(pretend this area is a blank polaroid)
My mother never married my father; he married another woman just a few weeks after he met her and I was inadvertently brought about, and it was another twenty-one years before she would be a bride. The ceremony, as such, was held in a most godawful Methodist church somewhere in the boondocks near Chardon, OH, scratchy green indoor-outdoor carpet underneath our feet in the chapel. The hairlipped preacher had a penchant for transposing his gendered nouns - "Do you, Tim, take Linda to be your husband... um... er..." The bride wore an iridescent purple suit (much prettier than it sounds), and the groom one of the standard black suits that he normally dons to organize and bury the dead (less creepy than it sounds).
The first celebratory meal was held, due in large part to a persnickety and rather unpleasant (though pleasantly now-ex) boyfriend, at the local Wendy's. "Bring It On" might have been watched the night after - their story holds that it was but this writer maintains (perhaps to save face, but she thinks she has the facts straight) that this happened on another, more appropriate, evening. The daughter's wedding present of a lucky and heavy elephant-and-marble-ball posed problems at the airport, but the happy couple returned to Oklahoma with few other setbacks. There would be pictures of all of these blessed moments, but perhaps aptly, every single photo came out white, shiny and blank.