Christenings

Originally written 1/13/8

OK, so it’s been a while since I wrote-or blogged as the kids these days call it OMG LOL. I’ve had some experiences to write about, but none have proven to be worth our time. But I feel like writing. It’s like if I don’t do it often enough, I will suck at it. Hell, there are those that will argue that I am already at that level. What can I find that is so compelling to keep me in front of the PC at 10 on a Sunday night, instead of in bed, where I want to be? Hmmm…so I went to a Christening today. Let’s see where this goes.

I will try to keep my own religious views out of this. The fact of the matter is that I don’t like Christenings. I do not like them for many reasons. All selfish. I don’t like getting dressed up. I hate ironing. Hate it, hate it, hate it. I hate it because I suck at it. I can iron the same Goddamned shirt till there’s iron burns all over it, and it still is wrinkled. I don’t like getting dressed up. Shirts with buttons are generally a foreign object on my body. It’s already bad enough I got in my monkey suit once already this week, now this. God bless Tar, she’s such a trooper to help me out with ironing shirts. I feel like Corky standing next to her as she makes the wrinkles magically go away. Part of me thinks she does it for her own good; she does not want to be seen with a husband who clearly does not know how to iron. Another ordeal is picking out what to wear. I cringe to actually see any pictures of such events we’ve been to. I know I am wearing black. I really think I am probably wearing the same damn thing for 4-5 events in a row. I should just make a cardboard cut out, and give it to her so pictures can be taken while I am home on the couch.

I’ve been trying to branch out lately. I’ve been trying to get away from the black. Today, I picked out a lovely ensemble in the hue of shit brown. Ugh, why is it guys have an extremely limited color range to pick from? It’s not like we can match shades of yellow, neon purple, light blue. Wait a minute, maybe I am arguing my own point here. Anyway, I pick out a brown shirt that I previously emblazoned with an iron burn (but it’s not too noticeable) and new brown pants. Tara supervises the shirt, and does the pants. So we’re ready to go, and I am like a big baby. I don’t even wanna get dressed up. Reluctantly, I do. Only to discover what I thought were new brown pants must have either been old or chronic unemployment has spread my waistline like Paris Hilton spreads her legs.

Fuck, this shit is hellatight. Somewhere along the line, I fucked up. I will live with my internal organs being squished for a few hours. We go to the church, and I am floored how the Catholic religion is dying, yet they’re still building new churches. I will try to keep my personal opinions to a minimum. But here’s what I learned from the Catholic church during my time as an altar boy. If you’re good, the Church will screw you. When I was an altar boy, everyone wanted the 8 am Mass. You wanted that because school started at 8:05, and you could be late for a week. I was one of the few good kids who stuck with it. My first big reward? Fucking 6 AM Mass. I remember my mom pulling into an empty church parking lot, and me saying “Um, I don’t think even God is up yet.” I was one of the best damn altar boys, and I got the 8 AM only once. I guess I should just count my blessings, because I was never molested.

Anyway, with Christenings come other kids. I don’t really consider myself very kid friendly. It’s part my lack of patience. It’s part me being uncomfortable around kids. It’s part kids being uncomfortable around me. I think they’re all germ incubators. Why is it every kid is either screaming, crying or sneezing at these things? I’d just rather hang out with some adults I see every few years. That’s another thing at these events; there’s all kinds of faces, but damn if I remember the name or how they are related. They all know me-no doubt from my devastating good looks. And I can’t place any of ‘em to save my life.

And why are these things always held on fucking football weekends? Really, the father’s gotta step up here and say, “Honey, let’s do this after the season is over. None of my guy friends want to waste a playoff day seeing demonseed here get baptized.” But, no, they never do, and if they do they obviously get shot down. (I do admit that I will find any reason to bitch using this excuse. “Aw, honey, I don’t want to go to the Christening today because you know the Samoan Regional Horse Shoe Qualifiers are on!” Yea, you know who wears the pants in my relationship.) I know who wears the pants in that relationship, too. Fortunately, I was able to break away, and catch some of the games at the bar. I was sitting next to a dad with his young girl, like 2-3. She looked at me, then promptly sneezed right in my drink.

Awright, it’s 10:35. Bed is calling, and who am I not to answer? I feel a bit better now. I hope this post wasn’t a waste of your time. If it was, you can feel free to invite me to your kid’s next birthday party.