Blessed Are The Meddlers, Christa Ann Banister

What happens after the girl gets the happy-ever-after ending that everyone had been rooting for? Well you'll get to find out when travel writer and former serial dater Sydney Alexander returns for Blessed Are the Meddlers. Now a modern-day Emma, she'll do anything it takes to ensure her single family members and friends are as crazy in love as she is. But sadly, meddling in people's love lives proves to be far more complicated than even Sydney ever imagined in this humorous tale of love gone awry.

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Excerpt from BLESSED ARE THE MEDDLERS by CHRISTA BANISTER

C h a p t e r 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.”
— C her 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 matterof-
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 felinelike 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.