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

by Whitney Dineen

  While I’m lying in bed trying to make deals with Stan, Ollie, and Edith Bunker, my doorbell rings. I have no idea who has come a knockin’ at eight a.m. on a Sunday morning but I promise myself to be extra careful lest I encounter any whipped cream pies in the face.

  I have the foresight to ask who it is because even Stan and Ollie wouldn’t let me answer should the reply be, “Ted Bundy, just hoping to borrow your phone ma’am.”

  But it’s not Ted, its Muffy. You might be wondering why I haven’t mentioned Muffy that often and the truth is while I love her very much, the two of us are not the closest in our quartet of sisterhood. I think it has to do with the fact I was always looking for my big sisters’ approval and felt like I was competing with Muffy to get it. When I brought home first prize in the glitter and macaroni art competition, Muffy began jumping hurdles over the couch. When I won third place in the All-Pipsy spelling bee in the eighth grade, Muffy went to state in track. You see what I mean? While my accomplishments were impressive by normal earthling’s standards, they were not such a big deal in the Finnegan family. I used to dream about being adopted out to a family that would appreciate me.

  I open the door to my little sister, not full of concern as I’m certain nothing bad could or would ever happen to her. In fact I’m pretty sure my parents are destined for immortality because I cannot imagine Muffy ever being orphaned. I do however have a shadowy vision of her attending the funeral of her slightly older sister someday, so I am aware I will not be spared the grim reaper’s visit. In this hallucination I am the only one who ages too. I’m about one hundred and eight to everyone else’s thirty.

  So I greet my little sister, “Morning, Muff, come on in.” Muffy walks through the front door and heads straight for my kitchen where she starts to make a pot of coffee. I ask, “What’s up?”

  After several moments, she says, “I need to tell you something.” I’m expecting something like, “My knee is all better and I’m off to Wimbledon.”

  What she says is, “Tom is cheating on me with Victoria Witherspoon from the club.”

  I have no idea what to say, but I mumble something like, “Are you sure? Maybe you’re just imagining it.”

  Tears form in my sister’s eyes and she answers, “I’m sure. I even have the photographs to prove it.” Apparently Muffy hired a private investigator several months ago to put her suspicions to rest. Six months ago Tom was sleeping with Leesia Houghington, three months ago it was Isabelle Rentworth and now, Victoria Witherspoon.

  I don’t know what to say or what to do, so I do the only thing that even vaguely comes to mind. I wrap my sister in a huge embrace and let her cry on my shoulder. Once the initial waterworks subside I ask, “What are you going to do, Muff?”

  She answers, “I’m going to leave his sorry ass, but right now, I need to not see that Mrs. Robinson gigolo for awhile.” What I didn’t know, not being a member of the country club circuit, is that Victoria, Leesia, and Isabelle are all in their late forties, perhaps fifties. They are all married to much older men and apparently Tom is their man whore.

  I ask, “What do Ginger and Renée think? I mean, if they want to pass the hat for a hit, I’m in.”

  Muffy looks at me slightly panicked and answers, “I haven’t told them, yet.”

  “Why?”

  She mumbles, “Because they’ll judge me. They’ll think I did something wrong, or I haven’t handled the situation right, or that I should try marriage counseling.”

  I want to ask if she’s ever met her other sisters because they would never do any such thing. They would rally around her in righteous indignation and champion her cause above all else. What I do ask is, “Then why did you come to me?”

  She answers, “Because you’re the sensitive one, the one with the big heart. I knew you would support me no matter what.”

  Excuse me, what? I’m the one with the big heart? When did this happen? What I say is, “I thought I had the prettiest feet.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, you have a bunion.”

  I declare, “No, no, I mean when we were kids we decided that Renée was the pretty one, Ginger, the brain, you were the jock, and I had the prettiest feet.”

  Muffy looks at me with a furrowed brow and responds, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. You were always the one with heart, you were our rock.”

  I’m feeling faint. I mean, I know my sister is suffering a grave hurt, but I feel like my whole world has been based on wrong assumptions and I need a little more clarification. “Muffy, what are you talking about?”

