Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5

“Hey Bean. “

“Hmmm?”

“Guess what?”

The Bean sighed, heavily, already anticipating the punchline. “What?”

“We’re married.”

“Yes. I know,” he said in a slightly annoyed tone, attention already wandering.

I really couldn’t blame him – it was probably the twentieth time I’d said it that afternoon. I still found it hard to believe I was married.

Married.

Me.

The Bean was my husband. I was Becky Bean. Mrs. Becky Bean. I liked my new last name. Everyone agreed – it suited me.

Still, it took some getting used to.

For a shotgun-style wedding we certainly had a lot of people show up. Well, let me rephrase that— I had a lot of people show up.

The Bean told his family that we were having a private civil service ceremony.

His family said they understood and mailed off a few sweetly-written “Congratulations!” cards with a couple of checks and gift cards to start us on our new journey together.

Then it was my turn. I told my family that I was having a private civil service ceremony.

After discouraging several people from showing up I ended up only having to cram 19 of my closest family and friends into the miniscule curtained-off area in the Orange County courthouse.

So much for eloping.

I set my foot down and refused to plan anything overly elaborate. We bought a case of hot dogs and several bags of buns from Costco. We threw in a couple of flats of “Kirkland” brand soda, some makings for s’mores, and called it a day.

My mother was a little horrified at how bare bones everything, but she could see that I wasn’t going to budge.

We compromised on the dress. It may have been cream colored, but it also had black, and we bought it on sale at Dress Barn.

When The Bean asked me what he should wear, I told him that I liked the way he looked in a fancy, mock-turtleneck and slacks I’d once seen him wearing.

The day of the wedding dawned. I felt surprisingly mellow, considering I’d left so many details for the last minute.

My mom did a beautiful job with my hair, and I showed up at Macy’s at the local mall and had one of the makeup girls do my makeup in exchange for me purchasing some eye shadow and lip gloss.

By the time I finished getting ready and arrived back home to throw on my dress and drive to the courthouse, I knew I was going to be late.

The day was unseasonably warm, and I sat sweating in the backseat, barking out orders to help my out-of-town friends navigate their way to the courthouse. If you’re not used to dancing through the lightening-fast lane changes and complex freeway interchanges that make up the average Friday afternoon drive on a southern California freeway, it can be a little daunting.

We pulled up to the front of the courthouse, and I saw the Bean waiting for me, surrounded by over a dozen of my friends and family that he didn’t even know.

He looked distinctly uncomfortable, eyeballing the laughing strangers like a horse about to spook. Of course, I may have been reading into a little too much. He might have just looked uncomfortable because I had ordered him into a wool turtleneck on an 80 degree day and then left him standing in the hot sun waiting for me.

I stepped out of the car to the “oohs” and “aahs” of family and friends, all of them politely ignoring the solid bump that lifted the front of my dress. I may have only been 4 months along, but I had popped out early.

I waited for the Bean to compliment me, and then noticed he was looking almost green.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Let’s just get inside.”

I reached over to hug him and someone shouted, “Give her a kiss! Give her a kiss!”

Robotically, the Bean leaned forward and gave me a chaste, impersonal kiss on the lips.

I could see a slight sheen of sweat on his forehead. The sun? Nerves? I wanted to ask him, but with everyone milling around us I knew I wouldn’t get anything more than a mumbled answer. For a smooth-talker the Bean is surprisingly introverted, and from what I could sense he was completely out of his comfort zone, to the point he had almost shut down.

“Let’s get inside.” I grabbed his sweaty hand with my own damp palm and the two of us headed up to the second floor.

The hallway was surprisingly crowded for an early afternoon. Glancing around at the other brides, I had to laugh.

One of the brides wore an exquisite, pearl-encrusted, full-length white wedding gown. The thing looked like it cost a thousand dollars.

She was also at that stage of pregnancy where it looked like if you bumped her too hard her water might break. Suddenly, my worries about my “baby bump” disappeared and I was able to relax a little.

Still, as nervous as I was about the whole day, I don’t really have a clear, fluid memory of the events – instead, I was left with bright, disjointed flashes of memory.

