This is a light, amusing book for a large age group (16-66) on real life dating stories. The author brings the reader in and makes them a part of her dating adventures. The stories take place in various states, such as Massachusetts and New York, and even abroad. The writing style is refreshing, accessible and witty. The author's main goals are to entertain and let the reader know they are not alone in the dating jungle. It will be hard to put this book down once you begin, which makes for a great beach read or gift for your BFF!

My Search for Prince Charming's Normal Brother

By Danielle E. Lenzi

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2011 Danielle E. Lenzi
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4634-0446-8

Contents

Chapter 1: Cranberry Wrong..............................................1Chapter 2: The Locksmith—The Key Doesn't Work.....................7Chapter 3: Shrunken Expectations........................................14Chapter 4: Teal Pants...................................................22Chapter 5: Igloo?.......................................................28Chapter 6: No, Bedankt..................................................37Chapter 7: Shoe Heir: Too Hot, Don't Touch..............................47Chapter 8: The (Un) Jcrew...............................................51Chapter 9: Finance King.................................................56Chapter 10: The Other Side..............................................64Chapter 11: The Dollar Store............................................73Chapter 12: Baby Face...................................................90Chapter 13: Don't Worry, Eye Won't......................................99Chapter 14: Lap Date....................................................110Chapter 15: Three-Hour Tour?............................................116

Chapter One

Cranberry Wrong

Holy hell! How did I manage to get myself into this? (Enter harmonica music at 1:00 a.m.) While I trust that my co-tenant neighbors appreciate the harmonica serenade, I am getting creeped out. Thank God he doesn't actually know which unit I am in! Time to call the Boston PD.

So it all began, on a dreary, damp morning in Boston. I was running late, with my briefcase and umbrella in tow. I was fairly certain I could have doubled as a wet terrier and that my face showed my displeasure as I waited for the train to approach. I actively looked past others at the T-stop. Not exactly an elevator level of civil inattention, but this is a new brand of ignoring others—I think it's a Boston thing.

I had just missed the train and knew it would likely be another fifteen to twenty minutes until the next train arrived. I was deep in thought about the day ahead and the multitude of e-mails I would already have. "Thanks for missing the train," I heard. Dah-dah-dah. Again, the male voice said, "Thanks for missing the train." Oh, he's talking to me—he must be from out of town! I looked over, and to my left stood a tall, dark, and handsome type with a wide smile.

I looked at him and responded, "Yes, I just missed it." Thank goodness it was raining, because I would hate to start this day on the right note.

At this point, he was still smiling at me. Realizing I'd exhausted my store of witty pre-9:00 a.m. remarks, I didn't say more. Then he responded, "Well, actually I am glad you missed the train. I have noticed you around, and I have always wanted to introduce myself. See, I live in the area, and you seem so nice—are you new around here?"

"Yes, actually I live just down the street," I responded. By this point, the train had arrived and he boarded with me and we continued the meet and greet.

He said, "Welcome to the neighborhood. I imagine someone as pretty as you probably already has a boyfriend."

I smiled and tried to think of something to respond with. I said, "Well, not exactly." He then asked if we could grab coffee or a drink sometime. Sounded like a fine idea, since I wanted to meet new people in the area. At this point, I decided that if he wasn't for me, I could introduce him to a couple of other single women I had met in the neighborhood—it would be good for the community. A kind of recycling. Brookline likes recycling, so why shouldn't I?

We exchanged numbers and chatted more. I was feeling flattered that someone had taken the time and effort to approach. He seemed nice, and besides, how bad could he be?

A few days later, knowing that I worked downtown, he called to see if I wanted to meet him for a coffee. He was a freelance writer, a musician, and a self-professed dream catcher trying to work out a plan for his life. He was rushing into this decision, since he was only in his early thirties. From our discussion, I could tell he was pondering many different career options. One option that came up related to his experience as a preschool teacher. This apparently had fallen through and involved some kind of issue for him. After I noticed he seemed to be getting teary, I decided to move the discussion away from this topic. He mentioned a couple of other career options, even including the possibility of being an orchestra conductor. He had an ear for music, a talent with instruments, and what the hell—his friends said it didn't look that hard.

Who was I to judge? Sometimes I wondered what I would be when I grew up. Seemed like a reasonable dilemma on some level. So he chatted on at Starbucks, and the conversation was interesting and casual. The only thing that gave me pause was he was very flattering and kept mentioning how he was so glad we had met. As we were leaving, he asked me if I wanted to go with him to pick up his car. He chattered on about random topics. Then he stopped and said, "You look amazing, by the way. I love that sweater; what is it—burgundy?"

I responded, "I think its cranberry. Just a J. Crew item, nothing special."

Not only was he flattering, but for any topic we discussed, he seemed to have the perfect anecdote. For instance, I mentioned an interest in beginning tennis. He was a good tennis player and would love to teach me. I mentioned I liked a couple of classes at the gym. He mentioned he was a kickboxing instructor, and he would love a new student. That class was also just around the block from us. This seemed a little too accommodating, but it was friendly.

