The ABCs of Dee

by Danielle Bannister

Genres: Contemporary Romance; Romantic Comedy

Synopsis

Would you date 26 men in a year for 50K?

Perpetually single 40-year-old Dee Harper decides to take up her rich bestie, Gail, on her dare: 50K to date 26 men, A-Z, in the course of one year. What could possibly go wrong?

A desperate for cash Dee begins her dating journey with Adam the Arrogant, then merges to Brian the Boring, to several letters that blur together in a whole slew of dating disasters that are burned on her brain like Eli the Energetic and Kevin the Klepto.

Join Dee as she navigates her way through the bottom of the barrel of what the male species has to offer, only to discover the cream of the crop in the most unlikely of places.  

The ABC’s of Dee is filled to the brim with heart and humor about the joys of dating 'later in life,' romance where you least expect it, and the true meaning of friendship and sacrifice. Get ready for laughter, tears, and all the good feels.

Release date: December 15, 2004

Publisher: Bannister Books

Print pages: 356

Content advisory: Adult language

Sample

It’s ten minutes to seven and my underwear has already climbed up my ass more times than people have climbed Everest. I would love to blame Victoria’s Secret for selling me faulty ‘3 for $25.00 panties,’ but let’s be honest, I’m the one trying to cram my 40-year-old fanny into underwear meant for people who don’t eat food. They just looked so good on the stark white, half-butt mannequin that I thought they would totally cover the square footage of my backside. I was grossly mistaken.

As I yank the neon pink cloth from the depths no undies should go (again), I debate whether I should change them or not. On the one hand, wearing these will pretty much assure I’ll be getting some because I don’t intend to wear this torture device all night long for nothing. On the other hand, it is only a first date. Wearing some good old ‘period panties’ would guarantee that there would be no traveling South of the Elastic Band Border and my cheeks would actually be comfortably contained. Decisions, decisions.

That’s it. I’m becoming a nun. Nuns don’t have to deal with this shit. They don’t have to question how much wedgie-control is adequate for a first date. They can just sit in silence with no judgment about who they're dating, why their legs aren't shaved, or why they haven't had sex in two years. I know. I have issues. And a lot of toys.

It's not like I've always been single. I dated a few guys in college; one was serious, but we sort of drifted apart pursuing our dreams. He was a photographer and needed to travel the world. Me? Not so much. I get air sick. Toss in a few more losers post-college (and a long bout with cancer) and you pretty much eat up my viable dating years. What I'm trying to say here is that I'm single not for lack of trying, but for lack of there being any decent, datable male humans left on the planet that would care to look my way at this late stage of my life. I'm trying not to be bitter about that.

My best friends, Gail, and Neil, both have ridiculously and annoyingly good luck at dating. Of course, they are both insanely attractive. Naturally. Some days, I think they only keep me around to show off to the world just how good they look in comparison to the common folk.

In all honesty, there is no logical reason for the three of us to be friends. It's not like we would cross paths on a typical day. Gail comes from Old Money, Neil is a designer and head of the Chicago Gay Mens' Choir, and I work in a stupid office doing stupid data entry. You couldn’t find three people less likely to have things in common, but I guess that’s what college does. For better or worse, you tend to bond with the people you met during that monumental time of figuring out who you are.

With Gail, we were forced together in the same dorm. Going to a State school was her way of rebelling against her parents, who wanted her to go to Yale. She lived right across the hall from my dorm room and was a bit of a needy friend. She was always knocking on my door—probably just so she could hear herself talk— but eventually, I got past her superficial 'hard-as-nails' coating and got to see her squishy, vulnerable center. She only lasted three years before her mother put her foot down and made her finish her last year at Yale under the guilt that not graduating there would throw her father into an early grave. We kept in touch during that year. Online chat rooms were just becoming a thing. God, I'm old.  When she moved back to Chicago after graduation, we became inseparable.

Neil was in a class with both of us: Psychology 101. His constant whispered jokes about Freud and his dick issues made us the unlikely trio we are today. Neil is one of those people you meet in life that you know you were bound to meet. There is a rhythm that the two of us have that makes me believe we were destined to be friends. Maybe part of it is that we're all only children and found, in each other, the siblings we'd always wanted.