I remember finding a sign that said passports/visas to the left, marriage certificates to the right, and pointing it out to The Bean.

I remember catching him staring at it so intently that I actually began to worry which direction he was going to head..

I remember the look on my Grandma’s face, and her warm hug.

I remember my mom taking pictures – Lordy how she took pictures – pictures in front of the courthouse, pictures walking to the elevator, pictures in the elevator…

I remember looking over as she took pictures of somebody’s shoes. “Mom, what on earth?”

“I ran out of stuff to take pictures of,” she said defensively. “So I’m taking pictures of shoes.”

I remember heading over to a side room to sign our marriage license. It was an insanely busy room, with brides, grooms, family members, witnesses and everyone bumbling about in a melee.

I don’t really remember signing the paper… and I guess that’s for good reason.

The license at the courthouse has The Bean’s signature.

The license has the signature of our two witnesses.

It has the county clerk’s signature.

You know what it doesn’t have?

My signature.

Apparently I got so distracted by the hubbub that I forgot to actually sign the piece of paper. I didn’t notice this until I went back to get a copy of it.

Typical me.

Anyways, I remember the officiant calling our name, and our laughter as we tried to fit everyone in the narrow, curtained off area. I don’t think everyone actually made it through the door.

I remember my mom moving around the room, snapping dozens of pictures a minute.

I remember the officiant had a nice speaking voice, and that I agreed with what she had to say about marriage.

I don’t remember what she actually said, though.

I remember laughing as the Bean struggled tried to slip my ring on my finger, and finally pulling my hand out of his grasp and popping it over my knuckle for him.

I remember sliding the ring over his finger and repeating my vows.

To love. To cherish. To honor.

I remember heaving a big sigh and quietly mumbling “and obey” in a sulky, sullen tone after the officiant left that part out. I remember I sounded as grumpy as I felt about adding that line on – but after the years I’d spent mulling over whether or not I wanted it in my wedding ceremony, I decided last minute that it needed to be there.

It’s okay, though. I don’t think The Bean heard me, so I think I’m safe.

I remember sliding the ring over The Bean’s finger…. And looking up to see my mom leaning over his shoulder as she took a picture. She was up on her tiptoes, elbow resting on his shoulder, cheek inches from his cheek as she tried to get a better angle for a picture.

“Why didn’t you tell him to clean his ears?” she would complain later. “You can see his earwax in every shot.”

I remember everyone cheering as we kissed, but I don’t actually remember the kiss.

The drive to the beach and the bonfire was also a blur. Everyone was relaxed and laughing. I remember looking at The Bean from across the fire, watching the firelight play along his jawline, studying the intelligence in his eyes. My husband. I felt both proud and a little unnerved.

We opted to have a photographer friend take photos in lieu of a cheap, weekend honeymoon. We were broke, so it was one or the other.

I’m still happy with the choice we made.

Two days after we were married, I was still trying to find a way to make it all sink in. Married. Me.

Wow.

I bumped The Bean playfully with my elbow. Again.

“Hey Bean, guess what?”

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4

“For the last time, I’m not wearing white.” I crossed my arms sullenly, and could actually feel my chin starting to jut out with anger. “I’m four months pregnant and getting married in a courthouse. I don’t think we’re fooling anyone.”

My mother lowered the white linen dress, returning my stubborn look with one of her own. “It’s your wedding, Becky. What do you want to wear, then? A pair of Levis and a tank top?”

I actually had to bite my tongue to keep from responding honestly. Well, actually, yes.

“I just… I don’t know. I don’t want to wear all white. It’s important to me. ” I pulled my baggy shirt tight against my swollen stomach, making it appear absurdly large for my barely 4 month pregnancy . “I think we’ve missed the boat on white.”

My mom slowly returned the dress to the hanger, then brightened immediately. “Cream? What about cream?”

*****

We’d broken the news to my parents on Easter Sunday. After all, who can get upset on Easter, after a beautiful church service, right? My parents had invited The Bean and I on an afternoon cruise around the San Pedro harbor, and we figured the timing would be about right. The Bean was a nervous wreck; even more so than I was. Crouching at the top of the boat, he hid behind the mast and sucked down forbidden cigarettes one after another like they were the oxygen he needed to survive. He smiled guiltily at me when I caught him for the second time. “I’m quitting, I’m quitting. I just need to settle my nerves. This is the last one.” Extending my hand, I dragged him down behind me to the cockpit to face my parents. I cleared my throat nervously.