We traveled to pick up his car, and on the way home, he asked if we could go out again, maybe for dinner or something more the next time. So far, so good. We left it that one of us would contact the other, and we would get together sometime. To me, "sometime" means sometime soon, but not necessarily in the same week. He seemed equally casual and lax about it, so it seemed fine. For the next couple of weeks, we would tentatively discuss meeting out for a drink or coffee again, but something seemed to come up either with work or home. Again, he seemed equally relaxed about this.

One night at home, I gave him a quick call. The weather had improved, so I'd decided I would see what he was up to.

"Hello. Oh, hi. How are you?" I started.

"Oh, I am just out with the guys," he said.

"Oh, well, I'll let you go; I don't want to bother you now." I noted.

"No bother; we are checking out a new restaurant, called Stix. It's pretty cool—everything comes on a stick. I will be writing a review for it." he said.

I said, "Well, I don't want to interrupt you; let's chat later."

"Okay, later sounds good. Will you be around tonight? I will be out with the guys for a while." He mentioned.

"Sure, I should be around," I said.

We hung up then, and ten minutes later he called and said, "Well, I am leaving now. Do you want to watch a movie?"

"Okay, that sounds fine," I replied. I can pick something up, if you would like."

"How about a Jane Austen?" he suggested, "and wear that cranberry sweater I like of yours ..." Wow, he has a pretty good memory.

I mentioned "Okay, let me see what the rental place has. I will meet you in about an hour."

I tried to find an Austen flick, but I came up empty-handed. Instead, I decided on two safe new releases. In this particular store, a "new release" could be anything post-Clint Eastwood era. They got away with their classifications because they were an independent rental store.

At this point I realized that my pet hound, Gigi, was not feeling well. Only a few hours before, she had received her rabies vaccination, and she seemed to be having a reaction. I didn't want to leave her alone, and I wasn't sure if she would be sick. I was on the verge of canceling, but my date insisted that I should bring her over, and that way we could keep an eye on her.

I didn't understand where he described the directions to his place, so I agreed to meet him and headed out my door, with the movies in one hand and my hound in the other. He was happy to see me and wasn't put off by the dog (ten points there!). I followed him to his home, and he gave me the tour. I recognized that he lived near a new friend I had recently made. When I mentioned her name, he seemed a little agitated. He replied, "Yeah, I remember her. She always said she'll invite me to her roof deck, but she never has."

I responded, "I am sure it's an oversight. Besides, I think she may be seeing someone."

He came back with, "Oh, well, I hate it when people promise to do something, but then they don't. It's rude and disrespectful. I never tell people I will do something and then not do it. What are people thinking when they do that?"

I said, "Well, yeah, it's annoying sometimes, but I am sure it's only an oversight." (It's a f***ing roof deck, not the ghost bar at the Palms, okay? Give it a rest!)

While showing me around, he emphasized the front of his home, saying; "See, the bedroom and my office both have windows facing the road. This is where I see you walk to the T. Everyday I watch you go to work, and sometimes I see you coming back from work. A few times I even followed you. I didn't introduce myself then, because I thought that might freak you out a little bit—you know, trying to introduce myself after following you for a few blocks." Yeah, I think so. I was not sure why he was telling me this, but okay—a bit creepy, but okay.

He went into the kitchen and offered me wine. I declined. He perused my video selection and was visibly disappointed that it was Austen-less. I explained that I hadn't been able to find anything suitable. He seemed to let the brief annoyance pass.

Then he asked me if I wanted him to play some music. He said he was a good guitar player, and he could play anything I wanted. I declined and said; "Let's just start one of the movies, if that's okay. He said okay, but then within five minutes he veered off again and asked me if I wanted to talk. I responded, "Um, not really; haven't we talked enough tonight? Let's check out the movie, and we can take it from there."

At this point, before he put in a movie, something started to go very wrong. He began pacing back and forth, wringing his hands. His voice started at a regular tone, but soon he began yelling. "I don't, I just don't understand—is it me? What did I do? You know I, I ah, I asked you to get the Jane Austen movie, and you just disrespected that. Then, you don't want anything to drink, and it's like you are here, and you don't even care; you don't even want to get to know me." He continued ranting, "Do you even know what it took for me to get up the nerve to approach you? And it's like you don't even care! You're so selfish, and what about—I mean all the times we made plans, and you cancelled! I sat here night after night waiting for you to call, and you selfishly ignored me. Who does that? Who do you think you are?!" By this point, the dog was trembling, and I realized I was dealing with someone who had forgotten his meds. I knew the only thing to do was to calmly tell him I was sorry if I had disappointed him, while trying to reach the demilitarized zone. After all, I wasn't interested in being chopped into pieces and thrown into the pathway to the T. Where would that leave Gigi?

But this only angered him. There was nothing for me to say, and he was getting angrier and angrier. I said, "Stop pressuring me. I thought we were going to watch a movie. Calm down. This isn't working."