I should take some comfort in the fact that Gail is joining me tonight on this date, but I don't. Gail’s not going for moral support, don’t get the wrong idea. She's going because she wants to make sure I follow through on the bet. Ugh, the bet. Why did I agree to it? I’ve recalled that conversation more times than I care to admit the last couple of days.

“Dee,” Gail had said over her third Long Island Iced Tea last week, “I will bet you ten thousand dollars that you can’t date 100 men in a year.” She downed the last of the drink, spilling a little of it down her cleavage and failing to notice.

“Gail, I’m not you,” I reminded her. “There's no way I could date 100 men in a year for any sum of money.  I don’t have your—” I glanced down at her insane expanse of breast area, "assets." I raised my hand to get the bartender's attention.

“True, true,” she said, tapping her bottom lip with her finger.

“I have my degree in writing, not fucking,” I muttered.

Gail laughed. “You majored in the wrong thing, honey.”

“You got that right!” I chuckled. “That degree is useless. I don’t do anything even remotely related to what my degree is in. Then again, neither do half the people I work with.”

“Oh!” Gail shouted, “I have the best idea ever.”

“Somehow, I doubt that.”

The bartender slid another Raspberry Smirnoff my way. I twisted the cap off using the bottom of my shirt and took a swig off the bottle.

“I bet you that you can’t ask out 26 men in a year.” She had the grin of the Cheshire Cat.

“26.” I blinked, unamused. “Why 26?”

Her grin grew as she leaned in, nearly falling off her stool. “One for each letter of the alphabet. Then you could write about it!”

I remember I shook my head at her. My writing years were long over. A college fantasy. She knew that, too. I hated that she felt the need to make that dig, so I countered her bet.

“Make it 50 grand and you have a deal,” I had said, knowing she’d drop the idea. Gail may be loaded, but she's not stupid.

Well, she didn't drop it, and like a fool, I called her bluff. Now, I know I could have told her, no, but there was something about the look of doubt in her eyes when she bet me that made me want to wipe that smug, entitled grin off her face. Of course, winning the cash would be nice too. Fifty grand is chump change for Gail. She's got money coming out her wazoo. Yes, I said her wazoo. She’s the Trustee of her father’s oil company, so yeah, I won’t feel bad taking her money. Hell, I already know what I’ll use it for, but I’ll never tell her. She’d just hand over the money and I do not do handouts. I earn my keep.

Not only did I have to call up this guy Adam that she said I'd be great with, she now has to see her matchmaking in action. I know I should have told her where to stick her double date, but to be honest, I really don't want to do this alone.

So now, here I am, panties in a twist (literally) as I embark on date one with the letter A. I start tugging at my bottom lip, something I do when I am nervous that Gail (and Neil) have been trying to break me of for years. I fidget when I am nervous, and right now I am officially panicking. Grabbing my cell, I hit one of my pre-sets, pacing as the phone rings on the other end.

I prepare what I’m about to say as the line connects.

“Dee, darling,” Neil’s bored voice echoes in my sparse apartment, “if you are calling me to talk you out of this date, you got another thing coming.” I’m sure he didn’t even have to look at my number to know that I would be calling. I’m apparently that predictable.

“Neeeeeeeeeeeeeil,” I whine in the sing-song way that drives him nuts. “What if he’s ugly?”

Neil scoffs. “Then don’t give him my number.”

As if Neil needs help in that department. Neil is tall, dark and bearded, which apparently makes him uber-attractive to the boys. I guess the Lumberjack look is not just a female fantasy. 

“But—”

“Dee, I am hanging up now. Go. Have all the sex, it will do you some good.”  

The sound of him hanging up makes me curse under my breath. I want to toss the phone, but deep down I wonder if he is right. It's been eons since the Dylan ‘incident’. Well, if you want to call walking in on your fiancée in bed with some big-boobed blond an incident. Honestly, it was like every clichéd movie breakup scene I had ever seen. Except this one ended with me practically ripping her fake tits off her plastic body. I may have had to take a few anger management classes after that day. Totally worth it, though. Gail, of course, had predicted that outcome from the start, claiming she could smell the sleaze on Dylan from the start. I thought it was just his Polo cologne. My bad.

