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Every Girl Should Be Married. I may not meet the right man today. Or even this week. Or even this year. A vision of loveliness. Martens, which are making his pants look short. We did good. With tongue. They pull apart with a sickeningly Blck men fvck Bellingen girls squelch and look over at me. Thank god for the voice of reason. On my thirtieth birthday I gave myself a gift and had my name legally changed to Sophie Rosalind Bernstein. I once asked her if she minded being called Bubbles, and she laughed. And I have to admit, I look like Katharine Hepburn.

Well, actually I look like I ate Katharine Hepburn, if you want to know the truth, but I look as glamorous and radiant as a girl could corseted within an inch of her life and stuffed into her custom size-twenty Vera Wang gown. But only in Wangland am I a twenty.

Oh, and the upcharge for bigger sizes is also a real treat; nothing like paying a fat tax for your special day. Thanks for that. None of it matters today. The gauzy organza overdress has wide, fluttery lapels and long, loose balloon sleeves cuffed at the wrist, which help to mask my not-exactly-Michelle-Obama-esque upper arms, and it buttons tightly on either side of my waist before extending over the skirt, which moves around me with a languorous swoosh. I think Kate would approve, frankly. My thick, dark, often-unruly curls have been tamed into sleek, shiny waves, held back over my left ear with a jeweled clip, and my makeup is simple, highlighting my fair skin and hiding the spray of freckles across the bridge of my nose.

Heels are the bane of anyone who spends long workdays on her feet in supportive clogs. Candace, the event manager here at the Ryan Mansion, comes flying in. Do you have time for a quick walk-through before we open the doors? My mom starts to walk toward us, but Bubbles catches the look on my face. You go ahead, Sophie; the three of us will wait here for you. She knows how much work went into planning this day. I follow Candace out of the lounge and down the hall to the elevator. Nervous at all? I feel great. Never felt better!

And I do. No jitters, no sweaty palms, no butterflies. This is the day I was destined for. The man Blck men fvck Bellingen girls was destined for. I have to say, as much as I love my Dexter. The agreement is that I will cover the wedding and he will cover the restaurant, and that seems more than fair as we begin our lives together. Despite keeping the guest list down to under a hundred and calling in major at-cost favor pricing from chef pals and vendors who work with the restaurant, the event was still coming in at nearly seventy grand, which has pretty much emptied my savings and maxed out all my credit cards, including three brand-new ones.

Gone are the gifts from my family: five grand from Mom and Dad and two from Bubbles. Not to mention the bat mitzvah bonds I cashed in. Everything will be so much easier then. Do you really want to go through the hassle of combining households in one of our places now and then having to repack and reorganize in a few months?

Especially with the lifelong memories of this glorious day.

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Candace and I step off the wood-paneled elevator and into the wide entry room of the mansion. This place is my win-the-lottery dream house: twelve thousand square feet of lates graystone on elegant Astor Street. And we are using all of it. The first-floor dining room will have the ceremony; the ading living room will house our cocktail hour. Then everyone will go up to the second level for the sit-down five-course dinner and dancing in the massive formal ballroom, with the anterooms set up for cozy conversation, and a smoking room for the cigar crowd.

The ceremony chairs are swagged in sheer tulle, and the gossamer chuppah is wound with ivy and fairy lights, the canopy gathered in perfect folds to create a small tent. Georg and Alexandre both got Internet-ordained so that they can tly do the ceremony for us, Georg covering the Jewish parts and Alexandre taking care of the secular stuff. The round dining tables, small six-tops to keep conversation flowing, are set with white linen cloths with deep-magenta linen napkins, centerpieces that are a riot of magentas and oranges, candles in silver candlesticks, bone china, and Riedel crystal glasses lined up for the exquisite wine pairings Dexter has planned for every course.

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The stage is set up for the jazz orchestra, and there, in the center of the dance floor, is the cake. Three square tiers of hazelnut cake filled with caramel mousse and sliced poached pears, sealed with vanilla buttercream scented with pear eau-de-vie. It took me the better part of the last three weeks to make this cake.

Not to mention the loaves of banana bread, the cellophane bags of pine nut shortbread cookies, and the little silver boxes of champagne truffles in the gift bags.

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And the hand-wrapped caramels and shards of toffee and dark-chocolate-covered candied ginger slices that will be served with the coffee. Candace puts an arm around my waist and squeezes. You should be a wedding planner. I only want to plan one wedding in my life, and this one is it.

The rest of the brides are on their own. The restaurant business, even under the best of circumstances, is a hard row to hoe for parents. But the health department cares very much if you have been exposed to chicken pox or strep throat or lice, and wants you not to come within a hundred yards of your own premises. I have to admit, seeing Anneke all preggers out to there, and the way Liam watches her and smiles and gently touches her belly when he walks by her, does give the old ovaries a twinge. Hopefully, if the new place gets up and running well, and we have some success, maybe in a couple of years we can revisit, see if maybe just one child might be a possibility.

I would really love to see Bubbles become a great-grandbubbles, Blck men fvck Bellingen girls unlike Dex, I have no siblings to rely on for that. She looks me up and down. We walk over to a swinging door, and she holds it open while I stand just inside. The menu is spectacular. There is a raw bar set up with three kinds of oysters, and a raclette station where we have a whole wheel of the nutty cheese being melted to order, with baby potatoes, chunks of garlic sausage, spears of fresh fennel, lightly pickled Brussels sprouts, and hunks of sourdough bread to pour it over.

When we head up for dinner, we will start with a classic Dover sole amandine with a featherlight spinach flan, followed by your choice of seared veal chops or duck breast, both served with creamy polenta, roasted mushrooms, and lacinato kale. Next is a light salad of butter lettuce with a sharp lemon Dijon vinaigrette, then a cheese course with each table receiving a platter of five cheeses with dried fruits and nuts and three kinds of bread, followed by the panna cottas.

Then the cake, and coffee and sweets. There will also be tiny four-ounce milk bottles filled with either vanilla malted milk shakes, root beer floats made with hard root beer, Bloody Marys, or mimosas. As Megan said, we plan on ruining these people. The initial sticker shock on just the food bill almost made me pass out, and I thought long and hard about nixing the whole midnight-buffet idea.

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I look at these dear friends who are practically working for free to make our day perfect, and grin at them. You know that I owe every one of you wedding or birthday cakes when the time comes! Candace shuttles me out of the kitchen, relieves me of my borrowed trench coat, and hustles me back to the elevator.

I head back upstairs to my lounge. The door is slightly ajar, and I can hear my parents talking. My mother pipes up. She loves him. We have to support her fully in that. Does she love the idea of him? All we can do is help her have her perfect day the way she wants it, and hope for the best.

And who she is and what she chooses and what she may or may not think of you and your choices is officially none of your business. With his brain, his mouth, and his Ivy League degrees, Dad could have been a powerful litigator and partner at a big firm but chose the life of a public defender with pro bono exoneration work instead.

When I went to culinary school after college, they were thrilled. Right up until I decided on a life of cooking in high-end fine-dining restaurants, and not running a soup kitchen staffed by reformed convicts, or teaching cooking classes to welfare moms. Dad, if you will please escort these lovely ladies downstairs, I will be down in two shakes to you.

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