He reiterated his disappointment in me and screamed, "And you didn't even wear the cranberry sweater!" It was time to go ...

After a dozen phone calls and texts, I finally heard the music. Now I realized that I had met the town nut.

Chapter Two

The Locksmith—The Key Doesn't Work

Goddamn it! When they say a foot of snow, they mean a foot of snow! Forget that four hours earlier it had been fairly sunny and warm. I woke to a mess outside. We're not talking about the pretty, fluffy, fun kind of snow, where you could get a plastic disk and ride gleefully down a hill—not this stuff. This stuff is Boston's best: the Nor'easter. Something so obnoxious should really be named alphabetically, like any other natural disaster. On the East Coast, we could easily get to the K's before the end of March!

But I digress. I had gone out earlier to dig my car out of its spot across the street. This particular Boston community, keeping its puritanical traditions, had decided that no good could come of people parking on the street through the night. This might bring the wrong element into town, namely, out-of-towners without a place to park. Nonetheless, if a horse and buggy wasn't allowed to park in the street through the night, why should a car?

I threw my best grubbies on and got ready to get rid of the snow. I was essentially done with the clearing, when I heard a snap, a crack, and—boom!—I was covered, head to toe in snow, and so was the car—all over again! An entire City of snow had fallen on me and my car from the roof of the house above. Unbelievable!

I was ranting some colorful prose, when I was interrupted by the sound of a snowblower. Wow, this was priceless in the current context—better than the popemobile! In fact, if someone at that moment had offered me either that snowblower or a pair of Manolos, the snowblower would have won.

Vroom. Ommm. Ommm. It was getting closer. From a blur of off-white, I could see a six-foot-two-inches-tall, fit, and masculine man, dressed in a red jacket, a black hat ,and eyeglasses. He looked as if he might have drifted off the slopes to rescue those in the streets. He stopped short of my car area, and our eyes met fast enough that I picked up on his baby-blue eyes. Wondering if he had heard some of my winter-induced bliss, I continued clearing off my car.

"This is really something huh?" he said, turning the machine off and looking at me.

I responded, "Yeah, right, and only four more months left." I know I sounded bitter and jaded, because I was.

"Would you like me to plow around your car?" he asked.

"Ah, that's okay, thank you. I think I almost have it," I remarked (a lie, but why spread my bitterness?).

"Okay, well, just let me know. Since I have the snowblower, I can get the whole area done pretty fast," he noted.

Then we chatted about less-charged topics. I realized this wasn't so bad. Aside from my bitterness, I was surprised that he had approached me; I didn't recall having brushed my hair before running out to clean the car. It's a nice look. Nonetheless, he seemed really friendly. He had also appeared out of nowhere. I didn't remember ever seeing him around, and I wondered if he was married to my neighbor across the street. He seemed to have a husbandly way about him. Shortly after that, I excused myself to go back home to defrost and dehumidify myself.

A couple of days later, I was rushing to get to my car to catch the train into New York City. It was about 4:00 a.m., and I was neurotic about being on time to catch the Acela from Route 128. It could not have been more than ten degrees outside. I started the car and then realized I had a ticket on the windshield. Agitated, I grab it from its spot. Oh, what's this? A pink ribbon-huh?

Dear Daniele,

I enjoyed meeting you and speaking with you the other day. I think you are probably busy, but I would love the opportunity to get to know you better. I would like to take you to dinner. Please call me at XXX-XXXX or feel free to leave a note at XX address.

XX Man

How sweet. Well, that answered that question—he was single. The pink ribbon was a nice touch. How flattering. He lived right across the street too—nice house. I walked right by it every time I went to my car. Odd that I didn't recall seeing him before.

It turned out that note was the best part of the morning. When I came back from the City that night around 2:00 a.m., I had a flat tire. That kept me occupied until the early hours of the morning. Alone. On the side of the road. In the bitter cold.

The next night, I responded to XX Man with "Sure, let's go out. Let's try for coffee or a drink sometime this week. Looking forward to it." He called a few times; we exchanged messages and landed on a date for coffee.

Right before he "picked me up" from across the street, he called to tell me that he would be waiting outside. This was a good thing, because for some reason, he barely resembled my memory of him. Maybe I have selective amnesia?

I remembered the guy with the blower as being hot, with blue eyes, glasses, and a winter hat. He had seemed like a sporty, athletic type. (Not normally perplexed by the Clark Kent/Superman transformation, I had to admit this one had me.) This guy had grey hair that was thinning, was tall-check-didn't have glasses, and he he wore a formal black business trench coat, jeans, a white shirt, and loafers. This guy looked maybe ten years older than me and resembled an adjunct professor. Huh.

On the walk over, while we chatted, he asked me if I wanted to go to Florida that night, because he had a friend with a plane. "Oh, really! Well, not tonight," I said.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from My Search for Prince Charming's Normal Brotherby Danielle E. Lenzi Copyright © 2011 by Danielle E. Lenzi. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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