Buzzzzz!

The sound of my doorbell shocks me back into the present. Gail’s here. No time to change the undies from 'panty hell' now.

“Come on wedgie, let’s go on a date,” I mutter, as I grab my purse and head downstairs.            

Pushing out of the lobby doors of my building, I find Harold, Gail’s driver, waiting for me with his hand on the door, ready to open it for me—like I’m some sort of celebrity. He shines his perfectly dimpled smile down at me, which makes me blush on command. That man is seriously hot. It's not fair. Guys shouldn't get hotter as they get older. The dude is probably older than I am but could easily date a 20-year-old without batting an eye. I’m pissed she hired him for her weekday driver. I feel like an idiot whenever he's near. I have no idea what I am supposed to say. I mean, what are the rules? Am I allowed to talk to him or is that frowned upon? Do I leave a tip? Do I thank him? Do I look him in the eye? Gah! Gail knows how frazzled I get with him, which, I am convinced, is half the reason she hired him. That, and she’s kind of a sucky driver.

“Evening, Harold,” I risk saying. His eyes shine down at me. God, he is pretty. He's tall, well taller than my 5'6”, with dark hair that if left to grow longer would no doubt curl around his ears, and broad shoulders that every damn book gives their male leads. I now understand why. Yum. He is probably dating some buxom blond named Bambi. Guys like him always are.

I bet he didn't even need to show her his references; I bet he just smiled, and she said: mine. That's how she is. Hell, Harold probably isn’t even his real name. She probably just liked the way it rolled off her tongue. Gail is … interesting in her unintended shallowness. That's probably why she doesn’t have any other friends except me. It’s all an act. All bark, no bite. I know she’s just protecting that rock of a heart inside of her. We all do that to some extent; she just protects it with a tad more claw exposure than the rest of us.

Harold bows down a bit as I approach the car. “Ms. Harper,” he says in his deep, manly voice. The kind of voice that makes your lady bits shake. Yeah, that's Gail’s driver. Bitch, right?

He opens the door for me as I try to climb inside without sticking my butt right in his face. Not easy to do in spanx. The move, of course, gives me an even deeper wedgie. How is that even possible? When Harold closes the door, I begin the removal process.

“I hate everything,” I spit as I try to regain my composure. Gail starts to laugh at me.

“Oh, calm down, you are going to love Adam. You’ll be thanking me one of these days as you walk down the aisle.”

She pulls out her designer purse, no idea who, but it's expensive, and grabs a lipstick and a compact. She glides the rose color over her Botox-padded lips.

“You’ve colored your hair,” I note, as I click my seatbelt. Gone is the blonde from last week and in its place? A Jessica-Rabbit-Red.

She snaps her compact and runs her fingers through her short wavy locks.

“Thought it would match the dress better.”

Looking down, I see that, yes, indeed, the red is a perfect match to her burnt orange sequined and very strapless dress. Suddenly, I am not feeling so good about this date. Or my choice of attire.

“Where are we going, anyway? You never told me to dress up or anything.” I glance down at my very plain looking black halter-style sundress. Even the light purple sweater I threw over it at the last minute does not class me up to her level.

“Relax, Deidre, we’re just going to a little French joint on Canal Street.”

I roll my eyes, twice. Once, for her calling me Deidre and once for the restaurant. My guess is that the place is anything but little.

I tuck a strand of my Jennifer-Aniston-style-hairdo back inside the silver butterfly clip that I thought I’d caged it in with earlier. There is a fake violet gemstone in there that would never pass as the real thing.

“So, who is this guy you set me up with? I need more than ‘his name is Adam, and he is cute as a button.’”

Gail waves her hand at me, as though she is batting away a fly. “I showed you a picture of him.”

“Yeah, wearing sunglasses. I bet he's cross-eyed. He’s not cross-eyed, is he? Or worse. A uni-brow? You’ve set me up with someone who has a uni-brow, haven’t you?”

Gail smirks at me.