  She answers, “Hello? Every time something has gone wrong in one of our lives, who was the first person we went to? You. Think back Meems, you were the first one to hear everything, good and bad, because you were the most supportive and giving. You care the most.”

  Okay, foundation seriously rocking here. I thought I was the first one to hear the good news because they all wanted to show me how much more superior they were to me. And I have no recollection of any bad news. My three sisters were perfect.

  Muffy continues, “When Lorenzo died, where did Renée go?”

  “To Mom and Dad’s.”

  “Don’t be stupid, Meems, she came back to Pipsy because you were here. I was in California and Ginger was in England. She could have just as easily come to us, but she went home to you, because you’re the one she needed. You were the one she could count on to help repair her heart.”

  I remember those months when Renée came home like they were yesterday. I also remember I saw her every single day and I spent hours listening to her talk about Lorenzo. I had no idea in this world my oldest sister was honoring me with her grief.

  Muffy continues, “And when Ginger couldn’t get pregnant? She told you after three months. Renée and I just found out when she announced they were signing up with adoption agencies.”

  What I can’t help wondering is how I managed to only retain the memories that made me feel bad about myself. I wonder if it’s true that my sisters may not be as perfect as I had always thought. If I had better health insurance I would seriously consider getting some therapy. But for now, I need to take care of Muffy. I ask her if she wants to stay with me for awhile and she tells me she has her bags in the car. When she goes to get them I promise myself at the ripe age of thirty-four, I am finally going to try to see my family as they really are and not as my insecurities would have me believe them to be.

  Muffy settles her things into my guest room/office before coming downstairs for breakfast. I am making my diet French toast and offer to make some for her as well but she declares she’d rather lick the floor. While searching my fridge, she asks, “What’s with all the diet crap in here?”

  I answer, “Don’t tell anyone, but I’m on Weight Watchers.”

  “What the heck for?”

  “Um hello, because I need to lose weight?”

  Muffy becomes indignant, “You do not. You look great!” Then she really looks at me and adds, “In fact you look gorgeous! I love you as a redhead!”

  I thank her and explain the truth about my bunion. She calls Dr. Foster names like quack and misogynist pig and I feel remarkably better. She says that all I need to do if I want to lose weight is to work out more. I agree to let her train me, but I have no intention of quitting Weight Watchers. I need the structure it offers and God knows I need to keep being reminded what a serving size really looks like.

  Muffy and I make an appointment to work out every evening at six. I ask if she minds if I have a friend join us and she declares, “The more the merrier.” I vow that once I feel like talking to Kevin again, I’m going to invite him to exercise with us. I hope my sister runs his ass ragged too.

  By three I’m feeling better and give Kevin a call. I tell him to be at my house at six and to be prepared to work out. He wants to reminisce about last night but I hang up on him. Although, not before telling him he can’t discuss anything about my personal life tonight. He’s confused as he doesn’t know it won�
�t be just the two of us. But that’s okay, I’m plenty confused too and it’s nice to have company.

  Kevin arrives at five fifty-two looking like a bad stereotype from the eighties. He is wearing a sweat band and wrist bands and his sweatshirt, I swear, looks like it just walked off the Flashdance set. Once I’m done laughing at him, I invite him in and introduce him to Muffy.

  Muffy smiles and says, “Hi, Kevin. I’m glad you could join us.”

  Kevin replies, “Hphrg guhhh duuuh mmmm, ahhhhh.”

  I look at him to make sure that he’s not stroking out on me and ask, “Kevin, what’s wrong with you?”

  He answers, “Flgkkkk shmuuuu guuuuuuh…”

  Muffy looks alarmed and goes to the kitchen to get him a glass of water. As soon as she leaves the room, Kevin demands, “What is she doing here?”

  “Kevin, you moron, that’s my sister. She’s here to help us train.”

  My friend’s pallor takes on a rather grey tint and he confides, “Mimi, remember when I told you I had a crush on you in high school?” I roll my eyes and nod my head simultaneously. He continues, “I lied. I really had a crush on Muffy, a bad crush.”

  I smack him in the arm, “You bastard and here I thought I finally caused someone teenage angst!”

