I. Hate. Most. Things.

I'm not sure how it happened, but I lost my driver's license last week. When Lifetime switched offices over to the Google building on 8th Avenue, instead of giving me a new building pass I had to check in with my driver's license and be issued a daily temporary pass for admittance into the building. It was definitely a bit annoying, but it was hardly a deal breaker.

Until I somehow lost my license. Obviously.

This left me in a bit of a Catch-22: my ID was a valid Ohio driver's license. In order to get a New York state driver's license after misplacing your out-of-state ID, you need, among other things, a social security card. 

I haven't had a social security card in about two years. I somehow lost it while I was in D.C - either in transit to Brooklyn, or perhaps when I was mugged. In order to get a social security card, you need some form of government photo ID. Without my driver's license, I was reduced to a passport - something that I don't have, as I've never been out of the country.

Oh good. It's time to embark on a journey that will only catapult my blood pressure into the ionosphere!

I called the Ohio DMV to see how long it could be until I could obtain a duplicate license. They told me the process would take about three months, which is absolutely absurd. I then checked in with the social security office, who asked me if I had been to a doctor since I had moved to the city. Luckily for me, I had been to one - Dr. Marjorie Lee. 

Without a passport or a driver's license, the other option was to obtain either a copy of my certified medical records or a simple statement on the doctor's office letterhead signed by the doctor that verified that I was a patient. Coupled with my birth certificate, this would be enough to obtain my social security card.

I asked again if this was the only option I had. The voice on the other line confirmed.

Here we go.

I called Dr. Lee's office, and spoke to her secretary. It took me a bit, but I explained the situation: that I was a patient of Dr. Lee's back in December, and that I needed a simple signed statement that said I was the patient.

"Can't you get this information from a bank? I've never heard of such a thing," the rude voice said on the other line. "This can't possibly be right."

"No," I replied. "I can't get a statement that I was your patient from a bank," I said.

"But you need a social security card to get a bank account," the woman said.

"No, you don't. I got my Chase account without my card," I retorted. I was growing impatient, and sweat started to pool beneath my hairline.

She asked for me to put the request "in writing, in ink." I told her that I was starting a new job next week, and that this couldn't wait. All it was going to take was five minutes for her to print out two sentences on her bosses' letterhead, and have her doctor sign it. I even offered to pick it up at their office.

"What happens if you haven't been to a doctor? I don't believe that this is the only way," she continued.

I kindly explained that if she didn't help me, I'd have to wait three months to get a duplicate license from my home state of Ohio.

"Well, we can't do it out of principal," she hissed. To me, this basically reads as "I'm a bitter, soulcrushing bitch who is deeply saddened about being a lifelong secretary."

I hung up. I called social security back, explaining that my doctor refused to issue a letter that acknowledged me as a patient. They were in a state of disbelief, and explained to me that this sort of thing happens, albeit very seldom. They offered to call the doctor's office and explain the situation, and accept a faxed copy of said letter as proof of my identification.

Time for round two with Spewsha, Hogbeast Secretary.

"I'm looking forward to the phone call from social security," the horrible voice defiantly said, after I told her what was going to transpire the next morning.

While I was on the phone, I kept receiving calls from my mother. Three times in the span of ten minutes. I called her back, still absolutely hot from dealing with one of the most arbitrarily litigious shrews on the face of the planet

"This better be good," I snapped, for no good reason.

And it was.

"I have your driver's license," she said.

It was like my entire body farted from every possible orifice; it's the only way I can aptly describe the liberation that took place in that instant. My mother received a note in the mail, along with my ID, explaining that my license was found on the round near W. 21st street. The return address was of a man in the Upper East Side, who possesses eerily similar handwriting to my own.

"I thought it was you, playing a joke on me," my mother said.

For every irritating imbecile seeking to cause problems because they won't do the right thing, there's a nomadic samartian living in a third-floor walk-up on E. 68th street who will serve as your unexpected guardian angel. 

If you're New Yorker in need of a general practitioner, please remember that you could do better than a doctor who hires incompetent staff that breeds graceless behavior. Riddle me this: if a doctor's office won't take an extra five-minutes to help a paying patient, how can you trust them to do the right thing regarding your health?

Short answer: You can't.