Like I said before, we were on 4 hours of sleep in 36 hours. It was 4:00 AM, and we had been in travel mode since 11:00 AM the day before. We were in pretty awful moods. I wanted to be home to see my puppies and kitty. We had just been hating life two hours before. And that's when I burst into tears.
While Andy looked in the engine to see if he could figure anything out, I sat in the car and bawled my fucking eyes out. Like, serious babyface sobs, y'all. "This is the worst honeymoon everrrrrrr wahhhhhhhh" was basically all Andy could hear (which might explain why he stayed out of the car for a while). I just wanted to go home and go to sleep.
I called my amazing parents, and they got to experience the joy of being woken up at 4:00 AM to their daughter sobbing into the phone. "Your dad is on his way," my mom said before trying to make me feel better, which totally wasn't working.
My sister called a few minutes later and also tried to make me feel better. "I saw your pictures on Facebook, and it looked like you had fun!" "It was awful! I hate everything! And life! And baby Jesus! And also I'm bleeding from the vagina and I can't even change my tampon and I hate everything, including fluffy baby animals and ice cream and happiness! Wahhhhhhhhh!"
My amazing dad finally made it out to pick us up, and he found a grumpy faced daughter and a son-in-law who was trying his best to be in good spirits. We jumped our car and drove it less than a mile when it died again. Oh, totally awesome, so it's not the battery which would have been a nice, easy fix. OF FUCKING COURSE. We charged it again, just long enough to get it to a ghetto gas station, so we could leave it there and come back for it the next day. Then we headed home, and my poor dad had to go to work all day after waking up before the crack of dawn to save us. Have I mentioned my dad is amazing?
We got all of our belongings out of my dad's truck, thanked him a million times, and went inside the house to take a three hour nap. We woke up, groggy as hell, but happy to be home. I shotgunned one coffee and inserted another directly into my veins so we could take care of all the shit we had to take care of that day. It was Friday, and we both had to be back at work on Monday, so all of the legal crap had to be done immediately.
Right after depositing a paycheck into our sad, sad excuse for a bank account, we headed to the courthouse to get a copy of our recorded marriage license.
And that's where our second shitstorm began.
"It turns out that the second copy of the marriage license wasn't signed by all the right people, so we had to mail it back to you and can't give you a recorded copy until it's signed."
"So, technically, we aren't married yet?"
"Technically, you aren't married yet."
"OH MOTHERFUCKING FUCKER OF ALL THINGS FUCKERY."
Turns out, our chaplain didn't look at the documents before throwing them in an envelope and mailing them in to the courthouse. So, you know, the one thing she was supposed to do didn't get done. -_-
I walked out of the courthouse and started angry crying almost immediately. "Just ONE THING. Can just one fucking thing go right for us? Is God just pissed because we got married in a Unitarian church by a lesbian woman? I'M SORRY, GOD, SHE SEEMED LIKE A VERY NICE CHRISTIAN WOMAN, MY BAD, DUDE."
I started calling everyone I could, and whadyaknow, not one damn person was answering their phones. My anger was so strong, that I'm pretty sure when they looked down at their phones as I was calling, a picture of Satan showed up, laughing maniacally, until the phone just burst into flames and collected into a tiny pile of demon ash in their hands.
According to the very sweet women at the courthouse, we had to go back home to get the unsigned copy they mailed to our house, go thirty minutes away to my best friend's work to get it signed, and drive back to the courthouse again to get it recorded, because, you know, Baby Jesus hates us and all.
But, somehow, we managed to get it all done. We got our marriage license, changed my driver's license, merged our bank accounts, and even had time for a Starbucks drink before going home and crashing the fuck out. We even apologized to Jesus for yelling at him. I'm pretty sure we did a fist pound explosion, and we were all good.
The next day, we picked up my car, took it to the repair shop, and were told that it just needed a new battery. As annoying as that is (because we didn't actually have to get it towed), we were happy because a new battery costs a fuck of a lot less than a new alternator (whatever the hell that is). It seemed like things were finally going right for us!
HA HA JUST KIDDING, Y'ALL.
Be real. Haven't you learned anything from this story??
Our car was fixed and driving and happy as can be. We had apologized to God, Jesus, and the Holy Spirit, just to cover our bases. Monday morning, Andy headed to work and..... you guessed it! The motherfucking fucker of a car broke down, OH FOR THE LOVE OF GOD AND ALL THAT IS HOLY AND JESUS, YOU FUCKING OWE ME ONE, DUDE.
I retract all of my apologies.
Andy said, "I want to fucking sell this piece of shit fucking car!" and that's all it took for me to SKKKRRRTTTTT into a parking space at the Dodge dealership within minutes. Done, son.
Two days later, I was signing a bunch of terrifying looking papers as Mrs. Sara Bee, and what the fuck, I just bought a car??
|Her name is Pearl, and she's lovely.|
Since all of this bullshit has been taken care of, things have been going wonderfully. Besides being exhausted and behind on all of my bills, of course.
I like to think of the week after our wedding as the first big test in our marriage. If this had happened last year or possibly even 6 months ago, it's very likely that Andy and I would have blamed each other, gotten into a fight, and not spoken for a few days. But through everything - the car breaking down, the obnoxious people on airplanes, the lack of sleep - we didn't fight at all. We yelled at the entire fucking world together, and then we figured out how to solve our problems together. We laughed about the things that couldn't be fixed, because seriously - What else can you do but laugh when you're getting molested fifteen times at an airport?
Some girls want a guy who is a certain height. Some girls want a guy with a certain color hair, or a certain taste in music. But the only thing I've ever wanted was a guy who could make me laugh. Because when you're going through hell and you're turning into Satan and destroying people's phones, when you're scared of the look on your face that you can't see and seriously contemplating throwing yourself out of an airplane window thousands of millions in the air, a 7 foot tall guy isn't going to make you feel any better. But a guy who can point out a man in the airport who looks disturbingly like a vampire and follows people around and literally glitters in the sun? The kind of guy who can make me go immediately from crying to laughing and trying to take a picture of said glittery vampire on the down low? That's the kind of guy I want by my side for the rest of my life.
Plus he's pretty awesome in bed.
|Ahem. Glittery vampire. Twilight was totally for reals, y'all.|