by: Whitney Dineen
Series: Pity Series
Genre: Romantic Comedy/Contemporary Romance
Release Date: January 24, 2024
I always wondered who was crazy enough to apply to those reality dating shows…
Turns out, I’m that person. Paige Holland here—lifetime resident of Elk Lake, Wisconsin, and dedicated seventh-grade math teacher.
Unfortunately, if I don’t fall for one of the two guys who live right in Elk Lake I might have to move. This limits my choices to a substitute teacher I can’t stand or Tim, a guy I went through school with. It’s not that I can’t see being with Tim—he’s totes my type—but he’s so wounded from his divorce, he’s made it clear he’s only on the show to make his ex-wife jealous.
With one disaster after another being broadcast around the world, I’m seriously questioning why I thought a reality show was a good way to find love…
Paige
I'm sweating bullets. Scratch that, I'm closer to sweating full cartridges of bullets. It wouldn't surprise me if the ATF showed up and arrested me for unlawful amounts of nervous sweat or something. I shift anxiously on the gold Chiavari chair, trying to talk myself out of running for the hills.
I was originally excited to be cast on the reality dating show, Midwestern Matchmaker. But as I wait in the country club conference room for my official welcome interview with the producers, my entire nervous system is screaming at me to flee.
My best friend Missy and I got hooked on the series a couple of months ago when we’d reached an all-time low in our dating lives. Like the rest of our generation, we grew up on people making a spectacle of themselves in hopes of finding love. As such, we decided that if something better didn’t come along, we would audition to do the same. Happily for Missy, her “something better” showed up in the form of a gorgeous single dad who traded life in the big city for a more normal upbringing for his twelve-year-old daughter, like something straight out of a Hallmark movie. And yes, I’m jealous.
My “something better” was starting to look a lot like the grocery store freezer section where they keep the Ben and Jerry’s. Cherry Garcia and I were getting hot and heavy there for a few months. And while I could see a lifelong relationship with him, he’s going to have to be my side guy. I want more.
“Paige Holland?” My sweat glands respond like an uncapped fire hydrant. It’s seriously gross.
“Here!” I gingerly stand up and smooth out the skirt of the nineteen-fifties-style vintage dress that I picked up for next to nothing at my favorite secondhand store, Love Me Again. Then I grab my purse and hurry toward the man in the silver suit who’s holding a clipboard. Upon closer inspection, I notice his shirt and tie are also silver. His shoes are gray suede. He looks like a robot.
Mr. Roboto turns around and starts walking toward a door on the side wall. “Follow me.”
We walk into a conference room with a large table in the middle. “This is Paige Holland,” he tells the assortment of people sipping coffee and nibbling on pastries.
Heads swivel in my direction, and I’m suddenly the focus of at least eight pairs of eyes, maybe ten. I can’t count right now to save my life.
The beautiful brunette woman sitting at the head of the table announces, “Paige, I’m so glad you could make it! I have very high hopes for you.”
Trina Rockwell is the host of Midwestern Matchmaker. She’s so gorgeous, I wouldn’t be surprised if all the male participants who come on the show didn’t fall in love with her at first sight. Tall, gloriously thick brown hair, and full of confidence turns out to be an intimidating combination for a petite blonde like me.
“Thanks for having me, Trina.” My voice cracks, making me wish the ground would open and swallow me whole.
Trina tells the table, “Paige is the seventh-grade math teacher right here in Elk Lake. Isn’t that great?” She’s so enthusiastic you’d think I was part of an expedition moving to Mars to breed the first generation of Earth Martians. Side note: My uncle Ben is convinced the Nazis bugged out to Mars after World War II and have been there ever since. I’ve often considered getting him a tinfoil hat for his birthday. Also, I make a mental note not to tell that story in a nervous rambling.
The mélange of grunts and grumbles that follows Trina’s excitement regarding my participation in the show suggests her audience isn’t quite as thrilled about me as she is.
