I look to the man she’s pulling along. He’s at least two inches shorter than me, his toupee is like a bright yellow scouring pad, and the buttons on his silk shirt are stretched tight over his sagging waist.
“This is Mort, he recently moved to town from Arizona. He manages golf courses,” my mom says triumphantly. She turns and smiles at him. “Mort, this is my daughter Gemma.”
The wine that I just swallowed goes to my head and I flush from my cheeks down to my chest.
“Enchanté,” Mort says in a fake French accent. He looks down at my chest and doesn’t look back up.
“Oh dear. The pimento olives on toothpicks have run low. I’ll just grab more,” my mom says. She scuttles off to the kitchen.
I clear my throat awkwardly. Mort still doesn’t look up. I try to cover more of my chest with the plate full of wieners. It doesn’t really work.
“So. How are you enjoying the party?” I ask awkwardly.
Mort shoves a pickle in his mouth and manages to mumble around his crunching. “Mm. S’okay. Food’s decent, heh?”
I take another swallow of wine and desperately glance around the room. There’s my sister rushing after a seemingly hyper Maemie and Mary. Sorry, sis. My dad is on the other end of the room talking with Father Gibbly, the local priest. My dad sees me looking, catches who I’m talking to, and gives me a sympathetic wince.
“Are you ready for the resolution roundup?” I ask. I’m scraping the bottom of the barrel for a topic of conversation so I can escape quickly and tell my mom I did my due diligence with her set-up.
The resolution roundup is at the end of the party where everyone writes their New Year’s resolutions on a piece of paper, folds them up and anonymously puts them in a bowl. Then my dad reads them all aloud. It usually gets some good laughs, but other years it results in marriage proposals or baby announcements. So. It’s kind of a big deal.
I inch away from the table and move a step back from Mort. I continue, “I was thinking of writing something safe like, exercise more, lose weight, or cut down on drinking, you know? The usual.”
Mort looks at the near-empty glass of wine in my hand and at the pile of mini wieners on my plate. “Heh. I read it takes two weeks to fail at resolutions, not one day, heh? Some kind of record.” He chuckles at his joke.
Oh. The flush on my chest deepens. I remember what my mom said. No one wants a desperate, chubby divorcee.
“Right. Well, I am exceptional in every way.” I let out a small laugh, so I don’t feel like an utter twit.
Mort’s the best you can do.
He chomps on another mini pickle. I swallow the last of my wine. Time to go.
“Well, it was nice meeting you—”
“Heh. Your mother tells me you’re looking for an older man. I don’t usually fancy dumplings like you. Prefer younger ones too. But I could make an exception. Heh? I heard your garage don’t park cars. You don’t need to worry, that don’t turn me off. I’ve already parked enough cars.”
Huh?
My garage doesn’t…does he mean my uterus doesn’t work? Are the cars his babies?
He’s still looking at my chest.
I clear my throat and struggle to say something. There’s a tightness at the base of my throat. I think it’s a slew of swear words fighting to get out, wanting to tell Mort where to shove it.
Ian, my sexy, amazing boss, says that people choose how to react to situations. No one can make you angry, uncomfortable, or unhappy without your permission. So right now, I choose not to kill my mom from the sheer mortification of this moment.
Thank you, Ian. You just saved my mother.
I cough and finally manage to form words.
“Thank you. I think.” But then I shake my head. “No. Not thank you. It’s not nice meeting you. It’s not nice speaking to you. And I hope I never meet you again. You should leave.”
“Now hold on,” Mort says, and he finally looks at my face instead of my boobs.
“Leave,” I say. I fling my hand toward the hall and the front door. But I forgot that I’m holding a plate piled high with barbecue wieners. They tip and spill all over my chest. The goopy, sticky sauce runs over my skin. One of the wieners lodges in the tight space between my breasts and sticks straight up. The rest of them fall to the plastic runner covering the carpet. They hit with a splat.
Mort lets out a snort and looks at me with a disgusted sneer. “I think I had a lucky escape, heh? It’s no wonder you can’t keep a man.”
He turns and pushes his way through the crowd.
I watch him leave. Hot embarrassment washes over me.
“Gemma, you okay?” My dad has made his way over. He grabs a handful of gold cocktail napkins and hands them to me.
“Thanks Dad. I’m fine.” I pluck the mini hotdog from my chest and drop it on the plastic table cloth. I smear the sauce with the napkins and try to wipe it off my breasts.
“Who was it this time?” he asks.
“Oh. The usual. A creep with an inferiority complex and a fabulous job.” I say the last in my mom’s voice. “You know, one who doesn’t want any kids.” I try to say the last bit in a chipper voice, but my dad sees through it and gives my shoulders a squeeze.
“She means well, your mom. She wants to see you happy.”
“I know, Dad.”
He gives me a one-armed hug. While my mom has been described as flighty and excitable, my dad has always been seen as level-headed and slow to judge. My nephew Colin takes after him. I’d say I’m a mix of my parents, I’m level-headed until I get an amazing idea and then I go after it, whether it’s crazy or not.
“Why don’t you go get cleaned up. I’ll hold down the buffet table,” he says kindly.
I look down at my chest and my pumpkin dress. I’m covered in barbecue sauce, and I imagine I look like some sort of slaughtered pumpkin at a Halloween horror show.
I hurry through the room back toward the hall, I keep my head down and try to slip by the guests unseen. I can put the outfit I arrived in back on. There was nothing wrong with it. No matter what my mom said.
As I’m ducking out of the room I hear a familiar voice. It’s Mimi Butkis.
“Did you see Gemma yet? You might ask her on a date.”