Las Vegas: Atonement and the Wedding Planner (Part II)

Well, dang and darnit.

Turns out, both the bride and groom need to be present for a marriage to be valid in the state of Nevada, which I think is being a little picky. I mean, if someone has to get hitched in the Harley Davidson Chopper Chapel, then spend their wedding day traipsing through the dingy MGM Grand casino in their flouncy finery, trying to find a bar that serves actual Champagne rather than an approximation of paint stripper, surely forcing them to turn up for the legalities is a tad petty.

But it got me thinking, as The Lovely C and I strolled into the Bellagio in search of cocktails and some retail therapy to ease her dismay, that, surely, there must be somewhere in the US where Maximus doesn’t have to be physically present at own his wedding. There must be somewhere one of the two could embrace the spirit of Nike and Just Do It. And, it being America, of course there is.

Four weddings and a corral

In fact, there are four places: California, Texas, Colorado and Montana. O joy, o rapture. What if we could fill in a few forms and marry them off in their own kitchen? But, that, sadly, wasn’t to be. The California proxy marriage law applies only to members of the armed forces stationed far away (like Iowa) or serving in conflict. And Maximus’ long-distant bout of Swedish military service doesn’t qualify, making me think there’s potentially an interesting military discrimination lawsuit in there somewhere, especially if I can turn it into a class action and convince Denmark to join in.

Now, I’ve never been to Texas, which I understand is very large and Bushey, so when I couldn’t make head nor tail of the law governing proxy marriages there, I gave up. I think the law was written by George W, aged four. On to Colorado, where I have spent some time and which is rather lovely, unless you accidentally drive into Utah and are dying for a vodka martini. Even Colorado, though, won’t serve you alcohol after 2am, so you had better get married before noon.

Marriage by proxy is allowed in the Rocky Mountain state “if either the groom or bride cannot appear due to illness, is out of the state of Colorado, or incarcerated”, according to About.com. This is good. It gives us a number of options. We can arrange the wedding while Maximus is still on the other side of the pond, wait until he gets back and incapacitate him, or simply have him locked up. We just need his written permission. Or, at least, permission that satisfies whoever is conducting the ceremony, which, as I’m sure you know, is an entirely different kettle of fish (nod, wink).

But the front-runner has to be Montana, the only state in the Union in which neither party needs to be present for their I do’s. The only catch is that one of the parties has to be resident in Montana at the time of marriage, but I don’t see this as a major hindrance. There are ways and means, especially if you have a friend who lives on a ranch in said state and who, for a bottle of something cold and white, would turn a blind eye to a tent pitched in their paddock and a transatlantic flight diverted from San Francisco. So, basically, pretty much anyone can marry anyone in Montana, as long as they fill in a form and splash the connubial plonk.

The land of opportunity

Indeed, Montana Legislative Services confirms this in a section of legalese on About.com, saying “the solemnization of the marriage is not invalidated by the fact that the person solemnizing the marriage was not legally qualified to solemnize it if either party to the marriage believed that person to be qualified”.

Now, this is interesting. It made me wonder whether I could actually take my role as wedding planner a step further and just marry them myself. Well, of course I could. Montana says I can, as long as I'm convincing.

Not being a typical celebrant, though, I thought it would be a nice gesture to get myself some marriage credentials and be ordained somewhere. Naturally, I could do this on the internet. Still, being conscientious, I decided I should make sure that I could legally conduct marriages, even in Montana, where they don't let little things like the law get in the way.

This meant signing up to a recognised church of some sort, which www.universalministries.com informed me I could do by checking whether my group of choice had filed a tax return. Seemingly, you're not a real church unless you've chartered an accountant, as it were. And, it just so happened that Universal Ministries could legally ordain me for free, valid in all 50 states.

Pass the incense

Unfortunately, there is a lot of religious stuff on there too, which isn’t really my cup of cocoa. So I moved on to the Universal Life Church, which told me I could believe or not believe in anything at all and join its select group of 20 million already ordained ministers, also for free, though, strangely, it did suggest that my ordination may not be recognised outside of the US.

Still, for $5.99, on the church’s website, www.themonastery.org, I can buy an ordination certificate to wave at Montana officials (or the couple I am about to marry). For $7.99, I can become a certified Jedi Knight. And, for the astonishing price of $29.99, I can become a Doctor of Divinity or Doctor of Metaphysics, with a certificate to prove it. Helpfully, there is a button on which I can click in order to make a donation to the Universal Life Church legal defence fund.

It also offers an array of useful packages to enable me to carry out any ministerial task that might befall me (though I’m thinking I should probably steer clear of circumcisions and restrict the laying of hands to good-looking men of my own choosing). It touts an Emergency Minister’s Package for $64.99, for shotgun weddings, I presume, or a Minister’s Car Kit, complete with bumper stickers, a “Minister Window Cling” and a ministerial parking placard for just $19.99. For $139.99, I can get the whole kit and caboodle, plus extras, such as baby-naming certificates and a personalised ID card to assure the paying public of my good ministerial standing.

Upon this rock ...

I had a feeling, though, that were I to sign up to this prestigious organisation it might pursue me for all eternity. Much better, I thought, to look into setting up my own congregation, which I could put on the back burner if, say, I were ever to get a real job. There are plenty of expert guides on the web and you’d be amazed at the tax implications of running a non-profit organisation, especially if you need to build a 12-room ministerial mansion with a tennis court and swimming pool. I’m not sure, but I think the ministerial masseur (who bears an uncanny resemblance to Robert Downey Jr.) is tax deductible.

Wikihow.com gets down to the nitty-gritty. I apparently need to find two other founding members not related by blood or marriage (I assume to me or each other, rather than to anyone at all). I thought about co-opting Le Grand Belge, who looks distinguished most of the time, but then decided he might make a better Elder down the line, when I got bored with the task at hand and needed to hand over the reins to someone who could potentially pass for a cult leader.

The website also suggests I should specify at my first meeting that I’m founding a church. “If you do not,” it says, “then there is the danger of always being a social group and never growing into a church.” Fair point. The California crew has tended to gather over dinner and copious amounts of booze. While a religious experience on occasion, it could become confusing. Most importantly, though, I should “begin early in the meetings to take donations for the future of the group.”

So, my dear flock, you’re cordially invited to the nuptials of Maximus and The Lovely C at the Church of the Chocolate Nut Martini, Montana. You’ll need to make a donation towards my expenses and future love nest in Maui, but it’s all in a good cause. And I’d ask you to donate generously, so you can turn to those less generous than yourselves and say, “I upped my donation, up yours!”


© Poilin Breathnach 2009