[Alt: Why I Still Get Valium Refilled]
I hate California ~ have I ever said this? Someday I shall retire to an idyllic place where there’s way less traffic and constant hassle.
So my dad had a checking account at Bank of America. As you may know, this is an institution with a ton of problems, but one thing they’re right on top of is freezing the small accounts of dead old people. I produced all manner of ID and stuffs, including a power of attorney, but none of that was good enough ~ I had to get his death certificate for them, plus then wait 40 days, for them to give me the money. If only I had thought of writing a check to myself for the full amount the minute I heard the news, right? But no.
The death certificate is available (for $16) in Santa Ana at the OC Health Care Agency, where it marinates for 60 days and then is transferred to the Hall of Records. Why is that? Because we need to have arbitrary rules. Dur. So, I left early Tuesday morning to go to the HCA, but the freeways were all messed up even then, so I arrived in Santa Ana at almost 8:00AM, and the streets were all crowded and miserable.
I found the building and saw the parking was all metered, natch. I had to drive around the block, and on the other side was the High School for the Performing Arts, mashed between all the gobblement buildings. WTF? Who’d put a high school there? Oh, and it was time for school, yay. So, I had to wait while all the budding Rembrandts and Lady Gagas ambled across the street, ushered by cops, and the mommies in their ginormous SUVs dropped off their preciousnesses. Gah!
OK. Finally I got back to my building, parked, found two quarters for the meter, and went inside. I was the only customer, whew. I decided to get two certificates, just in case. This was the easy part, figures. It’s always the driving/parking that stresses me out.
My grandmother’s middle name was Ann, like mine. I never knew. Strange to find out this way, after all this time.