Once Mike and I had shuffled through the frenetic throngs of crying kids and oblivious business travelers, we stood at the gate counter to get our seat request. A woman wearing distressed jeans and toting an oversized Prada bag walked in front of me while I was checking on Nathan. When I turned and found Miss Hands-on-Hips blocking my view, I immediately said to Mike, “Did this bitch just walk in front of me? She did!”
I fantasized about surreptiously defacing her bag with a mini-Sharpie and transforming it into a “Prado,” spitting on her hair, or vexing her with an incurable case of ass-itch.
But instead of executing any revenge plot or politely tapping her on the shoulder and saying, “My good woman, surely you jest!” I waited until she turned back toward my hissing so I could give her an Oscar-worthy eye roll. Ha! I showed you with my passive-agressive ocular reflexes! I gave you a “whuteva!” with my eyes! If this had been seventh grade, her name would have been all over the bathroom stalls and there would be serious grapevine discussion on the severity of her B.O.
On the flight, Nathan did not cry at all. He was mesmerized by the two-year-old boy across the aisle who shrilled like a girl and jumped on his mom’s lap so he could get a tight hair grip on the guy who sat in front. I felt like I had joined some special club called, “That Is Not My Baby Crying.” And as a member of TINMBC, we would wear berets and pat ourselves on the back and take turns kicking out moms and dads whose babies broke the first rule: no effing crying. I’m sure I’d be the first one dethroned.
I wanted to nurse Nathan to protect his little ears upon take-off, but a combination of our thirty-minute taxing and the boy having no interest in eating left me with one boob in hand, like this was The Omen: Breastfeeding Unleashed and I was frantically shoving a boob into his mouth, saying, “It’s all for you, Damien!”
Mike’s brother and sister are going to be the godparents and yesterday we met with the priest. Nathan’s going to be baptized in the same church Mike and his family attended which is across the street from the house he grew up in. Nathan’s going to wear the same baptismal gown that’s been used for the past fifty years. These traditions are touching, but the smart ass in me wants to break into Fiddler on the Roof.
After we had gone over the ceremony, my sister-in-law had her gift for her husband blessed. At first I was impressed because I didn’t even know you could do that, but then I remembered watching the news back on Saipan and seeing the bishop blessing the fiber optic cable being installed between Saipan and Tinian. And why stop there? Why not hire a priest for a few hours and have him bless everything in your home. I would imagine a Sonicare toothbrush sprinkled with holy water trumps an untouched one.
And now I’m in St. Louis in a house that would cost at least a million dollars in Seattle proper. I can only afford a hovel in Seattle. If I save up, maybe I can afford a hovel with a view. A view of another hovel.