“He’s actually one of my drivers I use when I go visit Mother in Oak Brook. Apparently, he was born there so he knows the area well. You know him, right, Harold?” Gail says leaning forward a bit.

Harold. Shit. Kinda forgot he could hear us.

“Yes, Ma'am, Adam does areas outside of the city.” The tone in Harold’s voice suggests there is something not-so-great about this Adam guy, or maybe I am just really wanting to not go through with this date.

Gail looks at me as though his answer solves the problem.

I clear my throat, “Harold, I know you don’t know me very well, but would you consider Adam a good match for me?”

His eyes look back at us from the rear-view mirror. Well, they go to Gail. She nods her ‘permission to speak freely’ smile.

“No.”

That’s it. No elaboration, just a flat, firm no.

Gail crosses her arms. “Oh, what does he know? He’s just the driver.”

“Gail!” I say affronted enough for the both of us. “That was rude.”

Her cheeks flush a bit, but she quickly busies herself with the contents of her purse again.

“For reals, Gail. What’s going on with you lately? It’s not like you to act this high and mighty. Is your mom in town?” Gail’s mother is the quintessential rich bitch and Gail tends to slide into old habits when her mom stops in for a criticism of Gail's life, I mean, visit.

She doesn’t speak for a moment, so I know something big is going on, but she then lifts her head up and sighs.

“No. She’s not in town, thank God. I am being bitchy, aren’t I? I’m sorry,” she huffs.

My eyes dart up front. “I’m not the one you should be apologizing to.”

Gail sighs into her cleavage. She pouts like a child forced to tell her sibling she's sorry for yanking their hair. “Harold, I’m sorry. I’m a bitch.” She pushes a button, and the glass slides up, blocking Harold from our view. Pity.

I cross my arms and frown at her. “That’s not what I meant; you know?”

She sighs again and looks dramatically out of her tinted glass window. “I know. I’m just—Ugh, I feel really cranky lately and it is driving me mad.”

I move my feet out of kicking area before I speak.

“Menopause?”

She shoots an evil glare at me and I cannot stop laughing.

“What? You’re… of an age where that’s not out of the realm of possibilities.”

Instead of the onslaught of snide remarks that I have braced myself for, Gail grows quiet. She does that when she thinks. I watch her as her hands fold absently around her stomach. Almost…cradling it.

Holy Shit!

“Are you pregnant?” I ask louder than I mean to.

“Shh!” she hisses. “I don’t know. Okay? I should have started a few days ago. I am like clockwork, you know that, but it’s also true that I am, older and that this sort of irregularity is common for my age bracket.” Her perfectly painted on face suddenly shows the lines that she so carefully tries to hide from the world.

“Gail—have you—have you taken a test?”

The solemn look she gives me confirms that she hasn't.

“Let’s just go to dinner. I’ll be fine. This is just PMS. Nothing more.”

Her hands tremble as she pushes herself back against the window. I have never seen her act like this. Not in all the years that I’ve known her. She’s always the calm, cool and collected one. Seeing her so scared and unsure makes me feel like the balance of the world has shifted a bit. I don't like it and I'm gonna fix it. Gail isn’t the only one who can be bossy. I lean forward and hit the button to lower the glass.

“Harold,” I say, “can you stop at the nearest CVS or even a White Hen?”

Gail looks at me in utter shock.

“I need to buy some feminine products.” My cheeks blaze with heat as I ‘take one for the team.’ Harold quickly says ‘of course’ and I close the glass again.

“What are you doing?” she asks me.

I pull up the front of my stupid dress before my little ladies fall out then grab her hand. “We’re gonna go buy a pregnancy test, and you are going pee on that stick. I need to know right now if you have the spawn of Prada growing inside you or not.”

Despite her best effort to stay angry, she cracks a smile at me.

“Thank you, Dee.”

I smile back. “If it’s positive, I am so drinking all your wine tonight.”

“Deal,” she says, and her smile gets a little brighter.

For the next few blocks to the store, we hold each other's hands, neither of us saying a word. Until we find out for sure, there isn't much to say.

When Harold pulls into a spot, Gail squeezes my hand.

“We got this,” I say, squeezing hers back. “I’ll even buy it so you don’t have to look like it’s for you, okay? You just go into the restroom. I’ll meet you there when I have it.”

