am greeted by a line where I am not number 2 or number 3, but am number 18. “Sorry” the sign said, “budget cuts” the sign said….

So, I then waited for an hour in line and was able to get out of there by 1:05pm…..lucky me.



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