As the little preteen flowergirls, we are dressed up as princesses. I wear a shimmery white dress that looks like a big pearl. The top sweeps across my shoulders, tapering down to a white rose at my chest. The skirt poofs out from my waist down, and when I spin around it lifts up into a blur of a circle, luminescent all around me. There is so much noise in this fancy restaurant with the high ceiling and table after table covered in heavy pink cloths. It looks like Auntie Lana and the others invited thousands of people. They're all dressed up in shiny clothes; I see paisley neckties, hairsprayed hair, shiny pantyhose, lips the color of Cami's neon pink swimsuit, and those blackbelt-thingamabops called cumberbundts. The scents are too strong -- the room is a mixture of artificial colognes radiating out from the sweating skin of the mingling guests, their slender glasses of champagne in hand. I'm not used to this metropolitan L.A. chic superficial urban designer mastercard tennis 2nd-home-in-Palm-Springs long-red-nails mutual fund mineral water "Isn't she cute?" dance til you drop carbonation. Too much grown-up-ness. In the family reception line, Phoebe and I are the sweet little nieces, shaking millions of hands. Then he comes through the line: puffy black hair, shirt unbuttoned down to his furry chest. All I can do is laugh hysterically; my words are frozen in my throat as I shake his hand. Finally I squeeze the question out of my mouth, trying to hold back the laughs that vibrate through my whole body: "Aren't you LARRY? The Larry from Three's Company?" "Why yes I am," he says with a wink. Phoebe and I die right then and there. I almost pee my white tights, the laughter gripping my stomach, all the adrenaline-excitement-fear-curiosity of the wedding bubbling up in that one moment.