The Artist Formerly Known As

I got married over a year ago and it seems to be sticking, so I figure at this point I might as well change my name. My married name would be the length of an Arab cab driver’s so I’ve been putting it off seeing as “Sweeney” has such a nice ring to it. If you say it slowly, it sounds exactly the way the Irish intended: slurred intoxication. The new name however mirrors that of a popular pre-historic cartoon family surname… in German.  So, that’s somewhat of a plus.

Days after returning to work from the wedding, an upper management suit, who I liked to call “Gun Hands”  asked what my new name would be as he passed me in the hall. His delicately tactful response, “Blech! Keep Sweeney,” as he continued on. With that level of encouragement pouring in, it’s a wonder I hadn’t gotten to this sooner.

Uprooting and eliminating your identity in order to prove and confirm marital bliss takes research, so I rolled up my bathrobe sleeves this afternoon and got to work.

One site stated it takes the average gal no less than 13 hours of filling out and submitting paperwork to transition into a Mrs. Thank god I’m unemployed. Asking friends proved fruitless; either they kept their name claiming a modern woman stance (while stock piling high-end goods on their fella’s dime) or they rolled their eyes and said, “what a pain in the ass” giving no further information. A more affluent friend replied, “I have no idea, our lawyer dealt with that.” Naturally, I punched her with my Cubic Zirconia fist.

Fine. I’ll figure it out myself.

I found my way to the Social Security Administration site. Pain in the ass, indeed; navigating the endless menus led to dead ends and worse… the truth about our United States government. The conspiracy theory we swept under the rug… just before putting in a load of laundry and basting the roast while adding two cubes to the rocks glass moments before our darling husbands came home from their complicated man jobs: the gobment wishes to keep the ladies from using that squiggly stuff betwixt her ears.

   

Eleanor Roosevelt would have been disappointed in her husband’s Social Security web designer. When I finally located the name changing page, I stared down the emptiness of this:

Thanks a lot, America. I can take a hint. Now if you'll kindly hand me my purse and shawl, I'll be leaving... to bake a quiche.