Screwball, or just screwy

I took my mom, Sabrina, and Steve to the Guthrie yesterday for When We Are Married.  I won the tickets in a silent auction at a Fashion Garage Sale (those exist).  Great actors as usual, including a guy I immediately recognized as the bad guy from the “Weekend Warriors” episode of Psych.  It doesn’t take much to get me starstruck.  Anyway, it involved some early-1900s-British couples finding out at their 25th anniversary that the pastor who performed their joint ceremony wasn’t certified to do so, so they might not actually be married.  Sounds far-fetched, you say?  Ask my parents.  Not only did their wedding include a bride dressed in hot-pink, music from Fiddler on the Roof, and my grandmother’s famous spam casserole, it also included a not-quite-official-officiate.  They’ve been aware of this potential problem for years, but rather than seize the opportunity for screwball-comedy shenanigans, dad gets even more gruff than usual, mumbles something about “common law,” and changes the topic.  My parents: living in sin since 1983.

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