T his past Easter, on a sun-drenched patio in downtown Boulder, surrounded by friends and mimosas — as I shoved asparagus around the plate in a circle before eating it because I am a child — our friends, Nick and Nora, announced they were engaged.
Nick had been sitting at the kitchen table eating this enormous omelet and gazing at Nora. As she sat there in her pajamas, with one side of her hair sticking out as if styled by a coke-addled chipmunk, Nick decided she was the most beautiful, perfect woman in the world, and he couldn’t possibly wait another day to ask her to be his wife. (Note to self: Get Nora’s omelet recipe.)
We all shrieked like a bunch of girls — especially the girls — made some toasts, and ordered another round. Then Nick and Nora set their glasses down, stared deeply into my eyeholes and asked me to marry them.
(No, dum-dum, they weren’t asking me to BE married to them; they wanted me to be their officiant.)
Anyhow, I burst into tears and shouted, “Yes, yes, a thousand times yes!” (Fine, I was a little mixed up at first too.)
And while I’ve spent nearly every waking minute since dreaming about how tall my marrying hat can be — and how many lines to rip-off from the priest’s speech in “The Princess Bride” — my most important job is to make sure that after the Kool-Aid guy crashes into the church and yells, “Oh YEAH!” (surprise, guys!) that the happy couple walks away legally married.
My first stop was Dave, Dave, the Marrying Knave. He’s officiated two whole weddings now and is married himself, so he’s an expert.
His advice: register online at beaminister.com, talk to the local authorities about paperwork, really focus on what this dear couple in front of me wants and needs… blahblahblah.
I’d stopped listening because I was gonna be a MINISTER OF SOMETHING! And guess what, compadres? I just registered online and am now a really-real minister of something!
According to the website, when all is said and done I’ll not only be able to marry people, but I’ll have the power to perform baptisms, funerals, last rights, create my own church and absolve people of their sins. That’s right, I just got endowed with superpowers.
After absolving myself a lot, I plan to turn my powers of absolution outward.
I’m picturing myself inside the snug at the Irish bar listening to people’s secrets, telling them it’s going to be OK, touching their head to absolve them — and then letting them buy me whiskey shots and pints of beer until I pass out and the local constable drags me home by my cassock. (It is possible I watch too much British television.)
I haven’t perused the absolution instructions yet because the church’s website said I needed to read them with a fullness of heart and a sincerity of mind, and mostly I just felt anxious and thirsty for beer.
A few minutes later, I received an email explaining I was now a member of the prestigious clergy and had earned a title worthy of admiration and respect. I’m not sure that’s true; it took fifteen seconds and I didn’t even pay for it. But I guess if an omelet can bring two people together in holy matrimony, there’s no reason I can’t pull it off too.