Or, rather, the people who say I exist aren’t important enough. Yesterday I wrote about how we need to get these apostilles and that requires resubmitting our birth certificates to the states who issued them. I was all proud because I had mine in a plastic bag in a file marked “VITAL” in a filing cabinet in my basement and found it really fast. Tim was relieved (because sometimes I can’t find stuff) and took all our documents to ship them away.
It turns out, my birth certificate, from San Francisco circa 1981, is signed by a doctor. And the state of California mandates that they have to be signed by an official of some sort, not just a physician. But there have been differences in regulations between different counties in the state, and so mine is only signed by a doctor. So basically although California issued the certificate and authenticated it, they can’t accept it. We have to send my not-adequate one back to them and then they will send me a better one. Don’t even ask me to explain why California is being so hard on itself.
All I know is, my identity is suddenly much more mysterious.