Minnie Me.
“Keep the change.” I slid from the backseat. “And if you do decide to go through with the penis enlargement,” I handed him a Dead End Dating card, “give me a call. I can definitely hook you up.”
His mouth dropped open, but I turned away before he could say anything.
I walked the two feet to a glass storefront with the words Wedding Wonderland done in white neon script. Pulling open the door, I quickly found myself surrounded by big, poofy dresses, fake flowers, and the smell of potpourri. An instrumental version of “You Light Up My Life” flowed from a CD player in the corner.
Mandy and an older looking woman with the same red hair and giddy expression sat on a white velvet sofa in front of a coffee table overflowing with bridal magazines.
“Oh, good,” Mandy squealed. “You’re here. Mom, she’s here!”
I’d met Harriet Dupree once before when I’d been planning a baby shower for Viola and the other twenty-seven pregnant werewolves I’d hooked up for the lunar eclipse. Mandy had volunteered to help and her mother had dropped off several serving platters (and oodles of chicken wings) for the big occasion. She’d also stood around oohing and gooing over all the baby gifts and telling me how positively darling I was—and precious and gorgeous—and that she just could not, repeat, COULD NOT, understand how some man had not snatched me up a long, long time ago.
I know. Me, too.
Anyhow, I’ve liked her ever since.
“Lil!” The older Dupree threw her arms around me and smothered me in a big hug. “So good to see you.”
“You, too.”
“All right, ladies.” Clap, clap. “Since everybody’s here, let’s get started. While I don’t mind staying late, I’ve got two poodles and a pit bull waiting at home for their supper.”
I turned to see the store’s proprietor. She had bright bleached-blond hair, enough eye makeup to impress Marilyn Manson, and bloodred nails about three inches long. She wore gold-rimmed glasses that hung from a chain around her neck and bright red lipstick. Black spandex pants hugged her thighs and a red, white, and gold abstract top hugged the biggest pair of breasts I’ve ever seen (which speaks volumes since I’ve been around for more than five hundred years). She smelled of hair spray and Italian sausage. Her accent dripped Jersey.
Our gazes locked and I got the down low. Shirley Cannoli. Born and raised in—where else?—Jersey. Still lived there. Newly divorced from her husband, Norman, of twenty-five years. Two grown daughters, one of whom went to NYU while the other did nails at a small shop in Hoboken. She didn’t normally stay after hours because of her “babies,” i.e., pets, but she was on a mission to beef up her customer base. She’d had three boob jobs and was now planning a face-lift. Provided, of course, that she impressed this particular bride. She was certain this would be her stepping stone to more hoity-toity weddings like the ones splattered all over the pages of the Life Styles section every Sunday. Which was why she’d agreed to a private showing so frickin’ late when she should be at home watching Leno. Not that she was complaining. Hell, no. She was grateful that she was standing here in her latest pair of Do Me shoes instead of sitting at home with her feet propped up and her bunions free. She was also eternally grateful that her cousin Michael had married Harriet’s half-sister. Otherwise, she wouldn’t be getting this chance. All she needed was one good mention.
I, personally, figured she needed a lot more than that. But she looked so excited and I couldn’t help but give props to a fellow entrepreneur. I smiled and sank down on the sofa between Mandy and her mom.
“Before we get started, can I interest anyone in a little refreshment?”
I slid my hand into the air. “I’ll have champagne.” Another glance around the room. “Make that two glasses.”
“I’ve got Jell-O shots,” Shirley announced
“Keep the change.” I slid from the backseat. “And if you do decide to go through with the penis enlargement,” I handed him a Dead End Dating card, “give me a call. I can definitely hook you up.”
His mouth dropped open, but I turned away before he could say anything.
I walked the two feet to a glass storefront with the words Wedding Wonderland done in white neon script. Pulling open the door, I quickly found myself surrounded by big, poofy dresses, fake flowers, and the smell of potpourri. An instrumental version of “You Light Up My Life” flowed from a CD player in the corner.
Mandy and an older looking woman with the same red hair and giddy expression sat on a white velvet sofa in front of a coffee table overflowing with bridal magazines.
“Oh, good,” Mandy squealed. “You’re here. Mom, she’s here!”
I’d met Harriet Dupree once before when I’d been planning a baby shower for Viola and the other twenty-seven pregnant werewolves I’d hooked up for the lunar eclipse. Mandy had volunteered to help and her mother had dropped off several serving platters (and oodles of chicken wings) for the big occasion. She’d also stood around oohing and gooing over all the baby gifts and telling me how positively darling I was—and precious and gorgeous—and that she just could not, repeat, COULD NOT, understand how some man had not snatched me up a long, long time ago.
I know. Me, too.
Anyhow, I’ve liked her ever since.
“Lil!” The older Dupree threw her arms around me and smothered me in a big hug. “So good to see you.”
“You, too.”
“All right, ladies.” Clap, clap. “Since everybody’s here, let’s get started. While I don’t mind staying late, I’ve got two poodles and a pit bull waiting at home for their supper.”
I turned to see the store’s proprietor. She had bright bleached-blond hair, enough eye makeup to impress Marilyn Manson, and bloodred nails about three inches long. She wore gold-rimmed glasses that hung from a chain around her neck and bright red lipstick. Black spandex pants hugged her thighs and a red, white, and gold abstract top hugged the biggest pair of breasts I’ve ever seen (which speaks volumes since I’ve been around for more than five hundred years). She smelled of hair spray and Italian sausage. Her accent dripped Jersey.
Our gazes locked and I got the down low. Shirley Cannoli. Born and raised in—where else?—Jersey. Still lived there. Newly divorced from her husband, Norman, of twenty-five years. Two grown daughters, one of whom went to NYU while the other did nails at a small shop in Hoboken. She didn’t normally stay after hours because of her “babies,” i.e., pets, but she was on a mission to beef up her customer base. She’d had three boob jobs and was now planning a face-lift. Provided, of course, that she impressed this particular bride. She was certain this would be her stepping stone to more hoity-toity weddings like the ones splattered all over the pages of the Life Styles section every Sunday. Which was why she’d agreed to a private showing so frickin’ late when she should be at home watching Leno. Not that she was complaining. Hell, no. She was grateful that she was standing here in her latest pair of Do Me shoes instead of sitting at home with her feet propped up and her bunions free. She was also eternally grateful that her cousin Michael had married Harriet’s half-sister. Otherwise, she wouldn’t be getting this chance. All she needed was one good mention.
I, personally, figured she needed a lot more than that. But she looked so excited and I couldn’t help but give props to a fellow entrepreneur. I smiled and sank down on the sofa between Mandy and her mom.
“Before we get started, can I interest anyone in a little refreshment?”
I slid my hand into the air. “I’ll have champagne.” Another glance around the room. “Make that two glasses.”
“I’ve got Jell-O shots,” Shirley announced
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