The Reinvention of Mimi Finnegan (The Mimi Chronicles Book 1)

by Whitney Dineen

  I have no real defense for dating a man like this except for plain loneliness. Certainly when we are seventeen and full of hope and potential, it never occurs to us we will one day settle for anything. But when enough empty years pass, it’s only human to try to convince yourself something is better than nothing. Linden was my something. I met him at an opening for a restaurant in Hilldale. Parliament was promoting it and Linden was funding it. As a fourth generation trust fund baby, Lin was always looking for ways to invest his inheritance as he didn’t actually have a real job. He simply handled the money that was his birthright.

  In retrospect I don’t think I would have broken up with him if he didn’t turn on me. But the truth is, Mrs. Fairbanks never approved of me. I was a middle class Catholic from Pipsy who didn’t even belong to the Junior League. So when she decreed it was time for her son to wed and breed, I was deemed inappropriate. Like the white Anglo-Saxon Protestant he was, Linden listened to his mother and cut me loose. I can’t claim to have been exactly devastated by the experience, but I was hurt. I just couldn’t imagine anyone thinking my stock wasn’t good enough for them. I had spent my whole life thinking the exact opposite. Linden married a cousin just far enough removed for the union to be legal outside the state of West Virginia and is now the proud, pussy-whipped father of twins.

  Do you know for only two extra points you can add more cheese to your Weight Watcher’s Mac and Cheese? I’ve done this both times I had the entrée and I’m astounded by how delicious it is. I don’t savor my dinner tonight though as I can’t wait to drive over to the Ann Taylor at the mall. They have some stunning new dresses in the window and now that I’ve decided to pry open my wallet long enough to buy one, I want the shoes and accessories to go with it. I am simply high on the possibility Saturday night holds.

  The first dress I try on is a black cocktail number that hits just above the knee. It’s not unlike the Mui Mui in my closet except this one is a substantial size twelve and not a skinny eight. The next dress I try on is a sleeveless form fitting red sheath dress, again hitting just above the knee. The astounding feature on this garment is that the back drapes down to the waist, showing off a good deal of skin. It will require a special bra, but I’m leaning towards it as it’s so very eye catching. And really when you think about it, three hundred -forty-seven dollars is a steal for a show piece like this. Once the saleslady assures me it can be taken in should I lose weight (which I am going to do), I hand over my debit card.

  Next stop is DSW, a.k.a. Discount Shoe Warehouse. The store is the size of a football field and carries no less than five thousand different styles of ladies’ shoes in every price range. After trying on fourteen pairs, I discover I need to go up a half-size in order to fit my friend, the bunion. I stuff the toes on the left shoes so they don’t fall off and prance around the store. I finally settle on a pair of daring gold backless numbers that buckle at the ankle. I have no idea how Ginger’s man friend is going to be able to resist me. I can barely keep my hands off myself when I think of how gorgeous I’m going to look on Saturday.

  The rest of the week drones on like the last three days of Lent. Work is work and would have been a complete breeze if I didn’t keep running into that bastard Elliot. He’s everywhere. For a guy who “might be popping in once in a while,” he seems to have become the guy who moved in with no hope of ever leaving. Today he even walked into my office during a phone call with an important client and sat down in the chair across from me. What did he want, you ask? I have no idea. He just kept staring at me and taking notes. I finally got so self-conscious I crawled under my desk for privacy.

  Kevin called me twice today to confirm our date and I’m getting concerned this evening means more to him than it does to me. I vow to keep an open mind though. I know better than anyone that surprises can be waiting around every corner. For a good deal of my adult life, I was convinced it was closed fists that were waiting, but now, who knows.

  I’m in my car and on the way home by 5:30 P.M. I do not say goodbye to anyone, pass Go, or collect two hundred dollars. I’m just gone daddy gone. As I pull up to the house I notice that a package is waiting on my doorstep. I pick it up and see that it is from the Podiatric Wellness Center. It’s the new silicone demi foot wedge that I sent away for. I’m very excited to try it out and decide to wear it on my date. Poor Kevin, some stranger I’ve never met gets the sexy red dress with strappy sandals and he gets stuck with the orthopedic foot pad. Oh well, I promise I’ll do my makeup nicely for him.

