When Mike and I began thinking about our honeymoon, I decided to let Mike plan it. He picked the place, the villa, the flight, etc. And he loved doing it. If there was a career for honeymoon planning that didn't involve being gay, he'd be all about it. I gave him some rules, though: find me a beach and a drink to hold while on said beach. I suggested Hawaii and Mike suggested I LEAVE HIM THE HELL ALONE, but I thought getting passports in the midst of planning a wedding would be, oh, A PAIN IN OUR ASSES. Mike picked St. John. Don't think my husband (never gets old) is a total bad-ass with his honeymoon-picking skills? Look at this and oh, this too. He did good, right? He promised there is indeed alcohol on St. John and—even better—there is no one there we know. Not that we don't love you but Mike and I haven't taken a vacation (just the two of us) since we went camping in Oklahoma more than a year ago. People, we need this. We went to Oklahoma to get a little alone time. OKLAHOMA. And both Molly and Mike came home from that trip with ticks.
But Mike so stupidly so sweetly booked our honeymoon tickets in my new last name. He showed me the reservation, all proud of himself, and I said, oh so lovingly, I assure you, "Baby—love of my life—changing your name is kind of a long process and showing our wedding pictures may not be enough to get me on that plane, although the dress IS that fabulous."
He looked so defeated when I told him this that it forced me to say, "But I'm sure it'll be absolutely fine, love." And then I panicked alone in my closet as nothing calms me down more than looking at my shoes. But, in all honesty, I was prepared for all our wedding money to be spent on buying a new plane ticket to get me to our honeymoon.
Mike called AA and Travelocity and the state of California and his mom a bunch of times for reassurance, and everyone told him all we would need was our official marriage license. Phew. OK. Now, how do you get an official marriage license? Call #34 to Placer County went a little something like this:
Me: Hi! OK, I'm getting married on May 19th and we need our official marriage license by June 18th because my soon-to-be husband made our honeymoon reservations in my new last name, and isn't that kind of dumb? I mean he's cute, yes, and he has totally awesome hair, but obviously he hasn't visited theknot.com to print out the honeymoon checklist. So how do we MAKE SURE we get that license in time?
Lady Who Must Talk To Neurotic Brides Like Me On A Daily Basis: Just make sure you have sent in your check for $13 and you'll get it in two to three days after we get the paperwork from you or your minister.
Me: Yes, this is the same information I was told the previous 33 times I called but I need a little more reassurance. So will you tell me what I'm allowed to do on day three if I haven't yet received the license? Like who am I allowed to yell at?
LWMTTNBLMOADB: Um, ma'am, you should have it within a few days. But you'll definitely have it by June 18th.
Me: OK, will you define definitely? As in how sure are you that we'll receive the license by then?
LWMTTNBLMOADB: I'm sure, ma'am.
Me: Has anyone ever not received their license in the time frame we're working with?
LWMTTNBLMOADB: I don't know about that—
Me: Could you find out for me? Just maybe ask around.
LWMTTNBLMOADB: Can I talk with your fiance? I think he may be biting off more than he can chew?
(Last sentence made up. The rest TOTALLY VERBATIM.)
So, today, roughly five business days (don't remind me how Memorial Day went and pissed me off) after we got hitched our marriage license showed up in the mail.
I'm going to send a nice thank-you letter to Juanita, the lady at the county office who made sure our honeymoon wasn't ruined by, you know, me not being there. Although, ruined may not be the word Mike would use.