My big, fat, West Indian Wedding

Sonny calls it that. Crazy ass. But the day has come and gone. I am a married woman now. I keep getting those lame questions..."Do ya feel married?" "Are you excited?" I smile politely and answer the way you're supposed to answer, "Not yet. LOL." "Very excited!" I laugh at the lame jokes that follow my response. It's all so timed, mechanical, conventional. I'd love to make someone's jaw drop with my response...just once.

Person: Do ya feel married yet?
Me: Are you asking if we've copulated since the wedding?
Person: wh...what?

hahahahahaha. I'm insane. Anyway, I'll spill about my 6 day wedding extravaganza. It felt good to be home. New York. So loud and dirty and indifferent. I loved it! We stayed at an out-of-the-way place in Queens. Most of the cab drivers we suckered into bringing us to our lodgings seemed surprised to see the hotel. Granted, it's spanking new. The mattresses haven't even been stained yet. The place still has that "new" smell to it, as opposed to the funk of age. There weren't any black Magic Marker proclamations that 'Dina gives good head' or 'for a good time call 867-5309' in the bathroom. That bumped the class of the place up a star, I'd say.

Our first night in town we grabbed a generously-sized, inexpensive Mexican dinner from a near by restaurant. We both figured the next day would be a breeze; took advantage of that tiny 8 x 11 sheet of paper that would proclaim our legal tendency to get married. The marriage license, we figured, was as good as ours. So we stayed up and flipped through the basic cable channels, marveled at the idiocy of some show about mothers dating a guy for their daughters; finally settled on those myth-busting, nerd cats. I liked that show, and discovered a way to cool beer in a couple minutes that involved a Styrofoam cooler and a fire extinguisher. LOL. We even did some leisurely reading. I think we doused the lights and got to sleep at midnight.

The next morning we hurried down into the lobby, as we were 30 minutes shy of missing the continental breakfast. The lobby was empty. The glass dining tables were situated like the corners of a bad maze, and I was glad I didn't have to navigate my way through with juice in one hand and a waffle in the other. My nerves weren't acting up, I wasn't nervous, per se. But it was strange to know that within 48 hours my heart would forever belong to this man, and his name would belong to me. It made goosebumps crop up on my forearms. I couldn't eat much. So we split the warm, spongy waffle and each had a mini donut. Then we wiped our mouths, got some change for the bus at the front desk and ventured out into the sweltering morning heat.

We found the marriage license bureau very easily. Too easily. At that point, I should have known that some ungodly event was about to go down. Instead, we hurried across the street from the bureau and purchased a cute little $35 money order. The guards checked us out, giving Sonny a thorough going over after he beeped through the metal detector. I don't know why he always forgets to take off his dang belt! But cleared of the suspicion of carrying concealed weapons, the stern-faced West Indian guards pointed us in the right direction. Our spirits were still high...we had no idea what waited for us at the foot of the stairs behind that heavy brown door. The little red heart-shaped sign told us when we reached the marriage license office.

They gave us a clipboard and a sheet of paper to fill out. The filling out took 5 minutes, and then we found ourselves on a line that refused to move. The service workers (the two of them) kept snagging on complicated applications: non-English speaking ('we need a translator!'), or previous marriages that hadn't been declared on the paper work ('you have to go to that office and wait!'). Finally, after 15 minutes of patient waiting, it was our turn. Our scowling service worker took the paper and commandeered our IDs. She clicked away with at the keyboard with her long red fingernails. clickity-click-click. Sonny nudged me and pointed out the funny Doonesbury cartoon taped behind the plate of bulletproof glass in front of us. I giggled, dutifully.

"What kind of ID is this?" Her scowl deepened as she held up my ID card.

"It's a learner's permit." I explained, leaning as close to the glass as possible.

My heart raced so fast it could win at Nascar. I licked my lips and folded my trembling hands in my lap, watched the woman behind the glass. She slipped our IDs under the glass and shook her head.

"We can't take this. We don't accept out of state learner's permits."

"Wait. What do you mean?" I laughed, in spite of bile that rose in the back of my throat. She had to be kidding...

"Just what I said. We don't take out of state learner's permits. Do you have a passport?" she looked bored, folded her hands in front of the keyboard.

"Uh..no. I don't. I'm sorry Miss, but I can't leave here without a marriage license. We're getting married SATURDAY! Today's Thursday! Is there a manager I can speak to here?"

She shook her large head again, looked painfully unimpressed, "He'll tell you the same thing. We don't take learner's permits from out of state."

TO BE CONTINUED. . . .