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

  The Reinvention of Mimi Finnegan

  Whitney Dineen

  This is a work of fiction. All incidents, dialogue and characters are a products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.

  Copyright © 2015 Whitney Dineen

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or be transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the author.

  Published in the United States by Kissing Frog Publications an imprint of Thirty-Three Partners Publishing.

  Library of Congress Cataloguing In-Publication Data.

  Dineen, Whitney

  The Reinvention of Mimi Finnegan: a novel/ Whitney Dineen

  ISBN-13: 978-1511856737

  ISBN-10: 1511856734

  First Edition

  Raves for Mimi Finnegan

  “The humour of this novel is its absolute charm. Captivating the reader from the start, the first person approach is spot on. The author, Whitney Dineen, must have a brilliant sense of humour herself which shines forth in her writing. I love the way even a visit to a burger bar can engender such hilarity. A really great read that I didn’t want to put down. It make me chuckle throughout, even in the sad parts. I shall certainly seek out other work by this author. Watch out Bridget Jones, Mimi Finnegan is on your tail!”

  -Reader’s Favorite

  “Mimi Finnegan is my new hero! A laugh out loud read that I could not put down.”

  -Bestselling Author, Becky Monson

  “A romantic comedy with a lively, funny cast and loveable main character.”

  -Kirkus Review

  “Getting her swan on with irreverent humor, a fab makeover, and the attentions of not one, but two, dishy dreamboats, Mimi Finnegan is a heroine you'll love spending time with. I laughed my way through this entire book!”

  -Author of Twin Piques, Tracie Banister

  “This book made me laugh, cry and want more! Mimi is every woman. She is approachable, loveable and imperfectly perfect. I cannot wait to read the sequel!

  -Bookworm

  ALSO BY WHITNEY DINEEN

  She Sins at Midnight

  Mimi Plus Two

  Middle Reader Books:

  Wilhelmina and the Willamette Wig Factory

  Acknowledgments

  I am full of gratitude for the many people who made this book possible. First and foremost I would like to thank Melissa Amster of Chick Lit Central for being such a shining star in my author world. Melissa is one of those people who does everything she can to facilitate and share her love of the written word. Lady, you rock!

  Tracie Banister, soul sister and fellow author, wow, wow, wow! Where do I start? Enormous thanks for going so far above and beyond for Mimi!

  Props to everyone at Chick Lit Chat and Chick Lit Goddesses. You are generous and devoted groups and have saved my chili time and again. More importantly, you make me laugh and that is a gift beyond compare.

  I am particularly grateful to my fellow authors Susie Schnall, Becky Monson, Rich Amooi, Engy Neville, Carol Maloney Scott, Maggie LePage, Celia Kennedy, Geralyn Corcillo and Meredith Schorr. Thank you for your cheers, advice and for not laughing at me when I ask the most inane questions. You are my backbone.

  Stephanie Evanovich, cheers to you for being the first NYT Bestselling author to read my first novel, She Sins at Midnight, and giving me the encouragement I needed to know I could do this writing thing.

  To my darling literary attorney, dear friend and Big Daddy, Scott Schwimer, I adore you!

  I would like to thank actor, John Schneider, for sharing with me that no one likes a bone but a dog. I have remembered that all these years and I thank you for that morning on The Home and Family Show those many years ago.

  Special appreciation to all of my Weight Watchers leaders over the years, you truly are an inspiration and you’re all Marge to me.

  To my husband and love of my life Jimmy, you are my rock, my world and the best Barbie chicken wrangler in town!

  Much love to my mother, Libby Bohlen, who continues to laugh at my words, even as she reads them for the forty-seventh time and to my father, Reiner Bohlen, for his endless belief in me.

  To Kathy Leigh Hancock, up in heaven, life is a gift and everyone who had the pleasure to call you “friend,” knows that too.

  And last, but certainly not least, thank you to every last person who reads my books. Every email and review you take time to construct means the world to me. I couldn’t do what I love without you!

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to every woman who has ever felt she wasn’t enough.

  Table of Contents

  Raves for Mimi Finnegan

  Acknowledgments

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  About the Author

  Sample: Mimi Plus Two

  Chapter 1

  “A BUNION?” I shriek.

  “It would appear so,” answers Dr. Foster, the podiatrist referred by my HMO.

  “Aren’t bunions something that old people get?”

  “Yes,” he replies. “That’s normally the case, but not always. Bunions grow after years of walking incorrectly, or in some instances, not wearing the proper shoes.”

  Still perplexed, I ask, “What am I doing with one then? I’m only thirty-four.”

  He says that by the atypical location of my bunion, he can deduce that I have the tendency to walk on the outsides of my feet. He explains that while some people walk on the insides of their feet, giving them a knock-kneed appearance, others, like myself, rotate their feet outward; causing a waddle, if you will. I have a look of horror on my face when he says the word “waddle.” I have never been accused of such a disgusting thing in my life. But before I can form a coherent response, he continues, “The extra…weight (and I’m sure he pauses to emphasize the word) that the outside of the foot is forced to endure by walking that way eventually causes it to grow an extra padding to help support the …load.” Am I wrong or does he pause again when he says that word?

