The county clerk's office isn't the greatest place. Big giant signs about how they have no public restrooms and only 30-minute metered parking nearby.
We could see the room where they do the civil ceremonies from the waiting area and the cheesy arch covered in fake flowers, the "room o' joy" as Mr. Fried Rice sarcastically called it.
But we got 'er done. I wasn't expecting to take an oath. I teared up during it. How the heck am I ever going to get through the ceremony if I'm near tears with a bored county employee?
Mr. Fried Rice actually seemed to get a little excited after we got the license application. He entertained me by reading through the packet of health information the employee said the state required her to give to us.
On the part about STDs: "Genitals 101!"
On the part about asking your spouse if anyone in their family has mental retardation: "I think I might be the trail blazer on that one, honey."
Oh, and this pic totally makes me not want to have children. Do husbands turn into chubby versions of Erik Estrada with porn mustaches and strange hairstyles once they're fathers?
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