I married my friend Darrell last weekend. Technically I married my friend Nicole, too.
Oh relax, Rocco was there. He even took pictures.
Yes, I’m an ordained minister. I have power vested in me. I don’t even own any vests, people. But still, I’m like…all pious and shit, now. I can bless things. I might even be hallowed. I should look into that.
I secretly suspect this, coupled with the knocked-up thing, is just some greater conspiracy by the cosmos to try and get me to clean up my language. It’s not fucking working.
I’m pretty sure I’m going to have to get better about keeping secrets now. I mean, if someone tells me something in confidence, it’s like a confessional, right? On the upside, I’ll probably never have to incriminate you in a court of law. You’re welcome.
Did you know the clergy have a secret handshake? Actually, I don’t know that for a fact. I just suspect they do and seeing as how I’m the new kid at the pulpit, no one will teach me until I complete some sort of hazing ritual.
Am I the only one suddenly picturing the Pope funneling a beer?
Truth be told, I was a little nervous about the whole thing. I mean, I’d never married anyone before. Well, I married Rocco, didn’t I? But really, how helpful was that? I don’t remember when my wedding was, not to mention what the lady with the collar said while everyone was watching.
So, as all people of the cloth do, I turned to my church for guidance. The Universal Life Church has all sorts of resources to guide their flock. I found guides for all types of weddings – Buddhist, Wiccan, Jedi…
I asked really nicely, but Darrell and Nicole refused to don Wookie costumes. They didn’t even go for the Boba Fett thing, though Darrell did consider appearing as Han Solo encased in carbonite.
In case you zoned out for a moment there, let me repeat that last fact. I’m empowered by THE FORCE (and the State of New York) to join people in holy wedded matrimony. Tell your friends.
Despite my fears (and inability to knock back a glass of wine or pop a sedative before performing) the ceremony was quite lovely, if I say so myself. I dunno why I said it like that. It’s not nearly as boastful as it sounds, primarily because I didn’t really do anything but stand there and…you know…officiate. (I think it was the FORCE that enabled me to stop from using the words “vagina” or “bitches” during the ceremony. Yay FORCE!)
It was a tiny, intimate, and lovely affair – only 4 and 3/4 guests attended (four adults, one little girl, one parasite). The bride and groom invited us to their apartment in Queens at 10am Sunday morning. At 10:30 we climbed into the elevator, passed through a long, white-washed hallway, then emerged into the sun-filled, private courtyard of their building complex.
We found a picturesque spot in front of a small Japanese maple tree and began. The couple had written their own vows. He spoke his softly, shyly, allowing the breeze to carry his words to her. She spoke louder, clearer – I think both for his failing hearing and to declare the words to her own heart. She cried. He smiled. Then I cracked a few jokes and did some pronouncing.
Shouts of “congratulations!” echoed off the tall brick walls that surrounded us as some woman above us flung open her window and threw rice on our heads.
By 10:45, photos were finished, champagne was served, and the groom was cooking eggs to order. It was – in a word – perfect. And I’m tickled pink I was able to be a part of it.
Hallowed be thy name…or something.
Oh and I left a little something for you over at Sprocket. Have I mentioned how much I love that the word Santorum is now synonymous with a by-product of anal sex? I’m almost as amused as Mom was when we defined “tea bagging” for her. I’m a minister, after all. I’m pretty sure I sword an oath to explain weird sex slang to parental figures.