Last week, Jason finally came home from Kansas and for the first time in months, we had a full “weekend” together (Thursday and Friday). We went to brunch Thursday morning because there was absolutely no food left in the house. We were planning on going grocery shopping after, but I said, “Let’s go to Goodwill and see if we can find a table.” We’ve been living in our apartment since last October and still do not have a kitchen table. We don’t have room for one, but eating off our knees is getting pretty old.
Jason had other plans. He wouldn’t tell me where we were going, he just said it had something to do with our future. We pulled into the parking garage downtown and got out. We stopped to look at the map of the buildings around us and then it hit me. “We’re getting our marriage license, aren’t we?”
The gentleman at the counter gives us the form to fill out and we go sit down. I can’t remember where my parents were born. I call my mom. Jason leaves the fields blank. We look over the form and I was Party A originally and on the second part I was Party B. We go back to the gentleman and he looks it over. Whoops, forgot to put down where I was born in that field. Jason apparently missed that field, too. “Which state were you born in?”
“On the border of Arkansas and Missouri.”
“What do you mean, on the border?”
“The hospital was literally on the border of two states.” The gentleman gets up and brings over a supervisor. I nudge Jason and ask him what it says on his birth certificate. I hear the supervisor say to the gentleman that she’s never heard that before and she walks over to us. Then, the supervisor asks what it says on his birth certificate. Blank. So, Jason was told to pick one. He does and the gentleman enters all the information into the computer.
“When you said you were taking me to somewhere that had to do with the future, I thought we were going to the space museum.”
Afterward, we decide we are going to get our driver’s licenses updated at last. When we looked over the records to get everything updated, Jason’s file says he was born in the state he didn’t pick for our marriage license. Oops.
Jason looks at his temporary driver’s license picture and asks me if he really looks like that. “…yes.”
I text a picture of the two licenses side-by-side to his mother. She texts him back.
“You look like a serial killer on crack, sweetie. :D”