Blessed Are The Meddlers
Today’s guest is one of my favorite authors, Christa Banister author of Around the World in 80 Dates and newly released Blessed Are the Meddlers. Listen in as we learn more about her, her writing career, and what’s next for her.
Have you had a chance to read Around the World in 80 Dates or Blessed Are the Meddlers? If not, why not try before you buy… The first chapters are available, just click on the “Read the rest of this entry” link below.
Around the World in 80 Dates:
Chapter 1: In Serious Need of Therapy
“My darling girl, when are you going to learn that ‘normal’ is not necessarily a virtue? It rather denotes a lack of courage.”—Aunt Frances (Stockard Channing) in Practical Magic, 1998
When Daniel told me he was “in between jobs,” I believed him.
And when Michael told me that I was the only girl for him, I believed him too. Well,until I found out he was also dating Jenn, Allison, and Jordyn. Then there was Taylor, who was more in love with his own reflection and his favorite Diesel jeans than he could ever be with me. And Tyler, who didn’t have much
And even as difficult as that would be to do in front of complete strangers, it would be strangely comforting to know you’re not alone. Now if you knew me well, which you will very soon, you’d understand the serial dating route wasn’t exactly the plan I’d envisioned. And since we’re in the process of becoming such good friends, I’ll go the full disclosure route and tell you that I once devised what I thought was a pretty amazing future for myself. Unlike the majority of my Christian college friends, I decided I could forgo the husband for the first couple of years after graduation. Instead, I’d date casually, concentrate on my career, get more involved in church and pay off that pesky student loan. And since I was being so responsible, maybe I’d save up for a down payment on a renovated downtown loft. Andmaybe the latest Prada bag. Or a trendy Fendi clutch, depending on my mood.
Of course, after all that was accomplished, and I’d traveled to some of Europe’s best sights, I’d consider settling down and getting married. Now of course, there’s nothing wrong with having goals. But mine were a bit presumptuous, even if I didn’t believe it at the time.
And like most man-made plans (or in this case, woman-made!), things didn’t exactly go the way I hoped. Quite the opposite, actually. Even if I’d wanted to get married right after graduation, I probably wouldn’t have had time. After all, I barely had time to sleep. See, it took me a little longer than I’d scheduled to land a respectable job in journalism, and I was forced to work three not-so-glamorous ones to make ends meet. So when I wasn’t sporting a hideous green smock while working the late shift at Walgreens or answering phones and copy-editing at an upstart music magazine, I was trolling the temp agency circuit to see if I could pick up a gig or two to supplement my less-than-stellar income.
So as you can probably guess, I didn’t spring for the loft, a designer purse, or a trip to Paris. But somehow, each month, God provided enough funds to pay the rent and stock up on Lean Cuisines, luxuries I learned to appreciate in a hurry. Three years later, even though I’ve managed to pay off the majority of my student loan, drive a responsible, fuel-efficient Toyota Prius instead of the Lexus SUV I really wanted, and proudly own my first condo in the warehouse district of downtown Minneapolis, I can’t seem to break the casual-dating cycle I once thought was perfect. It’s just date after date without any hope of a future. And frankly, I’m beginning to think that prearranged marriages aren’t such a bad idea. Seriously.
My mom even suggested as much when she drove over from Wisconsin (she still lives in the same house that I grew up in) one Friday afternoon recently. “You know, there was a time when relationships weren’t so complicated, Syd,” she’d said as we browsed around the juniors department at Macy’s in search of a birthday gift for my sister, Samantha, who was about to
celebrate her twenty-first birthday. “Before you were born, I could’ve just arranged for you to
marry—oh I don’t know, Jeff Carson, and that would’ve been—”
“What? You mean the Jeff Carson who hated me so much that he threw rocks at me so I’d fall off my bike?”
“Maybe that was his way of showing he cared, ” she’d said with a laugh as she held up a pale pink cardigan. “Think she’d like this?”
“Yeah, I think that color would look really nice on her,” I said. “Too bad I can’t find a man as easy as we can find the right sweater for Samantha.”