  Playing dumb, I ask, “And I’m getting one so young, why?”

  Clearing his throat, Dr. Foster answers, “Well, a lot of it has to do with genetics and the structure of your foot.” Then adds, “And a lot of it has to do with the extra weight (pause and meaningful look) you’re placing on it.”

  I am so aghast by this whole conversation that I finally confess, “I hav
e just lost forty pounds.” Which is a total lie by the way. In actuality I have just gained two. But I simply can’t bear the humiliation of him calling me fat, or what I perceive as him calling me fat.

  The doctor smiles and declares my previous poundage did not help the inflammation at all and announces it may have contributed to my bunion. He checks his chart and declares, “I see you’re a hundred and seventy pounds. At one fifty, you should be feeling a lot better.”

  “But I’m 5’11,” I explain.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m big boned!”

  He looks at me closely and says, “Actually, you’re not.” Picking up my wrist, he concludes, “I would say medium, which means one hundred and fifty pounds would be ideal.” Of course the photo of the emaciated woman on his desk should have tipped me off as to what this guy considers ideal. She is wearing a swimsuit with no boobs or butt to fill it out and painfully sharp collar bones. She bears a striking resemblance to an Auschwitz survivor.

  All I can think is that I haven’t been one-hundred-and fifty-pounds since high school. There is simply no way I can lose twenty pounds. I want to tell him he has no idea how much I deprive myself to weigh one seventy. In order to actually lose weight, I’d only be able to ingest rice cakes and Metamucil. But I don’t say this because he’d think I’m weak and unmotivated and he’d be right, too. Plus, I just bragged that I lost a record forty pounds, so he already assumes I am capable of losing weight, which of course would be the truth if it weren’t such an out-and-out lie.

  The doctor writes a prescription for a special shoe insert that will help tip my foot into the correct walking position and then leaves, giving me privacy to cover my naked, misshapen appendage. As I put my sock back on I decide I am not going to go on a diet. I’m happy or happyish with the way I look and that’s all there is to it. When I leave the room, Dr. Foster tells me to come back in two months so he can recheck my bunion. In my head I respond, “Yeah right, buddy. Take a good look, this is the last time you’re ever going to see me or my growth.” I plan on wearing my shoe insert and never again speaking of my hideous deformity.

  The true cruelty of this whole bunion fiasco is that I am the one in my family with pretty feet. I have three sisters and we are all a year apart. Tell me that doesn’t make for a crazy upbringing. At any rate, the year we were all in high school at the same time, my sisters and I were sitting on my bed having a nice familial chat, which was a rare occurrence as I’m sure you know girls that age are abominable as a whole. But put them under the same roof fighting over bathroom time, make-up and let’s not forget the all-important telephone. It was an ungodly ordeal to say the least.

  My sisters, to my undying disgust, are all gorgeous and talented. Renée, the oldest one of the group is the unparalleled beauty of the family. Lest you think I’m exaggerating and she’s not really all that and a bag of chips, let me ask if the name Renée Finnegan means anything to you. Yes, that’s right, “The” Renée Finnegan, the gorgeous Midwestern girl that won the coveted Cover Girl contract when she was only seventeen, fresh out of high school. Try surviving two whole years at Pipsy High with people asking, “You’re Renée’s sister? Really?” The tone of incredulity was more than I could bear.

  Next is Ginger. She’s the brain. But please, before you picture an unfortunate looking nerd with braces and braids, I should tell you that she is only marginally less gorgeous than Renée. She was also the recipient of a Rhodes scholarship, which funded her degree in the History of Renaissance Art, which she acquired at Oxford. Yes, Oxford, not the shoes, not the cloth, but the actual university in England.

  The youngest of our quartet is Muffy, born Margaret Fay, but abbreviated to Muffy when at the tender age of two she couldn’t pronounce Margaret Fay and began referring to herself as one might a forty-two-year old socialite. Muffy is the jock. She plays tennis and even enjoyed a run on the pro-circuit before a knee injury forced her to retire. She did however play Wimbledon three years in a row, and while never actually winning, the experience allows her to start sentences with, “Yes, well when I played Wimbledon…” And make pronouncements like, “There’s nothing like the courts at Wimbledon in the fall.” Muffy is now the tennis pro at The Langley Country Club. Her husband Tom is the men’s tennis pro, insuring they are the tannest, most fit couple on the entire planet. Their perfection is enough to make you barf.

  I am the third child in my family, christened Miriam May Finnegan which against my express consent got shortened to Mimi. For years I demanded, “It’s Miriam, call me Miriam!” No one listened, as is the way in my family.

