A story told in images with minimal explanation:
We waited, patiently:
And not so patiently:
We looked at the curious art hung on one wall.
Why? I wondered (about the art, not the wall or the wait)
It soon became apparent that our goal was to be called by someone from Door Number Nine:
This is apparently the uniform of the Social Security Worker in Los Angeles:
We at last entered Door Number Nine and accompanied a very nice woman, also in stilettos, to her desk. She asked us a series of questions and typed so fast on her keyboard that it put my own considerable talents to shame. She was thorough, respectful of Sophie and me. She did ask me when her seizures started, and when I told her at three months, she asked why and I said We never found out, and she said We had a traumatic situation to deal with in our family this month and I said What was it? and she said Our 18 month old son had a febrile seizure, and I said, Oh, I'm so sorry and I know how stressful and awful that is, but he will be fine and she nodded and teared up a bit and then kept typing.
This calls for a bit of French, I think:
Or as Carrie might say (and you should buy her book!): There are no coincidences.
We were out of there in a half an hour with an assurance from Our Lady in Stilettos that all was well. All total, we spent one hour and one half in the United States Social Security Office, an hour that included a thorough security check of our bags and persons, some outstanding people-watching, curious Asian art, a wonderful worker who did her job quickly, sensitively and efficiently, the new experience of helping Sophie to sign an X on several lines, and, of course, the crossing off the list of applying for Supplemental Social Security for Sophelia Bedelia.
I'd end this post with a rousing chorus of God Bless America!!! but I wouldn't want to make anyone have a heart attack.