My Three Weddings - Part 2

Years pass, affection turns to loathing, and the former bride and groom agree to stay together for the sake of the children until the youngest bird leaves the nest. We were living in Escondido at the time. Our pact blew up when I was dragged to my husband’s best friend’s house, where they happened to be hosting relatives, including the best friend’s wife’s cousin’s boyfriend. Yes, this is too much information and I lost you after “best friend,” but life is like this. You just never know what’s going to happen when you drop in unexpectedly. The boyfriend was left unattended in a corner. I had no interest in talking to anyone, so I sat next to him. Three hours later, I noticed the best friend was standing next to us, waiting for one of us to shut up so he could send us home. All I’d wanted to do before my first husband dragged me kicking and screaming away from the land that I loved into the wilderness of Escondido was hang out with people at science fiction conventions and fan clubs and write science fiction short stories. I had just managed to meet most of my idols at LASFAS when the big move was forced upon me. While explaining my reluctance to relocate, my first husband interrupted and said, “You do what you want, but I’m moving to Escondido.” That should have been the nail in the coffin but I was still naive and under the belief that a spouse should be a helpmeet and it was my duty to support my husband in his quest for happiness. If you notice any grooves in the freeway from Alhambra to Escondido, those are my fingernail marks. So here I was, three years later, where I didn’t want to be, talking to a person who also didn’t want to be there, and it turned out the one thing we had in common was science fiction. This journal entry is supposed to be about my third wedding (I’m still counting my sister’s wedding as my first one), so I’ll leave the details of a six week romance for another time and just jump forward to the day when my eventual ex-husband drove a trailer filled with my possessions to the rented house of my eventual future husband. Ex and Future worked together to empty the trailer. Then Ex shook my hand good-bye, turned to Future, said “Good Luck. You’re going to need it,” gave him a great big bearhug, and drove off. This really happened. Six months later, my science fiction loving, CalTech employed, science article writing housemate announced his mother was coming to visit us from Texas. In two weeks. Timing is everything. In one week’s time, my divorce would be final. That would give me a layover of about 7 days before Mom arrived. Thinking she might be embarrassed to stay with a couple living in sin, I told her son we should get married before she arrived. He agreed. He was even kind enough to ask me to marry him a day later, just to make it official. This time I had one week to put together a wedding. However, I was struggling to juggle a new job, a new household, ferrying two children back and forth between Temple City (where the schools were better) and Escondido, and the thought of going back to the Chapel of Roses made me sick to my stomach. Fortunately, the Monks at Self Realization Fellowship were sweetly accommodating and one of them agreed to open the Pasadena Temple on a Friday afternoon to conduct a private wedding ceremony. I was done with guests and tea sandwiches. I didn’t even have the energy to think about a wedding ring, so when my fiancee asked me the night before our wedding if he should go out and find one I replied, “Nah, we can get rings later.” I’d asked permission to leave work early that Friday afternoon. As I was walking out, my boss looked up and asked where I was going. I told her I was going to get married. Shocked, she said I should have taken the whole day off. But how many hours do you need to pick up the children and the fiancee and then get hitched? (A fourth marriage is probably out of the question at this point, but judging by my trajectory I’d guess if one is in my future, the ceremony will probably be held in Las Vegas, sandwiched in between an hour of nickel poker machines and tickets to the Cirque du Soleil.) At my third wedding, the only people in attendance were the Monk, my new groom, my 11-year old daughter, and my 5-year old son. And me. There we were, in front of some pews, husband and wife promising to help each other fulfill our dreams. My asthmatic 11-year old daughter, taking her responsibilities as witness/maid of honor very seriously, was trying to not cough, choke, and die from the incense that wafted her way and her way only. My five-year old son was stomach down on one of the pews, kicking the wooden seat in time to some music only he could hear. I think the groom was wearing a Stetson hat. I have no memory of what I wore. Work attire, no doubt. The Monk was a little surprised that there would be no exchange of rings when he got to that part of the ceremony. He hesitated a little, but then collected himself and moved on. He was also a little surprised that the witness on the marriage certificate was an 11-year old. (Is that even legal? Probably not, now that I think about it. Yet there was nowhere on the form that asked for the witness’s age, so I’m calling it a technicality.) In spite of these oddities, the Monk was a champ as he conducted the service, none of which I remember, other than the choking daughter, the noisy son, and the best intentions between bride and groom. The Monk was smiling as he filled out the paperwork, bless his heart. His smile drooped a little when he realized the check I proffered as a donation was made out to the organization instead of him personally, but I didn’t know any better at the time. I still feel badly about that. Going straight home seemed a little odd. We all felt some sort of celebration was in order but we didn’t know what to do, so we walked around the Arcadia Mall for an hour or two, touching things. Then we went home and I served homemade chili for dinner. There’s one photo of my third wedding day. New husband, serious daughter, and a five-year old wearing an oversized Stetson hat, standing together on the driveway of our rented house. I’m not in the picture. I’m the one holding the camera.