Eric asks Laura, “When you were an 8-year-old girl playing with
dolls, did you imagine your wedding day like this, in a courthouse room
that looks like a bunker?”
Laura laughs, “I wasn’t that kind of girl. I never really thought
about it.”
They moved to Seattle from Philly about two months ago, and before
you get fresh, this isn’t a shotgun wedding: “We just needed to get
this done before the 31st, which is when my insurance runs out,” Laura
explains.
This room, where we’re waiting for the officiating judge,
is pretty bunker-like. One wall is cement, the others are
institutional white, and the fluorescent lights aren’t really
flattering my blackheads. The only sign that it’s a prenuptial chamber
is a wicker heart with artificial flowers stuck to the wall, but the
room also has a TV/VCR with jury-duty training videos and one curious
videotape, labeled Saving Cowboys: The Epic Saga of Two Lonely
Cowpunchers on the Trail to Financial Security.
Before we can watch the 401(k) Rodeo, though, the judge summons us
to her chambers. In 15 minutes, the ceremony is done—Laura looks
on the verge of giggling the whole time—and we’re in a cab,
heading back to their apartment. I ask them if, now that they’re one
man and one woman bonded in matrimony, they feel somehow terrorized by
gay marriage. They look at me like I’m crazy. Soon, with friends and
good wine, we’re toasting a long, happy life together, and Eric and
Laura simultaneously add: “And no children!” Delightfully low-fi, it’s
one of the sweetest weddings I’ve ever attended. 
Want The Stranger to back up your claims that the
wedding vows included a right to demand breakfast meats at any time
at your house party? E-mail the date, place, time, and party
details to partycrasher@thestranger.com.