My stepsister Ellen was a lesbian for a few years, then decided she wasn't. She met and fell in love with Paul, a British gentleman, though I use the term gentleman loosely: he was an arrogant, condescending jerk.
Anyway, the wedding was a very genteel affair, on the grounds of an historic farmhouse — George Washington had, in fact slept there — on several acres in southern New Jersey (the part that really deserves the slogan "The Garden State.") A string quartet of folks from Julliard played. The caterer was a friend of Ellen's, whose chocolate truffles had recently been judged the best in New York by the New York Times. The setting was stunning and the food was exquisite.
My oldest stepbrother, Dan, hated not being the center of attention, and so he wore one of those t-shirts printed to look like a tuxedo. Class all the way. Ellen's maid of honor was her former lover, Lydia, who wore all black to the wedding and spent the day in tears, because not only was Ellen getting married, but she was marrying a man.
Many of Ellen's guests were very chi-chi New York women, mainly lesbians, who spent a good chunk of the event ducking behind the barn and snorting cocaine. Needless to say, they'd return screeching and jibber jabbering.
The groom's guests were primarily from England. Although most of them were not from money they were all suitably attired in Brooks Brothers and similar fashions, and were about as proper as a person can be.
I was thoroughly enjoying the event when it got even better: it started to rain, and we all crowded into the farmhouse. Forced into close quarters, the British gentlemen started chatting up the New York women with whom, of course, they had no chance. The string quartet tried to set up in one of the rooms, though no one could hear them over the din. It was the best circus I'd ever seen.
Dan started a pool to predict how long the marriage would last. I gave it eight months and was amazed that it lasted through a few years and two children. Ellen hasn't been married since (this was 20 or so years ago) and Paul, I think, moved back to England. (He hated me — actually, he had a low opinion of everyone in our family — and the feeling was mutual.)
Every other wedding I've ever attended has paled by comparison.
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