“Um, so… you guys got any plans for Friday the 11th? About 3 weeks from now?”

My mom’s eyes narrowed, picking up on my nervousness immediately. “Why?”

I glanced over at the Bean, who was doing an impressive impersonation of a mute.

“Well, uh, we were wondering if you guys might want to come to the wedding.” I glanced at the Bean again, hoping he would chime in. He gave me a quick hand squeeze and a tight smile, so I figured it was up to me to forge on.. “You know. Uh, our wedding.”

My parents froze, glancing at us, our tightly gripped hands, our obvious nervousness. They waited half a beat for us to finish with the punchline, not understanding that we’d just delivered it.

“Wait. What? Are you serious?” My stepdad looked confused; my mother looked aggressively curious.

“Uh, yeah. Actually. We’re serious. We’re getting married on the 11th at the courthouse. We, uh, wanted to know if you wanted to come.”

My parents stared at us in disbelief, silently, still waiting for the punchline.

I took another deep breath, and figured I might as well give it to them.

“Oh. And, uh, we’re also pregnant.”

I watched the understanding dawn on in their faces, as if I had been speaking in a foreign language and had finally brought out a translator. “Baby? A baby?” My mom’s face lit up like a light bulb as she leaped over to hug me and my stepdad gave a short bark of a laugh. As far as reactions went, it couldn’t have gone any better.

How did the reaction go with my potential new-inlaws? I have no idea. After the way The Bean chickened out in assisting with my parents, I dumped the responsibility of informing his parents squarely on his lap.

Besides, I felt like I had already survived more than enough embarrassment/awkwardness where they were concerned.

Oh, what’s that?

You think YOU have embarrassing meet-the-parents stories?

No.

No you don’t.

You can NOT top my story.

I double-dog dare you to come up with something that can surpass the awkward feeling felt by all as we:

A: Sat in the living room
B: Avoiding each other’s eyes
C: While trying to make banal nice-to-meet-you conversation
D: In desperately loud voices
E: In an attempt to cover up the extremely loud, rhythmic squeaking of the sweet little next-door lesbian couple who decided to (of course) that very moment (naturally) have some REALLY LOUD, athletic, strangely long-lasting sex.

I’m waiting… Anyone? Anyone?

Does anyone out there have a meet-the-parents story that’s worse than that?

Is that a hand I see in the back of the room? No? You were just scratching your nose? Oh, sorry.

Anyone?

Wow, that’s a surprise. Nobody raised their hands. What a shocker.

Yeah, so the next time you think you’ve been in an awkward situation, I want you to think of me. Remember me huddled awkwardly on my slightly stained sofa, pulling my long sleeves over the Sea Bands that were helping to hide my pregnancy-induced nausea, answering questions about my job and my schooling in a desperate near-shout, and doing my best not to tap my foot along with that old-fashioned Murphy Bed rhythm.

I can’t remember who it was that suggested we head out to dinner, but you should have seen us all leap to our feet in unanimous agreement. You would have thought we’d all been goosed. I’m pretty sure none of us was actually hungry, but we almost had a traffic jam as we fled down the apartment stairs, bumping shoulders as we spilled through the narrow doorway into the thankfully-silent courtyard.

We made it to the restaurant in record time, and just about the time my nerves were starting to settle, I moved my hands wrong and my about-to-be-Father-in-Law (not that he knew that) saw the Sea Bands.

“What’s on your wrist?”

I froze. It took everything I had not to pull my sleeves down in an obviously guilty gesture. “What these? These are Sea Bands.” In an attempt to seem nonchalant, I pulled my sleeve up, flashing them at him before quickly rolling the sleeves down. My almost-father-in-law looked at me, his husky-blue eyes intent.

“Aren’t those for nausea? Aren’t they the things you wear while on a boat?”

