Sewing in SoCal Series

If there’s one thing you should know about me, it’s that I absolutely refuse to tell a lie no matter the consequences. But who would have thought my honesty policy would get me fired from my job at the preschool? Or that a desperate — and not to mention devastatingly handsome — single father of one of my (now-former) students would hire me that same day as a nanny for his daughter? I’m an education professional. How hard can taking care of a four-year-old and her over-stressed, over-worked father be? 

What would Scarlett O’Hara do? Anything to survive, that’s what. But instead of a man-eating Southern belle in hoop skirts and big hats, my version of existence looks an awful lot like a financial conglomerate employee staring blankly at budget analysis spreadsheets. Either way, the motto has served me well most my life, until now, that is. The corporate retreat location has just been announced, and this city girl is headed to a dude ranch in the country. 

Who has time to date when she’s trying to raise a miniature human by herself and save the planet from its irresponsible inhabitants? Not to mention my winning personality (snort) and my curves-have-curves figure (eyeroll) don’t exactly attract the opposite sex. Unfortunately, none of these reasons have stopped my best friends and SoCal sewing sisters from taking on the archaic role of matchmakers, and they’re not beneath a little bribery if that’s what it takes to get my cooperation. 

"The devil made me do it" is a phrase that will never pass my lips. Why would it when I have Delores, my undiagnosed autoimmune disorder, to make all my decisions for me? (Yes, I named her myself since the doctors couldn’t do it for me.) A get together with friends? Delores says no. I’ll have my prescheduled daily afternoon fever and fatigue at that time. My two biggest regrets with having Delores direct my fate? One, my family thinks my illness is all in my head. And two, I set the love of my life, Peter Reynolds, free from my anchoring tether so he could fly.

As a professional sound engineer, I’m around musicians every day, so I know what I’m talking about when I say they aren’t boyfriend material. They’re only looking out for number one, and that ain’t you, honey. Give them a map with destination "Not on Your Life, Mister" highlighted, underlined, and circled for good measure.