Desperate, with mere days left to my second wedding, I persuade my chic
younger sister that helped me to find something discrete and sleek, not frothy
and fluffy. Mimi lined-up Beverly Hills and Newport Beach shops, then kissed her
finger-tips to be a 5-Star Chef, "You'll contain the perfect confection
tomorrow."
The overnight, crammed with relief, and outfitted in pristine white pique and
Chanel sunglasses I pick-up Mimi up at a shiny white convertible willing to zip
it might be off my to-do list.
"Slight detour," Mimi hops in wearing a pink shift, with your ex-girlfriend
long blond hair in a very ponytail. "The dog died so we have got to understand
it within the vet's and bury it in Nana's backyard." Her charm bracelet tinkles
as she slams the actual vehicle door. "It shouldn't take long." Mimi pushes
inside of a Beach Boys CD and fast-forwards to, California Girls. I turn-on the
ignition and look at her dumbfounded.
"What?" She shrugs. "He was really a incontinent rescue dog who enjoyed a
good, spoiled life." She surfs her donate. "Go."
At the whitewashed cinderblock building, an adolescent with an iPod and
greasy hair pushes an aluminum cart into the car. Buddy the canine is within the
cart covered with visquine and stiff being silver drinks tray. His tail
indicates including the directional signal.
The fellow whistles to Jimmie Hendrix and angles the puppy to the small back
seat, then allows the car two loud pats and us a half-salute.
We to make our grandmother's house and walk-in with all the shrink-wrapped
dog. "Don't you girls look lovely," Nana says, eyeing our package.
"We're to Beverly Hills to access Suzanne being married dress. And, Buddy
died." Mimi flips the stereo to Aunt Simmie's favorite Frank Sinatra record.
"Since I can't have a very yard, thought I'd bury him in the dirt patch by the
alley," she nods from the picture window.
"Don't you dare!" Aunt Simmie rockets-up in the sofa and waves her just lit
Menthol Cool. "Animals will find it up!" she screeches.
"Simmie." I shake my head softly and employ the half-pleading, reasonable coo
available to crazy people and men. "We can't drive around which includes a dead
dog with this heat."
"Oh, allow them, Sim," Nana's tone underscored it's a really trifle. On the
other hand she'd i want to bury Godzilla and Dick Cheney together if our dresses
subtly referenced Jackie-O.
"The dog will dissolve on the water table! Is this : what you wish? Fecal
material Buddy floating in Father O'Reilly's daiquiri as he visits?" Simmie
harrumphs realizing she's outnumbered. "Fine," she demands drag off her
cigarette. "Shovel's in the garage."
An hour later, dusty, disheveled and faintly scented with formaldehyde, Mimi
and i also stop for pasta in Westwood. She buys a motion picture Star Map from
the street vendor and studies it at the restaurant table given that the waiter
brings our wine.
"I've always wanted to execute this," she giggles. "Hmmm. Cher, Barbara
Streisand, Robert frickin' de Niro!" She turns the map over and knocks wine
across her dress and mine. Across from us Jacqueline Smith from Charlie's Angels
offers me a "too bad" grimace.
Back in the car, with bright red splashes of wine across our bodices and
resembling escaped extras from the soap-opera scene we weave through Bel Air, as
Mimi navigates from your map. "James Stewart's house within the right, hmm. Oh,
my god. Oh, my god, turn here, turn here. Blast! Finish. This wasn't find a
picture in advance of Liz Taylor's."
"Liz Taylor? The Gloved One's best amigo?"
"Oh, yeah, smirk now, however they roll the obit," she holds up one finger to
another. "National Velvet. Father within the Bride. Cleopatra, Cat on the
frikin' Hot Tin Roof! I'll have a photo of me at La Liz's place, the truly
greats."
We park across town.
Mimi poses while watching iron gates. "Don't take advantage of the wine
stain. Oh! Damn-It!" For 25 minutes we trample flowerbeds seeking her contact
lens until a dark-blue security cruiser pulls-up, plus a mechanical voice
advises us to relocate along.
Back from the car a citation waves in the windshield. "Bel Air Street
Sweeping Day," Mimi reads. "Whoa," she whistles. "$227 bucks." I sigh, she
clicks her seat-belt, and that we make a leafy back-road up to Beverly
Hills.
The salesclerks of Rodeo Drive have savant opportunity to calculate your
probable net-worth, concurrent with the own commission potential, faster that
one could clear their threshold. If you are self-presentation includes
formaldehyde, garden dirt and red-wine it'll earn a sniff saying, "I'd frown,
with the exception of the Botox."
After zipping, lacing, and fastening myself into thirty-two dresses at six
different locales, I offer, "You know, Mimi, slideshow garden wedding not much
of a Debutant Ball." She rolls her eyes and we're extremely popular car for that
90 minute drive to Newport Beach. We detour to Jolly Rogers on Balboa Island to
refortify ourselves with burgers, fries, daiquiris and hot fudge cakes. Then
using optimism restored by alcohol, chocolate and grease we hit Fashion Island
in Newport Beach.
Mimi storms the glistening glass shops like Generalissimo Franco. I follow
limply like a Death March survivor thinking if my son weren't in Catholic school
I should have just inhabit sin.
I'm in the dressing room inside a strapless bra and white bikini panties when
she rushes in, a semi-frothy ecru number in their arms. She slips it over my
head, smoothes it down, then turns me on the mirror.
A chorus of angels sings Hallelujah. Bluebirds fly into beribboned bowers of
baby white roses. Golden-pink light breaks through the entire sprayed asbestos
ceiling. White butterflies kiss me on the cheeks, and fairies draw in my
hair.
"A Miracle!" sighs Mimi.
"You desire a bustier," says the sales lady with sensible shoes and
dollar-signs in their own eyes.
Wedding day arrives. My pre-ceremony relax with the tub was lost the drain
looking for a parking valet ran on the cat, my new bustier was MIA, the best
guest arrived a couple of hours early and been able to stop-up a toilet and
heave-up her breakfast in the guest-bath floor. You have to all had to pitch-in
once the florist flaked-out. Still, my parents' backyard was movie-set perfect
the moment the violins, harps and flutes begun to play as Dad we stroll past 250
guests in white chairs, toward a canopy of flowers.
I check out inside my Gregory Peck-like betrothed with hope and anticipation.
He smiles along at the dress, "Elegant."
Then I recognize that during this anxious, tenuous world, festivity and magic
and celebrations are usually well effort. I secretly pledge allegiance to the
Froth Brigade for the reason that audience leans forward to be part of an
aspiration.
"I do," I believe that. "I do."