Sorta.
Because after going through a metal decector at the Federal Building -- and setting it off, of course -- and stating my purpose (like a knight in Monty Python and the Holy Grail, but without being asked my favorite colour), and then taking a ticket as though I was at a deli counter, and then sitting in a room full of people with morose faces, and THEN having people come in and pull their chairs as far from me as they could and still be in the same room (inexplicable, by the way, since I'm both friendly and visibly harmless), my number got called.
I went to a window staffed by a cheerless man in an ugly tie and stated my purpose.
He yawned.
"You have the wrong paperwork," he said.
"Fuuuuuuck!"
My research had been in vain-- the website? Was missing some key information.
I wilted, then pulled myself together.
He smirked. I swear. He SMIRKED at me.
"You'll need to go to the courthouse and get an official, notarized copy of your divorce decree. That's ... What, Strafford county?"
"Yes."
"You could ... Probably ... Make it today," he said. "Of course, we're only open til three, sooo..."
"Right," I said. I smiled at him brilliantly. "Got it."
"There's a nominal fee," he added.
"Great," I said.
"Okay then," he said brightly.
"Have a good day," I said cheerfully, thinking, oh no, sir. You and your ugly tie and your pisspoor attitude and my ex husband and his stupid last name are NOT -- under ANY circumstances -- going to win this day.
No sir.
It was noon. The clock was ticking.
Next stop: the courthouse.
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