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.

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."

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