Trina stands up and addresses me. “I won’t bother to introduce you to everyone now.” She waves her hand from one side of the table to the other like she’s professionally spokesmodeling the group. “But this is our production team. You’ll see them around a lot once we start taping. They’ll have suggestions for you along the way.”
Shifting from one ballet flat to the other—I wasn’t going to risk wearing heels and falling over—I mumble, “I thought you were doing the matching.”
“Oh, I am. The team here will help by letting you know which side is your best, making sure you’re standing in the light, and reminding you to speak up so the microphones can pick up everything you’re saying. They’re on hand so we can give postproduction the best scenes possible.” Her smile is blindingly bright, like she couldn’t imagine a more wonderful thing than being well-lit. Um, hello, Trina, how about world peace, and no more starving children?
But I don’t say that. Instead, I go with the profound, “I see.” Which I don’t because I’ve never done anything like this before. The only time I’ve ever been on TV was when that tornado ripped through Elk Lake the spring I was in the second grade. Neither my mom nor I saw the camera on the corner of Main and Elm, but it was there. We found that out later in the evening when my parents were watching the local news. The NBC reporter’s microphone picked up my scream, “But I have to pee now!!!” Needless to say, I was a local celebrity for the entire year following. FYI, fame is not all it’s cracked up to be. Still, I’m glad it was in the days before viral videos, because I would have been destined to be a gif for sure.
I eye the empty chair at the table, hoping Trina will invite me to sit down before I fall down. I’m starting to get light-headed. But instead of picking up on my distress, she points to the corner of the room where there are several large lights facing the wall. As she walks in the direction of the mini set, she motions for me. “Let’s get some footage of you for show teasers.”
My feet feel like they’ve broken through the flooring and have started to sink toward the center of the Earth. “Excuse me?”
“It’s no biggie. I just want to ask you a few questions and we may or may not use the recording during airing.”
“I … I … I …” I have forgotten how to speak English.
I'm sweating bullets. Scratch that, I'm closer to sweating full cartridges of bullets. It wouldn't surprise me if the ATF showed up and arrested me for unlawful amounts of nervous sweat or something. I shift anxiously on the gold Chiavari chair, trying to talk myself out of running for the hills.
I was originally excited to be cast on the reality dating show, Midwestern Matchmaker. But as I wait in the country club conference room for my official welcome interview with the producers, my entire nervous system is screaming at me to flee.
My best friend Missy and I got hooked on the series a couple of months ago when we’d reached an all-time low in our dating lives. Like the rest of our generation, we grew up on people making a spectacle of themselves in hopes of finding love. As such, we decided that if something better didn’t come along, we would audition to do the same. Happily for Missy, her “something better” showed up in the form of a gorgeous single dad who traded life in the big city for a more normal upbringing for his twelve-year-old daughter, like something straight out of a Hallmark movie. And yes, I’m jealous.
My “something better” was starting to look a lot like the grocery store freezer section where they keep the Ben and Jerry’s. Cherry Garcia and I were getting hot and heavy there for a few months. And while I could see a lifelong relationship with him, he’s going to have to be my side guy. I want more.
“Paige Holland?” My sweat glands respond like an uncapped fire hydrant. It’s seriously gross.
“Here!” I gingerly stand up and smooth out the skirt of the nineteen-fifties-style vintage dress that I picked up for next to nothing at my favorite secondhand store, Love Me Again. Then I grab my purse and hurry toward the man in the silver suit who’s holding a clipboard. Upon closer inspection, I notice his shirt and tie are also silver. His shoes are gray suede. He looks like a robot.
Mr. Roboto turns around and starts walking toward a door on the side wall. “Follow me.”
We walk into a conference room with a large table in the middle. “This is Paige Holland,” he tells the assortment of people sipping coffee and nibbling on pastries.
Heads swivel in my direction, and I’m suddenly the focus of at least eight pairs of eyes, maybe ten. I can’t count right now to save my life.