“Well, it wouldn’t have to be if you just weren’t so—”
“Weren’t so what, Mom? Picky?”
“To be honest, honey, you are a little picky,” she said. “I mean, it’s important to have standards, but I think yours are a little out of whack sometimes. It’s like you think Prince Charming is the only option.”
“So what sounds good for lunch?” I asked. My mom and I didn’t see each other that often, so an argument didn’t really seem worth the trouble.
OK, before you assume that I’m just another whiny drama queen who likes to complain about men, that’s not my modus operandi. But have you ever noticed how men are truly puzzling creatures? Just when you think you almost have them figured out, they sprout a new anomaly you never knew existed.
Take my most recent boyfriend Daniel, for example.
Everything started off perfectly. OK, maybe not perfectly, but work with me here. I was visiting a friend in Chicago right before Christmas when I met him. I desperately needed a break
from the excess of deadlines I had at Get Away, the monthly travel magazine I’ve worked at since I officially turned in my smock at Walgreens. So I decided to do just that—get away—and
Chicago is always a great escape. Even if it’s just for the shopping on Michigan Avenue, a casual lunch in Greek Town, the unbelievable deep-dish pizza at Gino’s East, or a Cubs game at
Wrigley Field, you can always count on having a good time in Chi-town.
And my good friend, Drew (he’s a writer too), insisted on nothing less whenever I was in town. With him, it’s go, go, go. After we hit about fifteen thrift shops (his favorite places to pick
up odd eighties memorabilia that I still can’t figure out why he collects) in the course of five hours, I was exhausted. My feet hurt, and I really needed some Starbucks. And after I sighed for
probably the fifteenth time in fifteen minutes, Drew decided we’d had enough thrift shop therapy,and we made our way back to his house.
“There’s someone you have to meet,” Drew said as he put away the Bananarama,Bangles, and Pat Benatar records (yes, records) he’d bought. “His name is Daniel. I met him at this battle of the bands thing I was judging the other night for the Trib, and I think you’ll have lots to talk about. He plays guitar. You know, trying to do the band thing.”
That should’ve been my first clue that things weren’t going to work out. Even though there’s something unbelievably attractive about a man who plays guitar and sings (and I have plenty of experience with that), there’s usually a whole slew of problems and psychoses that go right along with it. And most times the guy’s desire to land that elusive record deal interfered
with all reason and responsibility. That description fit Daniel perfectly, although I didn’t realize it at the time.
I ended up meeting Daniel later that evening just as Drew promised, and we did have a lot to talk about. We chatted about movies we liked. Music. Our faith, and how we arrived at believing what we did. It was all pretty surface-level conversation, but there wasn’t a lull. And before I’d had a chance to analyze things too much, he asked me to dinner. As I debated whether or not to go, I glanced over at Drew who had the biggest grin on his face. Clearly, his mission was accomplished.
The next night, Daniel and I headed downtown to his favorite Italian bistro. After a basket of bread drowning in olive oil and asiago cheese, a bowl of pasta, and two forks for tiramisu, things were going fine. Nicely, even. I could tell that Daniel enjoyed himself, too, as he asked a lot of questions and listened intently whenever I spoke.
Basically, we chatted about nearly every subject two people could talk about. He has a huge, loud Italian family, while mine’s relatively small, since my dad passed away when I was a freshman in high school,leaving just my mom, my sister, and me. He likes to read historical fiction, I prefer the classics,chick-lit, and my guiltiest of all guilty pleasures: US Weekly magazine. Shhh, don’t tell anyone but I’ve always been fascinated by how they make the biggest deal about the most trivial matters,like where Paris Hilton went clubbing and got in a fight with her “rival” Lindsay Lohan (but wait—are they friends this week?) or how Renee Zellweger is “just like us” because she doesn’t wear makeup when she takes out her trash. It’s fluffy reading, for sure, but I’ve bought one almost every week for years—for its sheer entertainment value.
But what really seemed to be on Daniel’s mind more than reading was his band, Mission Space, and his plans for making it big commercially while maintaining his indie artist credibility.
Thank goodness I’ve worked as a music critic, otherwise the debate on whether to get signed or stay a little more underground would have seemed a little esoteric.
“Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t mind having a few mil in the bank and touring with someone like U2,” Daniel said. “But I have to stick to my principles. That’s why I’m not sure if a
record label is right for Mission Space. They’d want to make us a Top Forty pop act, and I hate writing pop hooks with a passion.”
“What’s wrong with a good pop song?” I asked. “They make people happy.”
“Well, that’s the trouble,” he said. “I’m not happy enough myself to make other people happy.”
This, too, might have been a clue that Daniel wasn’t exactly relationship-ready—if I’d been paying better attention to what he saying and less to his quirky sense of humor and cute smile.
As we left the restaurant a couple of hours later, it couldn’t have been more beautiful outside. There was a light snow falling and the twinkle of Christmas lights in the distance.Couples walked by arm in arm as they glanced in the decorated store windows. And as I watched them hug, laugh, and hold hands, I felt that familiar pang of how much I wanted a love to call my own, especially during a time of year when you’re very aware of your singleness. I longed to share this incredible Chicago moment with someone, and Daniel just happened to be there. As we made our way to Starbucks for gingerbread lattes to warm us up, he seemed to have read my mind and grabbed my hand.
After a couple more hours of sipping coffee and telling stories, Daniel drove me back to Drew’s place. As he turned off the key, I got the nervous, slightly nauseous feeling in the pit of
my stomach that I always get as a date comes to a close. Just for the record, I’ve never particularly enjoyed the end of a date (unless the night was truly rotten, and I’m finally free of
my suffering). You’re never quite sure of what will happen or how you’ll say good-bye. And for me, a slight control freak, the unknown is a scary, scary thing.
In fact, as Daniel thanked me for a fun evening, I was having a flashback. Last summer I’d gone on a blind date, and after a relatively fun day of hanging out in parks and coffee shops,
my date leaned in to say good-bye. While I’m still not sure why, I got so nervous (and not the good kind of nervous, just to clarify) that I said, “It was really nice to meet you, take care”—and I opened the car door at record speed and bolted to the front door faster than I’d make my way through a mall to a shoe sale. In fact, it was such an awful good-bye that Samantha still teases me about it. “It’s like Hugh Grant’s ‘surreal but nice’ comment to Julia Roberts in Notting Hill,” she said at the time. “I can’t believe you told him to ‘take care.’ Who says ‘take care’ anymore? You’re never going to hear from him again.” And she was right: I didn’t. But I was actually sort of relieved, because when it came right down to it, I hadn’t really felt any sparks. And how does one recover from a scenario like that anyway? It wasn’t one of my more shining dating moments,
to say the least.
Anyway, I didn’t tell Daniel that it was nice to meet him. Or to take care. In fact, before I could say anything at all, he pushed my hair away from my face and kissed me. And so began our
relationship . . . just like that.
Blessed Are the Meddlers:
Chapter 1: Paging Mr. Knightley
It’s like that book I read in the 9th grade that said “’tis a far
better thing doing stuff for other people.”
— Cher Horowitz (Alicia Silverstone) in Clueless, 1995
People tell me I’m a modern-day Emma.
Of course, I’ve never worn a corset (thank goodness) or particularly cared for taking tea with those cute little cucumber
sandwiches. I’m actually more like the Emma that Alicia
Silverstone played in Clueless: a relatively well-dressed, modern
girl with a sunny disposition and a weakness for wanting to help
make people happy — especially in love.
Now that I am happily hitched, I take it as my solemn duty
to make sure all my girlfriends are paired up too. After all, when I was hopelessly single, there were times when I could’ve used a major relationship intervention. So that’s where I come in. I’m like eHarmony without the pesky questionnaire and quarterly payments. Or that persistent aunt who’s always trying to fix you up with, oh, her tennis instructor. And unlike either of the aforementioned, I offer the personal insight of a trusted friend.
Who can argue with that?
