Page 16 of Mom-Com
“Um, yeah?”
“Well, I got to thinking that maybe I need to repeat my pie offering a few more times to really get their attention.”
“Or maybe—and this is radical, so hold on to your skirt—you should drop the man-pies idea and move on to another thing on your list. I think it’s safe to say that tactic didn’t work. I’d hate to see you turn your kitchen into a bakery when it’s not netting you any actual men.”
Starting the sewing machine back up, I went super slow, adjusting as I went to keep the seam straight. Or straight-ish. “You might be right. I’ll think on that, but that’s not all I got. I had dinner with the new next-door neighbor Wednesday night and I tried out a new tactic.”
“Mr. Tall, Dark, and Mysterious?”
“Yep, that’s the one. He brought his son over, who totally clicked with Clark. He brought me flowers, but the conversation was a little awkward, like every interaction with him. But get this: I grilled steaks like the list said to do!”
“And? He got on one knee and asked for your hand?”
“No, smart-ass, I spat out a half-chewed piece onto my plate.”
“What? Gross, Lil.”
I giggled. “I know. It said to make the steaks rare, but I went a little overboard. Or under board. They were so raw it was freezing cold in the center! I wondered why Jameson had stopped eating his steak. Guess he likes his meat without a side of salmonella.”
“A swing and a miss!” Gabby used some weird accent she swore sounded like Vin Scully, the legendary announcer for the Dodgers, but actually sounded like some East Coast mafia man from a made-for-television movie.
“Yeah, yeah. One of these days I’ll find the thing on the list that works. Just you wait. I can feel it.” I got to the end of the hem, tracing backward and forward before cutting off the thread and examining my work. “What was even funnier was Jameson’s behavior.”
“In what way? And wait a second. You haven’t told me what he looks like yet. I only saw him from behind and from far away. Don’t leave your bestie hangin’.”
I squinted my eyes and pinned the zipper into the top of the skirt. This was dangerous territory, both in the conversation and in the sewing project. “Let’s see. He’s tall, got dark hair that he gels on top. Kind of reminds me of a 1940s debonair kind of guy. Probably uses some old-school pomade to get his hair like that. He’s muscular, but not overly so. His eyes are like a non-color.”
“He sounds delicious so far. But what the hell is a non-color?”
“I don’t know exactly. It’s like his eyes are straight gray. And I’ll be honest, he’s attractive in a classic kind of way, but every conversation with him has been awkward at best, so don’t bark up that tree.”
Gabby sighed. “Okay, fine. But I reserve the right to see for myself how eligible this neighbor might be. Tell me about this odd behavior.”
Happy she was distracted from matchmaking, I started sewing the zipper into the skirt. “It started when I stood up to grab something from the kitchen. The second I stood up from the table, he stood up too. And stayed standing until I got back. And then when I hopped up to put the steaks back on the grill, he stood again. So a few minutes later I stood up for no reason just to test it out. And he stood up too! What’s up with that?”
“Hmm. I don’t know. That’s definitely weird. I’ll have to Google it and see if I can come up with—”
“Ouch!” I pulled my hand back and examined my fingertip. While sewing the zipper, I’d jabbed myself hard with one of the pins in the top of my middle finger. A drop of blood bubbled up and I took a deep breath to keep from freaking out.
“You okay?” I heard Gabby’s voice calling to me from the phone, like she was down a long tunnel.
Most moms learn to deal with all manner of bodily fluids. I mean. You’re a mom. You had to clean up diapers from day one with substances that were too ghastly to talk about. Kids ate a whole hot dog and then vomited all over you, chunks of half-digested pressed meat tangled in your hair. Shit happens. A lot.
So you’d think I’d be able to handle the sight of blood a lot better than half the population. Turns out blood was my kryptonite.
“Blood,” I mumbled. “Call ya back.”
I hung up on her and went into the kitchen for a paper towel. If I got the blood covered up I’d be fine. Once the paper towel was wound around my finger, I instantly started feeling better. A quick trip to the medicine cabinet in the downstairs bathroom and I got a Band-Aid on my finger without further wooziness.
“Crisis averted,” I said out loud to the empty room.
“Did you say something, Mom?” Clark called down from upstairs, the movie blaring through the open door.
“I’m good! Just talking to myself again,” I called up. The door closed and the movie muted. They were used to my crazy.
Cautiously, I went back to the sewing machine and finished the zipper. Figured I’d better try it on before I hand-sewed the button in place. Shimmying out of my jeans, I stepped into the skirt and pulled it up, pleased to see the hem length was perfect. Not too long like an old maid, but not so short my cellulite was showing. I had standards, okay?
I reached back and zipped it up, needing to suck in a little before it went all the way up. It was a bit tighter than I’d prefer, but the idea of letting out a seam seemed more daunting than sewing the damn thing in the first place. My sense of achievement dimmed until I remembered that part of my fifty ways was to go on a diet. If I did a little of that torture, my skirt actually might fit just fine.