  Weight Watchers suggests actually eating a meal before going out to dinner so you aren’t tempted to cheat on your diet with warmed rolls and butter. The problem is I only have seven points left for the whole day which won’t allow me to do this and I’m starving. Plus I have PMS for a small village and nothing within six inches of my mouth is safe. As a matter of fact, I ate two pencils and an eraser this afternoon. So I drink three glasses of water, with a wedge of lemon (trying for an extra calorie or two to sustain me). I change from my work dress into a pair of khaki capris and throw on a red sleeveless sweater. I slide my new gel pad into my red espadrilles and voilà, I’m ready.

  By the time Kevin picks me up and we get seated at the restaurant, I’m so famished I’m ready to eat my napkin. Instead, I point across the room and say, “Look, doesn’t that girl look like Becky Brady from high school?” And as he turns to take a gander, I grab a roll and stuff it into my purse. I try the trick once more and by the time I have secreted away two rolls with pats of butter, I excuse myself to use the ladies room. I sit on the toilet and devour them both in seconds. They are the best thing I’ve ever eaten and I would kill to have the remaining two here in the bathroom with me. Yet once the initial euphoria of my crime wears off, I immediately feel guilty. I must have eaten at least nine points worth of bread and butter and now I don’t have any left for dinner.

  As I walk back to the table I spy Kevin brushing crumbs off the table trying to hide the evidence of what I’m assuming is the same transgression as my own. I sit down and smile at him fondly noticing that the bread basket is empty. “How were your rolls?” I ask.

  Guiltily he answers, “Good, yours?”

  “Truthfully,” I confess, “they would have tasted better if I hadn’t eaten them on the toilet in a public restroom.”

  We giggle as easily together as two naughty children and both order the grilled vegetable plate with no oil (zero points).

  Kevin and I have a lovely dinner and we laugh more than I’ve laughed in years. It’s so nice to talk to someone who knew me when, back in the day when I was a blank slate waiting for the world to make its mark on me. Back when I was young and hopeful and one hundred and fifty pounds. Kevin tells me all about the hopes he had for his life and confesses that sometimes in the middle of the night he’s so full of regrets he feels like his chest is about to explode.

  I reach across the table and hold his hand (as a friend, not date) and ask, “You still love your wife, don’t you?”

  Kevin’s eyes fill with tears and he asks, “Why do I still love her? No one has ever treated me as badly as she has and yet I still dream that one day she’ll wake up and know I’m the one for her.” He continues to bare his soul and adds, “Even in my most secret fantasies I don’t turn her away. I simply open my arms to her and welcome her home.” At that point I get up and scoot into the booth next to him and put my arms around him. I let him cry on my shoulder and I recognize that it’s too bad I’m not interested in him in any romantic way. Kevin Beeman is a man that any woman would be proud to call her own.

  After dinner Kevin takes me home. I tell him I had a lovely time and more than anything, I’m delighted to have a new friend. He laughs, “Not much of date, huh?”

  “Kevin,” I tell him. “I had a better time with you tonight than any man in the last ten years. You are wonderful.”

  He kisses me on the cheek and suggests, “Who knows, maybe one day I’ll finally get over my wife and you and I might have a chanc
e.”

  I assure him one day he will be over his wife and when that time comes he’ll meet the perfect woman for him. He smiles and before I get out of the car reminds me, “Call me tomorrow and tell me how much you lost, okay?”

  I agree as it’s nice to have someone else to be accountable to as well as having a partner in crime.

  Chapter 8

  “One point two pounds,” Marge declares. I am absolutely speechless.

  And when I do find my voice, it’s only to say, “Tell me I did not just suffer through an entire week of self-denial for a one pound weight loss.”

  “One point two,” Marge corrects.

