Tag Archives: new york

Adventures in Marriage Licenses

So Eric got a new job recently, and HR informed him that in order for me to be on his health insurance plan, we would have to get actual documentation stating that we are domestic partners. This came as a surprise, because at Eric’s last job they were like, “Oh, your girlfriend wants health insurance? Cool! Health insurance for dayzzzzzzz!” We literally didn’t even have to show proof that we were living together. I’m not even sure we had to prove we were human beings. I could have been Eric’s pet hamster Chubbles*, and they would’ve covered me. For whatever reason, they just took our word on the honor system, which is the way it should be. (hahah no, I’m kidding. That is DEFINITELY not the way it should be. If it was that way, I would have put myself on the health insurance of every person I’ve lived with since college, including that summer subletter who drew a huge penis on my window).

So we went down to the City Clerk on Wednesday and diligently signed our Domestic Partnership license. It was a beautiful day. The clerk could not have been less interested in us, and was scrolling on Facebook the entire time she processed our paperwork. Which immediately made me like her. I was super hopeful that when the license printed, it would accidentally have one of those creepy FB stickers on it.

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But alas, no. Disappointment abound.

Meanwhile, Eric and I tried to make small talk with her, as an attempt to engage her in this somewhat meaningful moment in our lives.

Us: “We’ll be back here in 5 months for our wedding license!”
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Us: “Thanks yeah we’re excited too!”

This lady was the physical and spiritual embodiment of “Ain’t nobody got time for that.” We gave up, took our license, posed for obligatory photo and left.

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Clap, clap, done! Easy as pie! Right?

Wrong. That’s not how my life works. You should know this by now.

Eric skipped back to his office, Domestic Partnership license in hand, only to find out that HR had given him false information– “Oooooh, our bad. Turns out domestic partnership only gets your partner covered if you’re gay.” And apparently, shouting back, “Ok, ok– we’re gay! We’ll be gay!” doesn’t solve the problem.

What DOES solve the problem? Getting married.

Eric: “But we’re basically married!”
HR: “When is the wedding?”
Eric: “June!”
HR: “Cool. She’ll have health coverage in June.”
Eric: “HAVE YOU MET HER?! SHE NEEDS IT NOW.”

Ok obviously the conversation didn’t exactly go down like that, but the point is that the rules insist we show legal intent to wed (aka, get a marriage license)– and I, as someone prone to mental/physical/invented health issues, cannot wait until June for coverage.

Can I get temporary insurance until then? Yes, of course. For a CRAPLOAD of money. And what is the point, if we are getting married soon anyway? Why not just get the license a little earlier? We already live together and love each other and occasionally want to kill each other and that’s all marriage really is, right? (If not, don’t tell me. I’m a learn-the-hard-way kind of girl, which is why my life tends to be a complete disaster but also interesting).

So, with the most romantic of reasons driving us forward, we went back to the City Clerk this morning to obtain a marriage license. (No, this does not mean we are married. This means we have a document to prove INTENT to marry. Everyone calm down, Mom.)

Not many people get to experience the City Clerk office twice in 3 days, but I guess most people just aren’t as lucky as we are.

Gun emoji.

So there we are this morning, sitting in our seats, waiting for our number to be called, and, like all couples about to take that first legal step in joining their lives forever, we were on our iPhones playing Words With Friends.

With EACH OTHER. We’re not heartless sadists.

As I sat there waiting for Eric to play the next word, I took a moment to look around and do some people watching. There were several couples there who were getting not just a license, but having their official ceremony as well, so they were wearing nice white dresses and suits. Naturally, I then questioned my own appearance, which led to an existential downspiral (aka, a typical Friday morning). “Is it ridiculous that it didn’t even occur to me to look nice for this event? I just threw on jeans, a sweater, Uggs and headed out the door. Does that say something about my maturity level and my preparedness for marriage?”

“Oh, Emily, stop it,” I counterpointed in my head, because having full conversations with myself is normal. “That’s just your anxiety going into overdrive. Yes, you’re dressed casually, but so are most people here. You’re a perfectly mature, responsible adult who is more than ready to enter this very significant stage of life.”

And that’s when I spotted the gigantic glob of Junior Mints melted into my pant leg.

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Yes. It’s as big as it looks.

Some background context here, because I’m sure you’re having difficulty understanding how it’s humanly possible that I did this to myself without noticing:

Last night, Eric and I went to see Dear Evan Hansen on Broadway (fucking phenomenal, by the way). And like all people watching a show with themes of loneliness, pain and depression, I like my trauma with a side of  Junior Mints.

Kramer gets it.