My most recent adventures in matchmaking started a couple
of months after I married the love of my life, Gavin, and officially became Mrs. Sydney Williams (née Alexander). I was sipping strawberry shortcake smoothies with my friend Jane after our weekly Pilates class. New to the Twin Cities after accepting a job as an on-air reporter at KARE-11, Jane and I had bonded
immediately. Not only do we both work in journalism (I’m a
full-time freelance writer and aspiring novelist), but we also
attend the same church and share a mutual dislike for Pilates,
despite its obvious benefits.
On the surface, Jane is one of those enviable women who
seems to have everything going for her. She has flawless skin that glows without a single drop of Clinique, and her silky blonde hair is cut in an effortlessly chic, Victoria Beckham (aka Posh Spice) bob. Her workout clothes are even impeccably selected, black-and-white Juicy Couture sweats with robin’s egg blue accents that bring out the unusual color of her eyes. Despite her exquisite taste in, well, just about everything, Jane hasn’t been as lucky in love. And with my past experience of having gone on every bad date imaginable before meeting Gavin — unfortunate stories to which Jane could relate all too well — I desperately wanted to help. So after her initial uneasiness about yet another blind date, I set her up with Weston, the lone single guy in my hubby’s touring band.
From what I could tell, Weston seemed normal enough.Sure, he only owned three T-shirts that he wore in a predictable
rotation (the Police reunion tour shirt always came first, then
his vintage Led Zeppelin, followed by a fading, slightly torn
Foo Fighters tank top circa 1997). Another red flag was the
winsome flakiness that often goes hand in hand with his choice
of occupation. But what Weston did have going for him was
a great deal of charm, a killer smile, and enviable chops as
a drummer. In fact, Gavin says he’s one of the best that he’s
ever worked with — and trust me, Gavin is particular about
his drummers, very particular. Unfortunately Weston wasn’t
nearly as adept at keeping time with his own life. He was always
running at least twenty minutes late. But as far as truly heinous
flaws go (i.e., the crucial deal breakers that Jane and I agreed
upon, including long stretches of unemployment, bad manners,
extreme commitment phobia, issues with cleanliness, severe
Mommy attachment, or a surplus of chest hair), Weston was in
the clear. Or so we thought.
“At first everything was going reasonably well,” Jane said as
we settled in at Jamba Juice the morning after her disastrous
date. “He was twenty minutes late and wearing the Led Zeppelin
T-shirt just like you predicted, but I planned for that. What I
didn’t plan for was when he asked if I’d like to see his feet. He
kept insisting they were really, really cute.”
“What? He wanted to show you his feet?” I asked, feeling
slightly nauseated. Feet aren’t exactly my favorite body
feature — especially guys’ feet, which tend to be far more
unkempt. In my opinion, a good pedicure could benefit anyone,
especially a nonmetrosexual male.
“We were eating guac and chips. I nearly lost my appetite,”
Jane said. “I said no at least three times, and he took off his socks and shoes anyway — right there in the restaurant! Apparently he’s rather proud of his hairy hobbit feet.”
“Ewww,” I said. “That’s disgusting.”
“You’re telling me,” Jane said with the dramatic tone she
typically uses in her news clips. “It only went downhill from
there. He started talking about his pets.”
“Really?” I asked curiously. “But I thought you loved
animals.”
“Well, I do,” Jane began. “But apparently not the way Weston
does. He has five dogs and three cats, and they all sleep in the
same bed as him.”
“Gross!” I said, wondering how in the world Gavin hadn’t
picked up on Weston’s peculiar lifestyle. I mean, it’s great that
Weston is responsible enough to take care of eight pets and play
the occasional out-of-town show. But he’s definitely headed
toward wacko zookeeper territory, not exactly an aphrodisiac.
“Yeah, and he told me precisely where each animal sleeps.
Boo Boo, his calico cat, sleeps right by his head just like a
human. His golden retriever, Pesto, lies next to Rosemary, his
cocker spaniel, at the foot of his bed. And Nacho — ”
“Nacho?” I asked quizzically.
“Yeah, Nacho, is another one of his dogs,” she said matter of-
factly. “Bottom line: I can’t deal with that many pets.”
“So did the night get any better?” I asked sympathetically. I
mean, how much worse could it get?