The beautiful brunette woman sitting at the head of the table announces, “Paige, I’m so glad you could make it! I have very high hopes for you.”
Trina Rockwell is the host of Midwestern Matchmaker. She’s so gorgeous, I wouldn’t be surprised if all the male participants who come on the show didn’t fall in love with her at first sight. Tall, gloriously thick brown hair, and full of confidence turns out to be an intimidating combination for a petite blonde like me.
“Thanks for having me, Trina.” My voice cracks, making me wish the ground would open and swallow me whole.
Trina tells the table, “Paige is the seventh-grade math teacher right here in Elk Lake. Isn’t that great?” She’s so enthusiastic you’d think I was part of an expedition moving to Mars to breed the first generation of Earth Martians. Side note: My uncle Ben is convinced the Nazis bugged out to Mars after World War II and have been there ever since. I’ve often considered getting him a tinfoil hat for his birthday. Also, I make a mental note not to tell that story in a nervous rambling.
The mélange of grunts and grumbles that follows Trina’s excitement regarding my participation in the show suggests her audience isn’t quite as thrilled about me as she is.
Trina stands up and addresses me. “I won’t bother to introduce you to everyone now.” She waves her hand from one side of the table to the other like she’s professionally spokesmodeling the group. “But this is our production team. You’ll see them around a lot once we start taping. They’ll have suggestions for you along the way.”
Shifting from one ballet flat to the other—I wasn’t going to risk wearing heels and falling over—I mumble, “I thought you were doing the matching.”
“Oh, I am. The team here will help by letting you know which side is your best, making sure you’re standing in the light, and reminding you to speak up so the microphones can pick up everything you’re saying. They’re on hand so we can give postproduction the best scenes possible.” Her smile is blindingly bright, like she couldn’t imagine a more wonderful thing than being well-lit. Um, hello, Trina, how about world peace, and no more starving children?
But I don’t say that. Instead, I go with the profound, “I see.” Which I don’t because I’ve never done anything like this before. The only time I’ve ever been on TV was when that tornado ripped through Elk Lake the spring I was in the second grade. Neither my mom nor I saw the camera on the corner of Main and Elm, but it was there. We found that out later in the evening when my parents were watching the local news. The NBC reporter’s microphone picked up my scream, “But I have to pee now!!!” Needless to say, I was a local celebrity for the entire year following. FYI, fame is not all it’s cracked up to be. Still, I’m glad it was in the days before viral videos, because I would have been destined to be a gif for sure.
I eye the empty chair at the table, hoping Trina will invite me to sit down before I fall down. I’m starting to get light-headed. But instead of picking up on my distress, she points to the corner of the room where there are several large lights facing the wall. As she walks in the direction of the mini set, she motions for me. “Let’s get some footage of you for show teasers.”
My feet feel like they’ve broken through the flooring and have started to sink toward the center of the Earth. “Excuse me?”
“It’s no biggie. I just want to ask you a few questions and we may or may not use the recording during airing.”
“I … I … I …” I have forgotten how to speak English.
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Whitney is a multi-award-winning author of romcoms, non-fiction humor, and middle reader fiction. Basically, she writes whatever the voices in her head tell her to.
She lives in the beautiful Pacific Northwest with her husband, Jimmy, where they raise children, chickens, and organic vegetables.
Gold Medal winner at the International Readers' Favorite Awards, 2017.
Silver medal winner at the International Readers' Favorite Awards, 2015, 2016.
Finalist RONE Awards, 2016.
Finalist at the IRFA 2016, 2017.
Finalist at the Book Excellence Awards, 2017
Finalist Top Shelf Indie Book Awards, 2017
Places to find Whitney Dineen:
I really like the blurb. This story sounds entertaining.
ReplyDeleteWhat is your favorite space to do your writing?
ReplyDeleteI can tell from reading the excerpt this is a great read!
ReplyDeleteThank you for sharing it.
I really enjoyed the excerpt!
ReplyDelete