  While sitting on my white quilted bedspread from JCPenneys, my sisters, in a moment of domestic harmony, decided we were all quite extraordinary. Renée was deemed the beautiful one, Ginger, the smart one, and Muffy, the athletic one. With those proclamations made, they appeared to be ready to switch topics when I demanded to know, “What am I?”

  It’s not that my sisters didn’t love me. I don’t think they thought I was troll-like or stupid, it’s just compared to them, I didn’t have any quality that outshone any one of theirs. So after much thoughtful consideration and examination, like a prized heifer at the state fair Renée announced, “You have the prettiest feet.” Ginger and Muffy readily agreed.

  Listen, I know you’re thinking “prettiest feet” isn’t something I should brag about. But in my family, I would have been thrilled to have the prettiest anything, and I am. They could have just as easily said I had the most blackheads, or the worst split ends. But they didn’t, they awarded me prettiest feet and I was proud of it. Until now. Now I have a bunion.

  As I sit in front of my car in front of the Chesterton Medical Center, I become undone by the horror of having lost my identity in my family. “Who will I be now?” I wonder. Oh wait, I know, I’ll be the spinster, or the one without naturally blonde hair, my true color hovering somewhere between bacon grease and baby poop. Hey wait, I know, I’ll be the one who needs to lose twenty pounds!

  I turn on the ignition in my Honda and hop on the freeway heading for the Mercer Street exit. Yet somehow, I miss my turnoff and I’ve hit Randolph before I know it. With a will of its own, my car takes the exit and drives itself to the Burger City a half mile down the road. I demand, “What did you do that for? This is no way to lose twenty pounds.” Not that I had agreed to do any such thing. But, I wasn’t looking to gain weight either.

  Typically, my car doesn’t answer back, a fact for which I am eternally grateful. It simply makes its wishes known by transporting me to destinations of its choosing; Burger City, The Yummy Freeze, Dairy Queen, Pizza Hut. I’ve actually thought about trading it in, in hopes of upgrading to a car that likes to go to the gym and health food stores. But, no, this is my car and as a faithful person by nature, I realize I should do what it’s telling me.

  As the window automatically unrolls and the car accelerates to the take-out speaker, I hear the disembodied voice of a teenager say, “Welcome to Burger City. What can I get you today?”

  Someone, who is surely not me answers, “I’d like a double cheeseburger with grilled onions, two orders of fries and a root beer, large.”

  He asks, “Will that be all?”

  Still not sure who’s doing the answering, I hear someone sounding remarkably like me say, “I’d like an extra bun too.”

  “What do you mean an extra bun?” He squeaks. “You mean with no burger on it or anything?”

  “That’s right.” He informs me that he’ll have to charge me for a whole other burger even though I just want the bun. I tell him that’s no problem and agree to pay $1.75 for it. I’m not sure what causes me to order the extra bread but I think it boils down to my need for carbohydrates. I have either been on The South Beach Diet or Atkins for the better part of two years and I’ve become desperate for empty calorie, high glycemic index white bread.

  You may be wondering how I could have been high protein dieting for two years and still need to lose twenty pounds. The truth is
that I cheat, a lot. For two weeks I jump start the diet with the serious deprivation they encourage and then by week three when you’re allowed to start slowly adding carbs back into your life, I become the wildebeest of cheaters. They suggest you start with an apple or a quarter of a baked sweet potato. I start with an apple pie and three orders of French fries. I have been losing and gaining the same thirteen pounds for the last twenty-four months.

  As soon as my food arrives, I pull over on a side street and inhale the heavenly aroma of danger. The fries call to me, the double cheeseburger begs to be devoured in two bites, but the bun screams loudest, “I have no redeeming nutritional value at all!” So I start with it. And it’s pure pleasure. Soft and white, clean and bright… it looks at me and sings, “You look happy to meet me.” But wait, this isn’t Edelweiss, this is a hamburger bun.

  After the bun I eat a bag of fries, then the burger, then the other bag of fries, all the while slurping down my non-diet root beer. My tummy is cheering me on, “You go girl! That’s right, keep it coming…mmm hmm…faster…more.” From the floor boards I hear a small squeak, “Stop, you’re killing me!” It’s my bunion. I decide its voice isn’t nearly as powerful as my stomach’s. While I’m masticating away I start to think about the word bunion. It’s kind of like bun and onion. B-U-N-I-O-N. That’s when I notice I’ve just eaten a bun and a burger with onion. I start to feel nauseous. If you squish the words together, I’ve just eaten a bunion. Oh, no. I think that this may have possibly put me off Burger City forever.

  I have a long history of going off my food for various and sundry reasons. For instance in high school, Robby Blinken had the worst case of acne I’d ever seen. It was so bad that his whole face looked like an open, inflamed sore. I felt really sorry for him too because he was shy and awkward to begin with. Having bad skin did nothing for his popularity. Then one day, Mike Pinker shouts across algebra to Robby, “Hey pizza face, that’s lots of pepperoni you’ve got!”