Big Day

For the low cost of 38 US dollars plus 43 minutes of our lives which we will never see again, it's official - we're Domestically Partnered.

I still have to check the books to see what else this grants us other than M.'s access to my aforementioned shitty 1199 health insurance and the laser-printed form certificate presently hanging on our refrigerator.

We would have taken pictures inside were it not for the fact that the security guards raped and plundered our bags and removed all of our photographic devices - - including our camera, which M. had thoughtfully thought to bring, and our cell phones, but curiously enough, not my Palm Pilot, which also takes photos - evidently the Bronx county court house is techno-savvy but only to a point.

Even with the illicit Palm, however, it soon became clear that this was not an environment for joyful domestic partnership picture-taking. First of all, the lighting was terrible, mainly cheap fluorescents glaring off of concrete prison-yellow walls and cracked wood paneling. Second of all, I believe we may have been the first DP's to make an appearance at the BCC in a good year or two. The swarthy, twenty-two year old Boar's Head delivery boy and his betubetopped fiancee were the only ones who really gave us any hint of disdain, but for the most part this particular marriage license department (yes, in a cruel, ironic, rubbing-it-in gesture, we DP's are forced to go to the Marriage License room to stand in line with the Real Deals) seems to cater mainly to the newly-immigrated-yet-desparately-in-love-read-that-as-you-will crowd. Plus the Boar's Heads, and one haggard sixty-year old couple who looked to be finally making honest folk out of one another after a few too many years of 2pm bar crawls topped with a smattering of hillbilly heroin and pork rinds.

Finally, it's just not a joyful or celebratory procedure. Sure, the large Puerto Rican family sitting outside in the waiting area seemed to be making the most of it, cakelessly and cameralessly feasting their newlyweds. And their was one bride in full regalia getting her picture taken in the little park across the street from the courtouse. Otherwise, it was very much a lifeless, conveyor-belt kind of event, where you wait in the security line, stand stoically while the guards manhandle your electronics, walk down to the basement, wait in one line, get your pre-registration form signed, wait in another line, hand over your money-order, get your certificate, walk back upstairs, collect your underwear and cell phone, and head back out into the equally-stark yet slightly-more-friendly bustle of the Grand Concourse with crisp certificate and tattered dignity in hand.

Here's a photo from the outside, post-registration.