Nice Day for a White Wedding

On our journey to obtain a marriage license at the CountyCourthouse in downtown Phoenix, a pain grew in Stef’s belly. On December 31, 2012, a shotgun shot was heard around the world. It took place under the main floor in the corner bathroom, but first the security guard granted access. Around 10 a.m., we were officially licensed to marry, but only after a couple rudely butted in line.

We were so excited. There was only one way to celebrate – chicken and waffles at Lo-Lo’s, “Where Kool-Aid is Always on Tap.” Word of our intent to marry spread throughout the restaurant quickly. Before we knew it, we were surrounded by the whitest teeth in all of Phoenix.

Leaving Lo-Lo’s wasn’t easy, but we had work to do. Cue the tense music, trial and tribulation to follow.  First, we had to stand in line behind mostly illiterates at the local post office. Then, we searched in vain for fancy pale, pink heels and a mythical belt. Next a visit to a Blow-Dry Bar (yes, there is such a thing). We left wet. Finally, Mr. Miyagi shined nails in the Far East (by the way, “No Cards,” is now synonymous with “No Checks").

The state requires all couples to arrive at the courthouse by 4:30 p.m. At precisely 3:47 p.m., I was called into the bedroom.  Like a good boy, I obeyed the command promptly. I turned the corner and saw fear and anger. “Chase, I need your help.” Stef, clothed in her wedding-day dress, turned to show me her backside, “There’s a hole in my butt.” I rummaged through the storage frantically searching for a sewing kit. We found it and quickly sutured her behind.

After speeding downtown, we found a metered parking spot. Thank goodness one of our two witnesses had spare change on hand. We rushed into the courthouse and were met with security guards and metal detectors. Nothing says romance like passing through security. Apparently, we weren’t the only couple trying to cheat the tax code that day. There were about four judges; each had roughly seven marriages to officiate. We were fourth in line with Judge Steven Sarkis.

“Pardon me,” a bald, Caucasian groom dressed in ultimate fighting gear said to me, “Do you mind if we go before you? We have a baby that is crying and hungry.” After looking at the African American Honey Boo Boo to which he was referring, we instantly declined. We had a dinner date to attend afterward.

Judge Sarkis, a handsome twenty-nine-year-old, recited a cliché poem. We exchanged rings. Stef teared up. Stef claims I teared up. We signed the papers. We departed. Married at last!

Dinner at The Main Ingredient was fabulous as usual. Thanks to all of those that could attend. Special thanks to the photographer and witnesses. For those of you that could not attend – you didn’t miss much. Thanks to all for your support from near and far.

The remainder of the night will forever remain a mystery.