  “Seriously, I think I’m going to throw up. I can’t possibly work out with her.” I ask why and he says, “Because I don’t want her to know I’m fat.”

  “Well first off,” I tell him, “you’re cuddly, not fat. And secondly, she already saw you when you walked through the front door.”

  Kevin throws his hands up, “But I wasn’t running or jiggling then. Please get me out of this!”

  Too late, Muffy’s back and she’s carrying a whistle. She hands Kevin a glass of water and as soon as he takes a sip she declares, “Okay then, let’s take it outside.” And then she blows her whistle for emphasis.

  I tell my sister how thrilled I am she’s going to train us but assure her that if she ever blows a whistle at me again, I’m going to kick her, completely involuntarily, but kick her nonetheless. Kevin doesn’t say anything. He just meekly follows her out the door like a lamb to the slaughter.

  Chapter 15

  I can’t get out of bed to save my life. My body feels like it’s been run through a pasta cutter and then beaten with a rolling pin. I have pain on top of pain on top of agony. Muffy did not start us out slow as she claims. She made us walk two miles at a brisk clip, then we stopped for jumping jacks, sit-ups and toe touches, then we jogged half a mile before walking home (barefoot in the snow carrying boulders on our shoulders).

  Happily LeRon dropped off six new outfits for me last night so I can start my Jessica Rabbit campaign in earnest. I was too tired to really look through everything after Xena the Warrior Princess got done with me. But now, I can hardly wait to see what I’ve got to work with. If only I can drag my sorry carcass across the floor. Once I stand up I let out an involuntary groan of pure distress. There’s no way I’m going to be able to try on clothes. I can’t even lift my feet to walk. I shuffle my way to the bathroom and start the shower, then pop three Advil.

  By the time I get out of the shower, my limbs are feeling a little more normal and I start to think that I may actually be able to go to work. Then I see the clothes I have to choose from and I let out a gasp of delight. My goodness, the boys have outdone themselves! Of course the designs are all Renée’s but those two little worker bees have sewn everything to fit me like a second skin. The outfit I’m immediately drawn to is a cream colored linen skirt. It’s a very slim cut and is mid-calf in length. The truly remarkable feature is the slit up the back that hits mid-thigh. The top that goes with it is a pale pink silk sleeveless sweater with a low scooped front. It’s worn with a small chain linked gold belt. The shoes I bought for Ginger’s dinner party will go perfectly with it, if I can only manage to walk in them.

  Edith Bunker is giving me seven kinds of hell for my footwear choices last week. I just wish there was some way to know if Elliot was going to be in the office or not, because truly I wouldn’t mind schlepping around in loafers for a few days. But I don’t have the luxury of slacking off now, especially after my announcement Saturday night. I have no idea what possessed me to blurt out that I liked him. Fortunately we were interrupted by the tango twins, so if he doesn’t feel the same way, I can always claim that he misunderstood my declaration. You know like, “What I meant to say is, I like you so much…as a brother, author, fellow human being, not as my knight in shining armor. Is that what you thought I meant? Hahahahahahahahahahaa, oh Elliot, that’s soooooo funny!” Don’t worry, I don’t buy it either so let’s hope he’s feeling the same uncontrollable lust that I am.

  Muffy has already left for the country club by the time I come down for breakfast, a fact for which I am eternally grateful. It’s enough she knows I’m on Weight Watchers and have changed my hair color, but she might really start to wonder what’s going on when she sees the radical alteration to my wardrobe. I’m simply not up to explaining myself. My transformation is so profound to me that I’m not even sure how to act. But you know what’s funny? I feel like I’m finally in the right skin. I feel like the librarian who lets her hair down, whips off her glasses, unbuttons her blouse and roars, “Come and get me, tiger!”

  When I walk into the office, Elaine, Bob, and a few others look up from their cubicles and do a quadruple take. I feel powerful. I seem to have added a small hitch to my giddy-up as well. I’m positively channeling Jessica Rabbit with my sashay and it occurs to me to tone it down a bit before Bob sues for sexual harassment.

