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into something like that. Why can't I have a normal grandmother, who bakes me cookies and can't stop bragging to her friends in the Bridge Club about how wonderful I am? Why do I have to be cursed with a grandmother who shaves off her eyebrows and seems to enjoy making light of my inadequacies?
    It was while Grandmere and Sebastiano were cackling to themselves over this great witticism at my expense that my dad abruptly got up and left the table, saying he had to make a call. I suppose it's every man for himself where Grandmere is concerned, but you would think my own father would stick up for me once in a while.
    I don't know, maybe it was residual depression over the giant hole in my tongue (which doesn't even have a nice sterling silver stud in it so I can pretend to have done it on purpose to be controversial). But as I sat there listening to Grandmere and Sebastiano chatter away about how pathetic it was that I would never be able to wear anything strapless, unless some miracle of nature occurred one night that inflated me from a 32A to a 34C, I couldn't help thinking about Michael.
    Like about how with my luck, Michael will end up marrying Judith Gershner, so that even if I do ever get the guts to break up with Kenny, I will still never get a chance to be with the man I truly love.
    And probably, given my luck, it will turn out that Sebastiano isn't just in town to design me a dress for my royal introduction, but to kill me so that he can assume the throne of Genovia himself.
    Or, as Sebastiano would say, 'ass' the throne.
    Seriously. That kind of stuff happens on Baywatch all the time. You wouldn't believe the number of royal family members Mitch has had to save from assassination.
    Like supposing I put on the dress that Sebastiano has designed for me to wear when I'm introduced to the people of Genovia and it ends up squeezing me to death, just like that corset Snow White puts on in the original version of her story by the Brothers Grimm. You know, the part they left out of the Disney movie because it was too gruesome.
    Anyway, what if the dress squeezes me to death and then I'm lying in my coffin, looking all pale and queenly, and Michael comes to my funeral and ends up gazing down at me and doesn't realize until right then that he has always loved me?
    Then he'll have to break up with Judith Gershner.
    Hey. It could happen.
    OK, well, probably not, but thinking about that was better than listening to Grandmere and Sebastiano talk about me as if I wasn't even there.
    I was roused from my pleasant little fantasy about Michael pining for me for the rest of his life by Sebastiano saying suddenly, 'She has bute bone struck,' which, when I realized I was the she he was referring to, I took to be a compliment about my
    bone structure.
    Only a second later it wasn't such a compliment when he went, 'I put make-up on her that make her look like a mod.'
    Which, of course, is insulting because a nice person would say that I already look like a model (although of course I don't).
    Grandmere certainly wasn't about to come to my. defence, however. She was feeding bits of her leftover veal marsala to Rommel, who was sitting on her lap shivering as usual since all of his fur fell out due to canine allergies.
    'I wouldn't count on her father letting you,' she said to Sebastiano. 'Philippe is hopelessly old-fashioned.'
    Which is so the pot calling the kettle black! I mean, Grandmere still thinks that cats go around trying to suck the breath out of their owners while they are sleeping. Seriously. She is always trying to convince me to give Fat Louie away.
    So while Grandmere was going on about how old-fashioned her son is, I got up and joined him on the balcony.
    He was checking his messages on his mobile. He's supposed to play racquetball tomorrow with the prime minister of France, who is in town for the same summit as the Emperor of Japan.
    'Mia,' he said, when he saw me. 'What are you doing out here? It's freezing. Go back