“What did I ever do to get a friend like you, Dee?”

“Hell if I know.” I smile.

Harold opens the door for us, and we get out. Well, Gail gets out, I sort of bumble out. I'm full of grace.

Draping my arm over her shoulder, I lean in and ask, “If you’re prego, that means I don’t have to go through with this stupid bet, right?”

She laughs, “Hell no. If I am, I’ll need something to amuse me for the next 9 months as I get fatter and fatter and more bitter at the world.”

“You can be more bitter than you are now?”

She smiles. “You have no idea.”

I snort in disbelief as we enter the store. Discreetly, she finds her way to the back where I had instructed her the public restrooms would be. I wonder how long it is been since Gail actually pissed in a public toilet.

Once she’s out of sight I look around the store. The glare of fluorescent lighting and bad muzak is enough to make me nauseous. How can someone work with this all day long and not want to stab their own eyes out?

Walking as fast as I can past the rows of cheap perfumes that make me sneeze my damn head off, I find my way to the ‘padded aisle of shame.’ I haven’t had to come down this neck of the woods in years. That’s the one advantage of not having your baby making parts anymore. I remember, though, back when I did have to pick up tampons or liners, pre-cancer. I’d just search for the color of my tampons and grab them as fast as I could and then get out of there, hoping I’d gotten the right thing. Heaven forbid anyone knew I had a period every month. Yeah, I was pretty pathetic.

Since I'm not searching for light blue tampons, however, I have no idea what I am looking for. I’ve never had to take a pregnancy test before. Dylan was snipped, and the other four guys I’ve ever been with were all protected encounters. I can now understand why Gail has put this off so long. I can feel the eyes of every person in the store on me (even the eyes of the people ten aisles over). I look at the back of a test kit to read the instructions.

I'm on the second line of directions when an older lady turns her cart down my aisle and stops next to me to look at some Depends. Guess it could be worse.

“Expecting a little one, are we?” she asks as she drops a pack of the lady diapers into her cart.

“Guess we’ll find out,” I say, waving the package at her.

I can tell that she wants to start a conversation with me about my 'condition', and I have no interest in participating, so I turn away quickly and rush up to the front counter where there is, of course, a guy behind the register. Not a supermodel looking guy, but still, not bad on the eyes. The type of guy I could see myself dating, and here I was about to put a pregnancy test on his counter. How good a friend is Gail, really?

Since no other register is open, I wait in line behind two frat boys with a pack of beer under each arm ahead of me. I hide the test behind my purse as best as I can and pretend to have a sincere interest in the advertisement on a chewing gum display to my right. Ooh, look, this one has no sugar. I frown. No sugar, but three ingredients I can't pronounce. I'll stick with the sugar. I know that's grown from the earth and not cooked up in some chem lab.

I see a slight look of disgust on the cashier dude as he watches the frat boys depart, which makes him instantly more appealing. My eyes dart down to his left hand, as they always do when I see a non-hideous looking, potentially dateable guy. Not claimed. I smile at him. He returns the smile through a golden beard that could use some manicuring. I can’t help but notice his name tag. Brian. I smile wider. His name starts with a B. The fates have spoken. Instinctively, I know my date with Adam is gonna tank, primarily because Gail set us up, and as much as I love her, she has no idea what I like in a guy. Might as well move on.

Taking a deep breath, I bat my eyes. Yup. I am pathetic.

“Looks like those guys are about to have some fun,” I say nodding after the nimrods who just left.

Brian doesn’t show any response. “Never been a fan of alcohol poisoning.”

“Good point.” I fiddle with the box in my hand.

“Can I help you find something?” he asks when I don’t say anything.

Don’t be a chicken. You have to do this 25 more times!

“Actually, there might be. Any chance you’d be free to go out sometime?”

The guy looks at me for a second.

“Wait, are you asking me out?”

I bite my lip and pray that no one can hear us.

“Um, yes?”

He looks down, clearly checking out my breasts before he answers. Nice.

“Cool. Sure, I guess.”

