Meg Cabot - Queen Of Babble: In The Big City

I say, “My rent isn’t going to be that much, because I’ll be splitting it with Shari.”

“A studio—that is an apartment with no bedroom, just a single open space—costs two grand a month in Manhattan,” Mom goes on. “You have to share it with multiple roommates. That’s what Suzanne Pennebaker says.”

Sarah nods. She knows about Kathy’s boyfriend-stealing habit, too, which would have made getting along with roommates, at least of the female variety, difficult. “That’s what they said on The View, too.”

But I don’t care what anyone in my family says. I am going to find a way to open my own shop somehow. Even if I have to live in Brooklyn. I hear it’s very avant-garde there. All the really artistic people live there or in Queens, on account of being priced out of Manhattan by all the investment bankers.

“Remind me,” Rose says, as she comes back to the picnic table, “never to let Angelo be in charge of the birthday-party planning again.”

We look over and see that her husband is back on his feet, but limping painfully toward Mom and Dad’s back deck.

“Never mind me,” he calls to Rose, sarcastically. “Don’t offer to help, or anything. I’ll be fine!”

Rose looks heavenward, then reaches for the margarita pitcher.

“Perfect soul mate,” Sarah says, chuckling to herself.

Rose glares at her. “Shut up.” Then she plops the pitcher down. “Empty.” There’s growing panic in her voice. “We’re out of margaritas.”

“Oh, dear,” Mom says, looking concerned. “Your father just mixed that batch—”

“I’ll go in and make more,” I say, hopping up. Anything to avoid having to hear more about how much of a failure I’m destined to be in New York.

“Make it stronger than Dad did,” Rose advises, as a papier-mâché leg belonging to the piñata pony goes sailing past her head. “Please.”

I nod and, seizing the pitcher, head toward the back door. I make it about halfway before I run into Grandma, who is just coming out of the house.

“Hey, Gran,” I say. “How was Dr. Quinn?”

“I don’t know.” I can tell Gran’s drunk, even though it’s only one in the afternoon, because her housecoat is on backward again. “I fell asleep. Sully wasn’t even in it. I don’t know why they bother making episodes that don’t have him in it. What’s the point? No one wants to watch that Dr. Quinn run around in her gauchos. It’s all about Sully. I heard them trying to talk you out of moving to New York.”

I glance over my shoulder at my mother and sisters. They’re all three of them running their fingers along the edge of the leftover cake, then sucking the frosting off the tips.

“Oh,” I say. “Yeah. Well, you know. They’re just worried I’m going to end up like Kathy Pennebaker.”

Grandma looks surprised. “You mean a man-stealing whore?”

“Gran. She’s not a whore. She just—” I shake my head, smiling. “How do you even know about that, anyway?”

“I keep my ear to the ground,” Grandma says mysteriously. “People think because I’m an old drunk, I don’t know what’s happening. But I keep it real. Here. This is for you.”

She shoves something into my hand. I look down.

“Grandma,” I say, not smiling anymore. “Where did you get this?”

“Never you mind,” Gran says. “I want you to have it. You’re going to need it, moving to the city. What if you need to get out, and you need cash, fast? You never know.”

“But, Grandma,” I protest. “I can’t—”

“For fuck’s sake,” Grandma yells at me. “Just take it!”

“Fine, I will,” I say, and shove the neatly folded ten-dollar bill into the pocket of my black-and-white vintage Suzy Perette sleeveless day dress. “There. Are you happy now?”

“Yes,” Grandma says, and pats me on the cheek. Her breath is pleasantly beery. It reminds me of all those times in grade school she helped me with my homework. Most of the answers were wrong, but I always got bonus points for imagination. “Good-bye, you rotten stinker.”

“Grandma,” I say, “I’m not leaving for three more days.”

“Don’t sleep with any sailors,” Grandma says, ignoring me. “You’ll get the clap.”

“You know,” I say with a smile. “I think I’m going to miss you most of all, Scarecrow.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Grandma huffs. “Scarecrow who?”

But before I can explain, Maggie, wearing the decapitated piñata pony’s carcass on her head, marches silently past us, followed by her suddenly mute party guests, each wearing a piece of piñata—a hoofed foot here, a segment of the tail there—on their heads, and stepping in perfect formation.