“A little. But only because I told him I needed to head home
and feed my fish,” Jane added with her trademark cackle. For the
record: Jane’s laugh is an interesting cross between Chandler’s
ex, Janice, from Friends and Cameron Diaz’s California girl
giggle that can be heard in any number of her movies. It’s loud
and distinct, but somehow Jane manages to make it endearing.
“Oooooh, that’s cold!” I replied. “Guess you won’t be seeing
him again.”
“Well, he still asked for my number,” Jane said. “Can you
believe that? He didn’t sense that things weren’t going well.”
“That’s unfortunate.” I sighed. “Well, at least we can cross
Weston off your list of potential boyfriends.”
“Yeah.” She sighed back. “Who else can you set me up with,
Syd?”
And that’s the funny thing about matchmaking. No matter how
terrible a job I’ve done in the past, my friends (and even a few of my clients) just keep coming back for more. It’s practically my second job, even though my success rate is highly suspect, probably in the neighborhood of, oh, one for forty. It’s a good thing I’m not matchmaking on commission or I’d be poor — really poor.
Just when I thought I’d be taking an extended break from
setting up my girlfriends with their most recent Mr. Wrong,
one of them would quickly remind me of my greatest success as
Cupid: the day I introduced my friend Rain to Stinky Nate, who
is now her husband.
At first blush, it probably seems a little rude to call someone,
let alone a friend, Stinky Nate. But Nate, a barista at my favorite downtown Minneapolis coffee shop, Moose & Sadie’s, is stinky and couldn’t care less. Much like Matthew McConaughey, he
prefers the au naturel approach to personal hygiene. Basically,
Nate’s the guy who’d make any environmental activist’s attempts
to go green seem paltry in comparison. Nate showers only on
special occasions (thank goodness he did on his wedding day, one
of his few nonstinky moments) and doesn’t wear cologne — or
even deodorant for that matter. Inspired by the way cats, his
calico in particular, clean up by licking themselves, he’s been in constant pursuit of a more feline-like way to keep himself fresh.
He hasn’t succeeded, though, which makes him smell less than
desirable. Especially in the sweat-soaked summer months, which
were rapidly approaching.
But I knew Rain, a strict vegetarian who sews her own smock
tops and only wears jewelry woven from hemp, would find someone
like Stinky Nate simply irresistible. Of course, Rain maintained
she wasn’t looking for love. Whenever I’d suggest a setup, she’d
remind me that she was a feminist who was more than happy to
spend the majority of her free time in the company of her two
favorite musicians, Billy Joel and Helen “I Am Woman” Reddy.
She needed a man like a fish needs a bicycle, she said.
So I did it the old-fashioned way: I slyly introduced them
when Rain and I met at Moose & Sadie’s for breakfast before
church one Sunday morning.
I’m pretty sure it was love at first sight, even though I’m not
naturally inclined to believe in that sort of thing. Nonetheless,
Rain and Nate totally hit it off and went out two days later (so
much for swearing off men, huh?). And from the first wheat germ
smoothie, their chemistry was palpable. Nate proposed a couple
of years later (with an engagement ring made from hemp, natch),
even though Rain had vowed she’d never marry.
Now that the stinky/hippie couple is married — and happily
so — I’ll admit that I can’t help but feel pleased whenever I see
them together. Same goes for my best friend, Kristin, and her
current beau, Justin. Even though I went out with Justin first (and trust me, it’s far less complicated in hindsight than it sounds), I encouraged Kristin to be patient with Justin when he was having trouble making up his mind early on, and it’s paid off big-time. They’re not only sublimely happy, but they’re talking about getting engaged soon. Thinking about Kristin getting engaged makes me think of how much I miss her. Ever since she accepted a teaching job in Duluth, which is a little more than two hours away, I hardly ever see her, save for the occasional weekend visit.
Despite my successes and the ever-growing number of singles
in my social circle, it doesn’t necessarily mean I’m destined for the soul mate–finding business, no matter how many of my girlfriends try to convince me that it’s my gift. But in the name of love, I’ll always give it my best shot.
admin | Dulche de Leche (Fiction), Today with Takiela Podcast | 08 28th, 2008 |
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Thanks so much again for doing this…