My eyes light up. “Yeah? Great, awesome. Well, here’s my number,” I say digging into my purse and pulling out my business card. I slide it across the not so smooth glass counter. It’s more brown than clear, which is frankly disturbing.

“K,” he says tucking my card in his shirt pocket. “That all?”

Is that all. Is that all I needed? “Oh, I need to get this, too.” I nudge the box toward him, sort of hoping he won't actually notice what it is. Brian’s eyes pop up at me. So much for that.

“Oh, no! It’s not for me. Promise. It’s for a friend. She’s actually in the bathroom now, waiting to pee on it.”

I’m not sure why I think that clarification will help my situation.

“Here, just take this.” I throw some money at him and rush off to the back. “Call me.”

Poor Brian just stands there, holding a limp twenty, thoroughly confused by what just happened. Gail owes me big for this debacle.

By ten past 8 we are officially uber late for dinner, but giddy as school girls. Gail is not pregnant, and I got Brian checked off my list in return. We’ve been laughing so hard about how ridiculous the whole situation is that when Harold opens the door for us at the restaurant, I have almost forgotten why we're here. Ugh. Adam. Gail's date will be tolerable. Charles. He works at her dad's company. He's a wet noodle, but a noodle you know is better than the one you don't.

“I want a vodka martini in my hand before we sit down at that table, got it?” I hiss in her ear.

“But of course, darling.”

The Maître d’ greets Gail like a life-long friend, giving air kisses on both cheeks as only pure snobs know how to perform.

“Garmond, can you see that we get two Vespers before we dine with those vulgar men?” she giggles and flashes her sexy smile at him. Predictably, he does just as she orders, something Gail is quite used to.

“What the hell is a Vesper?” I whisper.

Gail glances down her elegant nose at me.

“Seriously? It is only the best martini you will ever have in your life. Trust me. They are to die for.”

Our drinks arrive on a small tray held by the most uptight waiter I have ever laid eyes on. He has so much gel in his hair to slick back obvious curls, that I can almost make out my reflection in it when he lowers his tray for us in some sort of bow. Gail is oblivious to the waiter and his grandiose gestures; he is, after all, only the vehicle that brought her drink. Slick Rick, as I will forever remember him, leaves us alone. I take a huge swig from the paper-thin glass, feeling the olive brush my tongue. After I swallow, I am assaulted with the strongest martini I have ever had in my life. My throat feels like my flesh is being eaten away.

“Holy shit!” I croak, coughing a bit as my taste buds regain consciousness.

“Told you,” she winks and loops her arm around mine, dragging me to my doom.

Three hours and four Vespers later, Harold is helping me to the car. I am laughing my ass off and barely able to stand up straight.

“Are you okay, Ms. Harper?” I hear him ask in some far away corner of the world.

“She’s fine. She just had to endure the world’s most boring date known to mankind. Remind me that I need to fire Adam. I never realized how ridiculously droll he was. My date was no better. Note to self, just because they have hair, doesn’t mean they are instantly fuckable. Take us back to my place. I don’t want her home alone this drunk. Knowing Dee, she’d end up dead in a puddle of her own vomit.”

“Yes, Ma’am.” I hear his sexy voice say.

A door shuts near my head and I smell Gail’s perfume waft over me before I feel her weight shake the seat around me. It kind of makes me want to hurl. The fun stage of drunk is starting to wear off, now comes the reason I don’t normally drink this much.

“Ugh, why aren’t you shitfaced, too?” I moan. I try to sit up but it only makes my stomach swirl. “That was the most horrendous date I have ever been on.”

“I have had worse,” Gail says, looking down at her nails. It's true. She has.

I rub my hand over my forehead, which has begun to perspire. Shit. I am gonna be sick if this car keeps bouncing.

“I should not have taken your drink,” I groan.

“No, what you shouldn’t have done was order a third.”

I grumble something I can't even comprehend as I roll down the window to feel the breeze on my face. “Adam should count as five dates, you know. That was torture.”

There is something about her silence that feels off. Or maybe I am just about to pass out. We hit another damn bump. Yup. Definitely about to pass out.

***

Journal Entry: Adam is not worthy of his name. If God made man like this guy, we would have died off centuries ago.