  To which I counter, “Marge, the point two doesn’t mean a hill of beans. I’m starving and I’ve only lost a pound.”

  She asks, “Have you cheated at all this week?”

  I recall the cake and ice cream at Camille’s birthday party. I reflect on the two buttered rolls in the ladies’ room last night. And I say, “Not one bit.”

  “Well honey, that sometimes happens.” Then she suggests, “Maybe your great aunt Flo is coming soon.”

  It takes me a minute to figure out what she is suggesting. I mean I’m conversant in euphemisms like period, the curse, being on the rag. But my great aunt Flo? That’s a new one for me. But Marge is right. My period is only about four days away. A fact of which I am sure, due to my increased agitated state, tender boobs, and craving for all things deep fried, salted, and iced. I’m so deflated every muscle in my face relaxes to the point where my mouth is hanging downward like an upside down crescent roll (buttered, salted, and drizzled with chocolate icing).

  Marge notices the sure fire signs that one of her camp is about to lose it and asks, “Have you been exercising?”

  “No. No time.”

  She encourages me with the pep of a varsity cheerleader, “Honey, there’s always time to exercise! Even if you have to quit cleaning, doing laundry and going to work, there is always time to exercise. Plus,” she confides, “the more you exercise, the more points you get.”

  She has my attention now. You see, apparently Weight Watchers works on the same system I do, the reward system. If I go for a nice long walk, I get two extra points. Marge shares that I don’t have to use those points. Because if I don’t I’ll just lose the weight that much faster. Yeah, yeah, yeah, it’s like I can’t hear her. After all, not use the points? I’m starving here! I consider taking a leave of absence from work and doing nothing but walk all day just so I can double my points to fifty-eight. I briefly fantasize about how I would spend them. I’d include a glazed raspberry donut at breakfast. At lunch I’d have a large order of fries and for dinner, I’d eat three Weight Watchers meals and sprinkle extra cheese on all of them.

  Marge notices the smile creeping onto my face and recognizes the look of a potential cheater. She says, “Remember honey, I’m here every day between eleven and six. You call me if you feel like you’re about to go off the wagon.” That’s when I realize Marge is like my very own AA, NA, GA leader; whether it’s alcohol, narcotics, gambling or food, we are a society out of control.

  I call Kevin from my cell phone in the parking lot and give him the news. He’s thrilled for me, “Mimi, that’s great! Remember it’s a loss, not a gain.”

  “A gain?” I demand. “How could anyone gain weight on this Nazi diet?”

  He confesses, “I gained two point four pounds last week.” And before I could ask how, he tells me. “Cocoa Puffs. It’s like the box leapt into my grocery cart and then forced itself on me. It was a rape by cereal.”

  I believe him. I tell him my car has a tendency to take me to fattening destinations without discussing it with me first.

  Kevin believes me too which is a sure sign this friendship is on the right track. I ask him about exercise and he says he hasn’t tried it yet. We decide to meet in the park for some jumping jacks and a walk. Already I feel a lot better.

  Later as I lay on my back in the tub with my feet as far up the wall as they’ll go, I notice my legs look great upside down. Too bad dinner tonight won’t be in an anti-gravity chamber. I am still very excited about Ginger’s party despite the bad start to my day. In fact I’ve only eaten eight points so I can reward myself with a glass of wine and perhaps some kind of starch, drenched in fat (then deep fried, salted, and drizzled with icing).

  The red dress looks killer on me and that old song from the eighties pops into my head; “Lady in red,” I sing along, “I've never seen you looking so lovely as you do tonight, I've never seen you shine so bright. The lady in red is dancing with me, cheek to cheek.” I remember hearing that the artist, who composed the song, wrote it for his wife. I get all choked up. Imagine someone who’s already married to you thinking those wonderful things. It’s just so romantic. Now I’m seriously about to come undone and realize a good cry might be just the thing. Plus, if you cry just enough without going overboard, your face can take on a very youthful appearance. So I envision that right after he writes the ballad, he gets killed in a grizzly car accident and his wife finds the lyrics after it’s too late to tell him how much she loves him too. Oh God, sobbing. Now, I’m about to swell up past the point of redemption so I start to tell myself some jokes to counter the overpowering grief. A horse walks into a bar and the bartender says, “Why the long face?” I have to do better than that, I’m starting to fill with snot. Quick, where’s the remote? I flip to Comedy Central and in the nick of time I find an episode of South Park. Cartman is saying, “Punch and pie, punch and pie.”

