This is not Olivia

So there probably won't be any photos. And I'm not going to refer to you all as "readers," though many of you are, indeed, my friends.

Wow, it kinda sounds like Sgt. Slaughter just took over. But I assure you--a ticket on the timmy train is fully fun.

Today was pretty funny, and in a let's giggle at Olivia but in a good-natured way way. We went to the Municipal Building, across from Brooklyn's Borough Hall, to get the marriage license. I thought this would make me nervous, but it didn't. Turns out they string you along, making you fill out the actual thing you mail in on the day of the ceremony. I'm convinced my hand will be shaking and my mascara will be running when I do so. Heh--it'd be pretty funny if I were wearing mascara for the wedding. I actually had on mascara, I think, the first time Olivia met me, but that's a whole other story.

Let's start at the end, because the beginning is the funny part. Ok, so here's what I thought going through the line of the marriage bureau would be like: lots of pastels, people smiling, free jolly ranchers. Basically a life sized version of candy land. Well, not quite, but I didn't know what to expect from the equation of celebration of love + bureaucrats. Turns out, it is kinda weird. The security guard lady was friendly, greeting us with, "hello, new couples!" So that was promising. But let me tell you--when it's a guy's responsibility to "process" marriage licenses all day every day, the "congratulations" he says at the end sounds a hell of a lot more like, "move along folks."

But, you know, it was fine. Reminds me that this is a LEGALLY BINDING AGREEMENT. And VERY SERIOUS. Even more so because you have to pass through a metal detector and an x-ray machine for your stuff as part of a long ass line a la airports these days to get into the municipal building. So we shuffled along, being patient because the line was moving steadily, and I wrote this gogyohka:

bureaucracy--
moving through
a line
that moves
to another line

We get to the metal detector, and I actually remember to take off my giant belt buckle this time, and Olivia puts her bag through the x-ray thing. And it's cool, nothing goes off. I'm putting my giant belt buckle on while being jostled by an elderly hasidic jew with bad breath, such that I almost buckle my belt to one of his tzitzits, when I hear one of the security ladies address Olivia:

"Ma'am, do you have a knife and fork in your bag?"

Olivia looks a little distressed, but nothing like the time they told her she couldn't bring her hamster on the plane, and she says yes. I, at this point, have walked over. But I have no. frigging. clue. where this one's heading. I'm thinking, Olivia's got a leftover plastic cutlery set from a salad from Wendy's or something? Who cares?

But then I hear the security woman asking a security guy for a paper towel, which he duly retrieves. And Olivia has produced a potentially used knife and fork pair that look like they were swiped from our college dining hall 10 years ago. Next thing the security woman is wrapping the knife and fork, very professionally, totally straightfaced, in the paper towel and putting a little green dot on the little parcel. She directs Olivia to sign a form, and that's where her expressionless security lady face broke. I look down at the form:

"Weapon retention form? For a knife and fork?!"

Olivia is staring at me. I realize I must be kind of staring at her, too.

"They're for my lunch. My lunch!"

By now we've realized how loudly I've said these things by the radius of growth of the security woman's eyeballs. The security lady just laughed.

And that's the story of how Olivia unsuccessfully attempted stage a massive coup of the Brooklyn marriage bureau, all with a metal fork and butter knife.

Later, across the street in the courtyard in front of Borough Hall, we were walking and talking. Olivia wasn't too flustered but she did point out that

"A pen could be a weapon!"

To which I responded something about how, yeah, sure, but it's not very likely someone can use a pen to do serious damage. Olivia did not miss one second--

"And it's not like you can't reach behind someone's eyeball and pull it out."

TSA, are you listening?