I gave him a watery, wavery smile. “Uh, yeah. Yeah they are.” My brain raced for an explanation. Maybe he’d just ignore my vague answers?

Ha. Ha ha ha. I crack myself up sometimes.

“Why are you wearing them? Are you sick?” He stared at me, eyes studying my expression. I felt like I was being interrogated by the CIA.

“Well, uh, I do have problems with nausea from time to time.” Actually, it’s all the time. “It’s just a side effect.” Of being pregnant with your grandson. Surprise! “It’s not that bad, though. Just a little side effect…” I trailed off, hoping he would get the hint.

“Side effect of what?”

“Of, uh, a condition.”

“A condition? Like, a sickness?”

I could feel myself starting to sweat a little. In desperation, I ventured off the path of half-truths and into the scary territory of outright lies.

“A side effect of some medication.” I fixed my eyes on him, hoping he’d get the hint.

“Medication? What kind of medication?”

Obviously, this man did not take hints well. And with that we began a verbal dance.

“It’s just some new stuff that the doctor put me on.”

“What’s the name?

“I can’t really remember… it’s some new stuff.”

“Do you remember the classification?”

“I’m not even sure it’s going to work out for me. I don’t’ really like the nausea side effect, so I am probably going to ask him to find something else.”

“ What does it treat?”

Just as I was frantically searching my mental database for another vague non-answer, my dear, sweet, heroic potential mother-in-law happened to glance over. She took in my wide eyes, and the intent, bulldog expression of her husband, and she pounced. “DAVID! Leave her alone. What are you asking her? Nevermind. Leave her alone.” She gave me a small smile. “Just ignore him. He always asks too many questions. Was he interfering? Sorry, it’s none of his business.”

I gave her a shaky smile. “Oh, it didn’t bother me. No worries. Do you want some bread? Do you like living in Arizona?” And with that, we were back on neutral territory.

Can you blame me for having The Bean take point on breaking the news to his parents? He says it went smoothly, and since I don’t really want to know if it didn’t, I left well enough alone.

Besides, I was in the process of dealing with my family, where we currently experiencing a complete and utter breakdown in communication.

Here is what both the Bean and I distinctly remember saying that Easter Sunday: “We love each other. We’re getting married. Would you like to come? Oh, and on a completely separate note, we are pregnant.”

Unfortunately, what my side of the family heard was: “I’m pregnant. I’m frightened, and I have no idea what I should do! Please give me advice! Otherwise, I guess my only recourse is to marry this complete stranger…. Gee, I hope this isn’t a bad decision. Oh, well! Here I go!”

It took forever to calm that furor down, and by the time I had finished solving that issue, we had another problem to face:

Unfortunately, no matter how much she protested that she loved the idea of a courthouse ceremony, my Mexican mother wanted a wedding. Somewhere along the way our simple civil service with two witnesses had morphed into 20 friends and family, some who were traveling down the night before, and all who would require feeding and some sort of entertainment afterward. I didn’t really feel like planning a party, but even I had to agree that I was under some obligation to feed them.

So I threw the only kind of party I know how to throw: I went to Costco and loaded up on Hebrew National All-Beef hotdogs, Kirkland brand generic cola and purple/orange soda, hot dog buns and a couple of bags of chips. I stopped by the store and picked up a couple of stacks of firewood. Voila. Party planning complete. It may not have won any classiness awards, but I knew that people wouldn’t leave hungry.

That left us with: The Dress.

******

My mom slowly returned the dress to the hanger, then brightened immediately. “Cream? What about cream?”

I lowered my eyebrows, feeling my face return to the sullen lines of my high school years. “No cream or white unless it’s got some other colors on it,” I snapped. “I just want… A dress. Not a wedding dress, but just a dress. It’s a civil service, and we’re roasting Costco hot dogs at the beach afterwards. I’m not even buying name brand soda. We’re looking for a regular dress. You know. Something to feel pretty in. Something I’ll wear again. Something that’s not going to make me look like a stuffed sausage in 60 yards of lace and sequins in a color that makes no sense.”

In a tacit agreement to keep from wringing each other’s necks, my mother and I decided to look on opposite ends of the store.