You know you’re going off the sentimental cliff when you’re listening to “Going to the Chapel’ by the Dixie Cups at breakfast. Especially when you’re listening to it on Spotify so you get all the versions and, without even thinking, you are getting teary-eyed listening to the reggae remake.
Marta and I have been running around this week trying to throw cobble together something that resembles a wedding. I now see why people hire planners and take a year to do this. Details, details, details, DETAILS.
It seems, though, that with just one day to go we may have pulled it off. Or almost.
As proof, please see Exhibit A:
And Exhibit B:
We got the rings at a local antique shop, Artifacts, where we spent a good twenty minutes debating a few options, all in silver, before each picking one we liked and could, potentially, wear forever. Marta chose a spoon ring, which she has always wanted, and plans to wear it on her thumb. I choose a slightly more traditional ring-finger ring that fits me perfectly. It has flowers on it, which will complement the barren tree tattoo on my wrist.
As the guy behind the counter was ringing us up, I said: “Who knew buying wedding rings would be so easy.” On hearing this, he gasped and slapped his hands to his cheeks in an “Oh My” expression and then said: “Oh!!! My!!!! Congratulations!” (He was clearly one of us.)
Then: “Did you hear about Jodie Foster!!??”
It was the day after Jodie Foster came out, sort of, at the Golden Globes. So we then all talked about how hot Jodie Foster is, a fact that even this gay cashier agreed to, and we left. I put the rings in my coat pocket for safe keeping.
The marriage license we had already applied for, but I went to pick it up yesterday on the way to my sexual harassment training for the teaching job I have this spring. I thought it would be just a quick in and out to get the document, but as it turns out they’d made a couple typos and had to fix them, twice. First, they said I was born in Iowa, rather than Texas. The funnier mistake was with Marta’s mother’s name. When we applied for the license back in December, they had apparently misheard Marta and wrote that her mom’s first name was Amamaria. Rather than Ana María.
Oh, Iowa. You’re so cute.
So, rings: check; wedding license: check. Now all that’s left on the shotgun lesbian wedding to-list are: Finish writing vows, pick wedding poem in Spanish (Marta) and translate it (Sarah), buy dress (Sarah), and wash dog so he can look presentable during ceremony (Sarah plus parents, who are flying in tonight to help).
Our vows are half done, which I suppose is the most important element. Last night we lay in bed and each took turns saying what we think the other does or what we do collectively to make this relationship work. The list started with something about cleaning the toothpaste scum from the sink basin and ended with something like “You help me be a better person just by being who you are.”
Wish us luck.