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At one point during the show, I accidentally dropped one of the Junior Mints (again, Kramer-style) while attempting to put it in my mouth. I thought it fell on the floor and so I quickly forgot about it– but, apparently, it got squished between the seat and my leg for the rest of the night, where it slowly melted (because, as you can always assume, I was very sweaty) and spread across my pants. And yeah, I did wear the same pants two days in a row without washing them. You do it too, so SHUT UP.

“But how did you not notice it when you were getting dressed this morning, Emily?”

Because it was early, I hadn’t had coffee, and in general I am not a noticer of things.

“But how about when you took them off last night?”

I AM VERY BAD AT LIFE, OKAY?!

Which brings us back to this moment in the City Clerk’s office, when Eric and I are about to be called forward to sign a marriage license, and I have what appears to be a giant ball of (minty fresh!) shit spread across my pants.

Eric suggested I go to the bathroom and try to clean myself up.

I suggested we take a photo.

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Needless to say, the papers still got signed (not by an officiant– just by us, Mom!) and Eric is still willing to marry me.

Now let’s see if I can make it down the aisle without a giant shit stain on my wedding dress.

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* Chubbles = actual former pet of Eric’s

 

 

The NYC Effect, Part 3

(Part of the The NYC Effect series)

The gourmet deli next to me has delicious, freshly prepared foods, but it’s not exactly efficient. Every time I go in, the line isn’t that long, yet somehow I end up standing in it for at least 20 minutes, waiting to order.

Today I watched the man behind the counter take the order of a woman a few people ahead of me in line. She asked for half a pound of coleslaw. He took FOREVER to prepare it. And once he did, he gave her way too much. She pointed this out, and he shrugged and said, “Eh, no extra charge. We’re not here to make money or speed you through, we’re here to make friends!”

The old, Maryland me: “I love that! How refreshing! A place in NYC that actually values human interaction over robotic, impersonal efficiency! And he gave her free food! I’m coming here all the time!”

Me after a few years in NYC: “Aw, that’s cute! But still. I’m kind of in a rush here…”

Me today: <immediately walk out>

I don’t need friends.

I need some fucking egg salad.

Now.

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The NYC Effect, Part 2

(Related to The NYC Effect)

Last night I had a dream that my whole apartment caught fire. I woke up this morning to my smoke detector beeping low battery.

The former, Maryland-born me: “Wow, I’m so lucky! That beeping went off during my sleep and caused a dream about fire as a warning that I could be in danger, so I should change the battery ASAP.  I’ll do that first thing today. Thanks for looking out for me, Universe!”

Me after 2 years in NYC: “Well that was annoying. Guess I should change the battery, though.”

Me after 5 years in NYC: “I am going to smash that thing in with a baseball bat so that it never fucks with my sleep again.”

Me this morning: <actual maniacal smashing of smoke detector, followed by spitting on it>

 

Oh Good. I’m Back Here.

The NBC evening news just did a segment recommending activities for people who are looking to escape the miserable cold. Their top suggestion? An open-oven pizza place in Hoboken.

Cool idea! Let me drag myself out from under these blankets, pile on 7 layers of clothing (including a separate coat JUST FOR MY HEAD), acquire some frostbite in the city wind tunnels, feel the wind-and-sadness-induced tears turn to ice as I wait for delayed subways, ride 3 different lines of public transportation filled with unbathed homeless men looking to escape mother nature’s most recent bout of PMS, all so that I can go grab a slice of pizza IN NEW JERSEY.

It’s official. I’m not getting off this couch until spring.

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That’s How It’s Done

Apparently there was some kind of impromptu issue on my street this morning, so traffic cops came to block off my road. I guess they didn’t have any more traffic cones or manpower, so they did it by lining up 4 city trash cans across my street, spacing them in a way that made it impossible to drive through.

As I exited my building, I watched as a harrowed woman drove right up to the trash cans and, holding a cigarette in one hand, used her free hand to drag two of the huge metal trash cans far enough apart that she could get through. She then put out her cigarette, spit on the ground, got back in her car, and drove right through the blocked off street.

I fucking love this city.

The NYC Effect

This morning I woke up and saw on the news that there was a fire at Penn Station.

The old, Maryland-born me: “Oh my gosh, I hope no one got hurt!”

Me after 2 years in NYC: “Thank god I don’t have to go to the west side today. Also, I hope no one got hurt.”

Me after 5 years in NYC: “Thank god I don’t have to go to the west side today. This better not affect east side trains. Oh, also, I hope no one got hurt.”

Me this morning: “If this affects east side trains I will fucking kill someone.”

Not great.

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