  Whew, crisis averted.

  I strategically apply my makeup and notice that the minute facial swelling caused by my tears has filled in some of the lines on my face, as well as giving my lips a provocative bee stung appearance. Lord, I’m hot. I have to leave right now so that my mystery date can meet me before my features revert to their normal size. I take one final look, spritz my key pulse points with Annick Goutal and I’m out the door.

  Even though Ginger and Jonathan live in Pipsy, their house is on the north side of town which is closest to Hilldale, hence the homes in their neighborhood are a good bit fancier than the ones in mine. They have been married for two years and made the decision to try to have a baby right away. I just assumed Ginger would conceive the minute she set her mind to it as everything else has always come so easily for her, but this has not been the case.

  The doctor says she can’t find anything wrong with either of them so there is no reason why they can’t get pregnant, except for the small fact that they aren’t. While I would dissolve into a puddle of self-pity and bitterness, Ginger and Jonathan have looked at it as an opportunity to give an unwanted child a home. They are on three potential adoption lists and are just waiting for one of them to call.

  Ginger answers the door within seconds of my ring and exclaims, “My word Meems, you look gorgeous!”

  This is just the kind of greeting I need to calm any nerves about meeting the mystery man she has invited. Ginger looks fabulous too. She has on a very simple black cocktail dress. She barely looks like she’s wearing makeup, and the only jewelry she’s sporting is her wedding set. Her silky golden hair is hanging straight down her back and the front is fastened with a plastic barrette. Yet, she’ll easily be the most gorgeous woman at the party, as long as Renée isn’t invited. I forgot to ask.

  As I walk into her house, the gentle flicker of pillars and tapers is the only apparent lighting. I fully appreciate this as my thirty-four-year-old skin can stand the mystery that candlelight lends. My sister announces my arrival to the group and I see she’s invited her friends Jeremy and Liz, Donald and Cassandra, her newly single friend Trinny, and the mystery man, wherever he is. After introductions, Ginger whispers in my ear, Robert isn’t here yet. Cue the doorbell. Ginger’s eyes light up and she goes to answer it.

  I hear his voice before I actually see him and I want to cry. Robert has not arrived, but another mysterious guest has. Ginger leads Elliot Fielding into the living room. He looks abs
olutely stunning in his dark suit and silver tie. In the candle light he looks like the hero in a romance novel. But all of that is just between you and me. I’ll deny it to the death if word ever gets out that I thought those things. Ginger introduces Elliot, much as she did me. There is a substantially greater buzz upon his arrival than mine. By the time she gets to me, she concludes, “Of course you know Mimi.”

  Elliot arches his god-damned eyebrow, tilts his head, and then the bastard takes my hand. Before I have a chance to retract it, he has it clamped in his own and is kissing it. He leans in and whispers, “There’s no pool here so it’s a good thing you let me kiss you.” Then adds, “Otherwise you might fall back and get a concussion.”

  In my head I reply, “You filthy scum sucking British worm.” In reality I whisper back, “Yes, well I’m going to help Ginger in the kitchen lest the temptation to push me overcomes you.” As I walk away I hear the warm timber of his laughter and a delicious heat runs through me, but only just a little.

  I stride towards my sister and pinch the skin on the back of her arm causing her to jump. I interrupt her conversation with Trinny and say, “Ginger, I smell something burning, you better come with me to the kitchen.” Ginger casts Trinny a helpless look and follows in my wake.

  When we arrive in her newly designed gourmet kitchen, complete with fireplace large enough to roast a boar, she asks, “What’s wrong?”