When we first met, there was merely a snicker over his name at a local community college. One look at that tell-tale late 80's feathered hair- borderline mullet- and his fringy leather jacket that some Bon Jovi fan must have been missing, and I was back to reading Camus.

I was pretty gothic then. It was 1989, and I was 19 years old. We were the real big fat punk deal: pretentious, lover of all things Cure and Bauhaus, extremely unique (and we all looked exactly the same expressing that, too). I even smoked a clove cigarette once, and went clubbing with a man prettier than I was. I was in the hip vampire crowd. We played our existentialism like a large man wears bad wrestling pants over cheap coffee in Denny's, while we threw bad anecdotes at each other regarding social injustice and Doc Martens. We were deep, baby.

Then there was Cougar. Cougar. That's the name of someone who thinks Skoal is a food group. I made the obligatory, "Are you related to John Mellencamp," comments, thought myself pretty clever, and generally paid no attention to him. Not only did he drive an SUV and admit to listening to the Beach Boys willingly, I couldn't stand that he had the audacity to be funny. Rednecks are not funny. Nothing is funny. I'm a child of Voltaire, wrapped up in white pan makeup and I'm a vampire. Rawwwrrr!

I was raised by an ex-Special Forces Jewish father who was ticked that I kept bringing home dates who looked like girls. "No man should be wearing your lipstick," he used to lecture.

Words to live by.

So, I started engaging Cougar in conversation in between classes.

Adding to this country boy's sense of humor, he was devilishly charming, witty and extremely intelligent. These were three things that vampire-wannabes are not accustomed to, especially when accompanied with someone who wore a Snap- On Tools t-shirt. It was the triple-threat.

I remember our first date vaguely. We went out with a group of mutual friends for pizza. He left his keys in the truck with the vehicle running and the doors locked. That was pretty good. I then amused him when I asked the owner of the store, reading from the abbreviated ingredients menu, "What's can bacon? I've never seen a can of bacon before." I think we were both hopeless.

We dated a few times in short succession in this fashion; him, usually locking himself out of his car but being adorable about it, and me usually saying something incredibly ridiculously stupid. He robbed me of my pseudo-intellectual facetiousness, and I gave him vehicular alzheimer's.

He proposed to me just two weeks after we started dating. I, who never planned to marry, said, "Yes."

My dad was thrilled I brought home someone who liked football.

Cougar came to work, told me to get my things, and that I was going to get hitched. All right, I thought. That's some exciting "Officer and a Gentleman" stuff right there. I grabbed my things, and beat feet in his 1978 Chevy Suburban.

Turns out, we didn't plan that one too well. It was a Thursday afternoon and there was a 48 hour window between filing for the marriage license and when the actual event could take place. We planned to drive to Idaho, but by the time we would have arrived, it would have been Friday afternoon, and we still would have had to wait for Monday.

That's when the Chapel of Love came into the picture.

Conjure up all the mental images you have of a man who performs wedding ceremonies in his living room in downtown Tacoma characterized on a glossy postcard that reads, "While U Wait", and you've exceeded the expectations we had of the place. Still, we had a place for our ceremony, and best yet-it could be performed that week. And all for $25 (that is, unless we wanted extra folding chairs, in which case, the cost jumped a buck for every person we had attend the event.)

We told my folks and his folks we were getting hitched and invited them to elope with us. We even sprang for the extra $10 candle ceremony for the occasion, his sisters and brothers got to skip school, and it was his mother's birthday. We ran out and got the dress, my future sister-in-law lent me her veil from her ceremony, and dad and I went to the Chapel of Love to wait for the event to take place.

The pastor showed my dad and me his photo album of happy couples, most of them wearing jeans or military uniforms. The pastor said we looked like a happy couple, too.

Of course it was only my dad and me standing there, and I about fell off the chair laughing. Dad sputtered. The pastor of love looked relieved.

My future husband then came ambling up to the door of the ranch-style home, festooned himself just past the lace heart-shaped doilies, and the pastor started the tape of the wedding march. I don't remember much of the ceremony itself. I was given a pretty bouquet of Safeway flowers, my veil caught on fire during the candle ceremony, and a ten-year old blew me out. We signed the papers, grabbed the audiotape of the event and stepped out as a married couple for the first time.

My husband's friend was so shocked we got married, he ran for the phone, hit his head on a metal bar, and they found him a little while later passed out in the yard. So much for the best man.

Still, if it could be said that it was the best $43 we ever spent, especially considering all the memories we have for it, I'd have to say we're the luckiest patrons the Chapel of Love has ever legally put together. At least I hope it was legal.