“Wow,” Gran says, when the last member of the macabre piñata-part parade has passed by. “I need a drink.”

A sentiment I readily second.

Which type of wedding gown best suits you?

If you are lucky enough to be tall and slender, you can pretty much get away with any type or shape of gown. That is why models are tall and slender—anything looks good on them!

But supposing you are one of the millions of women who aren’t tall and slender? Which gown best suits you?

Well, if you are short, with a fuller figure, why not try a gown with an empire waist? The flowing silhouette will make your body look longer and more slender. That’s why this style of gown was favored by both the ancient Greeks and the very fashion-conscious Josephine Bonaparte, Empress of France!

LIZZIENICHOLSDESIGNS™

It’s my own fault, really. For believing in fairy tales.

Not that I ever mistook them for actual historical fact, or anything.

But I did grow up believing that for every girl, there’s a prince out there somewhere. All she has to do is find him. Then it’s on with the happily ever after.

So you can only imagine what happened when I found out. That my prince really IS one. A prince.

No, I really mean it. He’s an actual PRINCE.

And okay, he isn’t exactly recognized, really, by his native land, since the French did a pretty thorough job of killing off most of their aristocracy over two hundred years ago.

But in the case of my particular prince someone in his family managed to escape Madame Guillotine by hotfooting it to England, and years later, even managed to get the family castle back, probably through intense and prolonged litigation. If they were anything like the rest of his family, I mean.

And okay, today owning your own château in the South of France means about a hundred grand a year in taxes to the French government, and nonstop headaches over roof tiles and renters.

But hey, how many guys do you know who actually own one? A château, I mean.

But I swear to you, that’s not why I fell in love with him. I didn’t know about the title or the château when I met him. He never bragged about it. If he had, I would never have liked him in the first place. I mean, what woman would? That you’d want to be friends with, anyway.

No, Luke acted exactly the way you’d expect a disenfranchised prince to act about his title—as if he were embarrassed by it.

And he IS embarrassed by it, a little. That he’s a prince—an ACTUAL prince—and the only heir to a sprawling château (on a thousand-acre, sadly not very productive vineyard) a six-hour train ride from Paris. I only found out about it by accident, when I noticed this portrait of a very ugly man in the main hall at Château Mirac, and I noticed that on the nameplate, it said he was a prince, and he had the same last name as Luke.

Luke didn’t want to admit it, but I finally pried it out of his dad. He says it’s a lot of responsibility, being a prince, and running a château and all. Well, not the prince thing, so much, but the château part. The only way he can do it all—and turn enough of a profit to pay off their taxes every year—is by renting the place out to rich American families, and the occasional film studio, to shoot period movies in. God knows his vineyard doesn’t turn much of a profit.

But by the time I found out about it—the prince stuff—I was already head over heels for Luke. I knew right away he was the guy for me, the minute I sat down next to him on that train. Not that I thought he’d ever, in a million years, feel the same way about me and all. He just had such a nice smile—not to mention really long eyelashes, the kind that Shu Uemura try so hard to emulate—I couldn’t help falling for him.

So the fact that he has a title and an estate are really just frosting on what’s already the most delicious cake I’ve ever tasted. Luke isn’t like any of the guys I knew in college. He isn’t the least bit interested in poker or sports. All he cares about is medicine—it’s his passion—and, well, me.

Which suits me just fine.

So I guess it’s only natural that I started planning my wedding immediately. Not that Luke’s proposed—at least, not yet.

But, you know, I can still start PLANNING it. I know we’ll be getting married SOMEDAY. I mean, a guy doesn’t ask a girl he doesn’t intend to marry to move in with him, right?

So, you know, WHEN we get married, it will be at Château Mirac, on the big grassy terrace there, overlooking the entire valley—over which the de Villiers at one time practiced their feudal lording. It will be in the summer, of course, preferably the summer right after my vintage bridal gown refurbishment shop—Lizzie Nichols Designs—is bought out by Vera Wang (another thing that hasn’t happened yet. But it’s bound to, right?). Shari can be my maid of honor, and my sisters can be my bridesmaids.