  Not five minutes after settling into my office, Jonathan pops his head in. “Hey Meems, got a minute?”

  “Sure, come on in.”

  He sits in a chair opposite me, without one comment about my makeover, and says, “We need a liaison with the New York office regarding Elliot’s new book and I wanted to let you know you’re my first choice.”

  I’m flattered by his faith in me as the liaison is responsible for coordinating all shared press duties and would involve my taking a couple trips to the Big Apple in order to arrange the particulars. Ever since Sex and the City came out while I was in college, I have positively loved New York. The truth is I have only been two other times and both occasions were in my childhood. I feel giddy at the prospect of going back as an adult. Jonathan explains that Elliot will be accompanying me as he needs to meet the key people in the Manhattan office. Plus, he declares, our mother ship has scheduled some book signings for him. Their feeling being he should autograph his old novels as a pre-marketing strategy for the new one.

  I feel the uncharacteristic need to swoon come over me. Elliot and I will be traveling together, just him, me, Edith Bunker, Stan and Ollie. Oh crap! Of course my menagerie has to come along and for the first time thoughts of doom start to creep into the picture. I’m going to Carrie Bradshaw’s shoe nirvana and flipping Edith Bunker is going to be yammering at me the whole time to buy some nice orthopedic old lady shoes.

  By one o’clock there is still no sign of Elliot and I want to scream. My whole body feels like a raw, over-sexed nerve ending. If I don’t see him right now, this very second, I’m going to spontaneously combust. I haven’t actually had sex since Linden dumped me and if we’re honest, I didn’t have it for three months before that. If we’re just going to bare our souls here and shoot for complete candor, ask yourself, how good do you think an overbred mama’s boy could possibly be in the sack? Have I made my point? While I’m not some hot to trot floozy, I am human and I do have basic human needs. One of which is to have physical contact with a member of the opposite sex, with Elliot, Elliot, Elliot, Elliot, Elliot, Elliot, Elliot, Elliot, Elliot. I haven’t been so worked up for a boy since Justin Johnson, senior year in high school.

  Just as I’m about to start humping my desk, in walks the man of the hour. He’s wearing dark trousers and a white dress shirt unbuttoned at the neck. He looks gorgeous and sexy and slightly rumpled. Ellio
t does not strike me as the rumpled type and I wonder why he looks that way today. He simply says, “Hello Mimi, how are you today?” The timber of his voice as soft as a caress.

  I’m hornier than hell, you big hottie! What I actually say is, “I’m just fine, Elliot. How are you?”

  He declares, “Fine, fine. I wanted to thank you for the restaurant recommendation Saturday night. Do you go there often?”

  What I think he really wants to know is why I was having dinner there the same night I knew he was going too. As I have only been to La Petite Maison one other time, I answer, “I go all the time, which is why I recommended it.” Then it occurs to me to add, “I’m sorry about Kevin. I’m sure you would have preferred to have a romantic dinner for two.”

  Elliot assures me, “I had a lovely time.”

  Stan and Ollie are up and they’ve had their coffee, so I ask, “And Beatrice? Did she have a nice time?”

  Raising his eyebrow as though amused by my question, Elliot declares, “She very much likes your friend Kevin and is hoping to see him again before she leaves.”

  “Before she leaves? I thought she left today.”

  He replies, “No, it seems that she’s decided to stay on for a few more days.”

  I demand, “Why?!”

  Elliot responds, “She likes Hilldale more than she thought she would.”

  Then I add, “I’m sure she misses you as well.”

  With a shrug of the shoulder he mutters, “Perhaps.”

  Then we just stand there staring at each other with this intense energy darting between us. Neither of us says a word, nor do we take our eyes off of each other. All I can think is that there is no way I am the only one feeling this potent pull. But I refuse to make the first move. After all, he’s the one with the girlfriend and I have already professed my feelings, therefore the ball is in his court.

  Without taking his eyes from mine, he says, “I understand we’re going to be traveling together.”

  I simply moan an affirmative sound to confirm I’ve heard the same thing. Then I manage, “I understand we leave on Friday. Will Beatrice still be in town?”