Last Saturday, I got a cryptic notice from Travis County suggesting, as best as I could understand it, that my last divorce—which happened over two years ago—did not, in fact, happen. As the courthouse was closed until Monday, this gave my adorable inner-neurotic plenty of time to race to all sorts of dark corners. This despite the fact that I possess a signed, stamped, official copy of the divorce decree, which I clutched to my bosom, like a newborn to the tit, for 48 hours straight waiting for word that the county clerk had made an error. Of the various scary places I visited in my mind, I imagined what still being married might mean. It could mean that my gay marriage to Warren—we have a domestic partnership so that I can have insurance— was void. This, in turn, could mean that I wasn’t legally insured when I had my womb ripped out last fall. Which could mean I might owe $20,000 to the insurance company or even that I might have to return to the hospital to have this faulty part reinstalled.
Results tagged “marriage”
Warren, my young hot boyfriend and I got married a few months ago. We did this very much on the down low, just the two of us and a county clerk. I wore a lovely dress I picked up on the sale rack at Target for $10 and Warren wore a matching Hawaiian-themed shirt. It was my third time to get hitched and Warren’s first. You might think, with me being old hat at getting married and Warren being the sort to swear he’d never marry, that he would’ve been the one with cold feet. Nah. He practically skipped into the Travis County Marriage License Office to file the paperwork, whereas I was the one shaking. Because after enduring two prior short lived marriages-from-hell and two even more hellish divorces, I finally came to the conclusion that I’d rather be tied to a bed of rusty nails and broken glass and have a diarrhea plagued horse shit in my mouth while my ten worst ex-boyfriends plucked out my toenails then ever go that route again.
