In less than a year, after I rock the bar exam out of its mind on the first try without studying (hey, it could happen), I will become not only a lawyer, but also a notary. That's why its mildly shameful that I didn't actually know thing one about notaries until a couple days ago. Ok, that's not entirely true. I knew notaries are those dudes who make things all official-like. That being said, having never owned a home, gotten sued and had, umm, official documents in connection with that, I guess, or any other number of vaguely legalistic things of personal importance happen to me; I didn't particularly have occasion to know.
Maybe the most amusing thing I've found out about notaries in the past week is that they don't fit my stereotype at all, but they also don't fit the image the National Notary Association is trying to put out. Their website reads like an ode to American business people. Men and women on the front lines in the war against flat pieces of paper. Raise that seal, you heroes of democracy! Seriously, the only thing missing was phone booths and capes.
I bet this guy's a notary.
And according to the NNA, so is this woman.
The other most amusing thing about finding a notary this week was the huge wild goose chase I went on looking for one. I completely spaced asking my professors who, as legal professionals, were a good bet for being notaries. I asked a couple classmates, but they were as unforgivably clueless as I was. I asked my parents at the beginning of the week and they mentioned a neighbor or two. Finally, after several days of searching, I talked to my dad again - frustrated that I was able to find frozen chicken bowling, a robot convention, and Zoorotica in the last three months, but not a notary.
This time the answer was different. This time I got "go to the bank - it should be a free service with your account". So, I did what anyone who spent the last week looking for something in all the wrong places would do. I thanked him, hung up the phone, got my coat and papers and calmly walked out the door, to the car and drove to the bank. I did manage to snap a picture of myself for posterity before heading out though.
Not my good side.
Once I got to the bank it was basically completely straightforward. I understand how important it is for verifying documents though. That raised seal is not coming out. You'd have to freakin' iron the paper and then it would become all mushy and not be paper anymore and that would just be a silly thing to do. I had to get the papers in the mail asap since it had taken me a week to find the notary. Turns out, a raised seal doesn't come through when you fax something. I learned that on Friday as well.
I headed over to the UPS store (cause tracking numbers are like a child's safety blanket to me) and grabbed one of those big manila envelopes. You know the kind - the ones that make you feel like a secret agent when they come in the mail and then you open them and its the alumni association begging for money again? Yeah, those. Then I had the most epic blond moment I've had in the last, I want to say three-four months. I walked up to the counter, set down the papers and the envelope, grabbed a pen, and then said this to the nice man behind the counter.
Me: Umm. So. Where should I put the address I'm sending this to?
Dear Kristen,
I know this is complex, but try to follow me. When you're sending a letter, you take whatever sized enveloped you're going to use, grab a pen, and write the receiving address RIGHT SMACK IN THE MIDDLE. I hope that clears things up.
Love and Kisses,
Kristen
Now, spacing on where to write the address was just the soft, sweet center of this chocobomb blond moment. Turns out, the hard candy shell of the whole affair was that getting a tracking number involved... printing a label. In other words, I admitted to a perfect stranger that I didn't know where to write an address I didn't need to write in the first place. Then he decided to make conversation. "So, what do you do?", he asked.
Oh me? I'm in law school.
Oh goodness, I love this one. haha
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