wedding of the century

Ted caught the bouquet. To keep if from hitting the floor, he says. With an outstretched arm and a measure of decisiveness, I say.

Maybe it was just a matter of perspective.

Boys can catch the bouquet, by the way, in Connecticut, where Grandmas can also marry their girlfriends in sweet ceremonies where the justice of the peace cries and the kids, grownups for all appearances, sneak rice from the restaurant kitchen in two coffee cups, to ensure a proper send-off.

We brought the cake and got in a fight in the car. We fight like my parents. That’s disturbing, but not altogether uncomfortable.

It feels familiar.

We made up after the party started. There were quick kisses and whispered apologies. It was a celebration of love, after all.

Then there was toasting and lunch and Ted clobbered his cousins so he could snatch that bouquet.

~beatrix

gram

I met Ted’s grandma finally, which was nice. She’s really sweet and cute and all the things a gramma should be. Lots of smiles and hugs to go around.

And after the matzoh ball soup, she turned to Ted’s mom and, with a gesture in my direction, asked, “Is she Jewish?”

Then she asked me where I’m from and I told her, slowly, and she relayed it in signs to her plus-one Margo.

’Cause Grandma is Jewish, but she’s also deaf. And a lesbian.

~beatrix