Doing her time...

MizBubs and I were talking about Paris "Rottencrotch" Hilton's return to jail on our way to a birthday party earlier this afternoon. I was telling her that my theory (that Paris' "undisclosed skin condition" was in fact a runaway case of flaming herpes that had rendered her mad) had been confirmed by a number of reliable internet sources.

So anyhow, we were driving along listening to Johnny Cash when the song "Doing My Time" (a cover of an old Flatt & Scruggs number) came on. The first verse goes like this:

On this old rock pile with a ball and chain
They call be by a number not a name, Lord, Lord
Gotta do my time, gotta do my time
With an aching heart and a worried mind

Only MizBubs, who's not normally prone to sing along, promptly piped up with this, deadpan, and in perfect harmony with Johnny's deep rumble:

Gotta do my time, gotta do my time
With an aching twat and a worried mind...

I almost wrecked the car. That MizBubs is a card.

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MizBubs has been full of mildly inappropriate fun this weekend. We have always had, shall we say, a satisfying and...enthusiastic relationship. She proved this, once again, by leaving a small yet distinct mark, a bruise perhaps, some might even call it a hickey, on the side of my throat. We got home from the birthday party, and evidently the concealer had worn off. My 18 year old daughter looked at me, grinned, raised her eyebrows and said "oh...that's classy." How goofy is it that I've been reproached, albeit in a good-natured way, by my child? Thank God I wasn't drunk at the time.

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For whatever reason MizBubs has decided that she wants to return to the Catholic church. We've attended mass at a couple of different parishes, and found one nearby that we both like. I must say, even after being away for 17 years, it all comes back to you pretty easy.

So, I got the idea that I wanted to go to mass on Saturday afternoon--I always remembered the Saturday mass as being like the casual Friday of worship, and I thought if MizBubs wanted to go to church this weekend, we might as well go on Saturday, and then we could sleep in Sunday morning and go to the farmers market. I talked her into it, and away we went. As we pulled up you could see a number of casually-dressed parishioners walking toward the church. I noted one couple and thought to myself "I hope they're not going in dressed like that." She looked ok, but he looked like he'd spent Saturday afternoon drinking in the forest preserve. He was wearing a B.U.M. Equipment tee shirt and shorts, and looked sweaty and mildly sunburned.

When we go to church, I tend to sit toward the back. I figure the good Christians should get the seats up front. In the past MizBubs has mentioned wanting to sit closer to the altar, so yesterday I thought I'd be a good sport and suggest we sit further up. And we did. A couple minutes after we sat down, a guy sat next to me, with one seat between us. He was wearing short pants, and had a bowl haircut and bright eyes. Big bright enthusiastic eyes. Which he turned on me when he said "HOW ABOUT THOSE CUBS? SORIANO'S REALLY HOT NOW, HE'S REALLY ON FIRE!"

I demurred that I didn't really follow the Cubs, and he went silent. For a while. I shifted in my seat, turned to MizBubs and mouthed "thanks", which she did not appreciate. Then he said, just a little loudly for the usual pre-liturgy murmur inside a church, HEY YOU'RE NOT A SOX FAN ARE YOU? I explained that I don't really follow baseball, then I trotted out the small collection of vacuous sports chat I keep ready for just such occasions. It seemed to satisfy him; he chattered on about Lou Pinella, and then the service started.

When it came time for the homily the priest introduced a missionary from India , who spoke about the good works being done by his charity. When he finished his presentation the parishioners applauded politely, and as the speaker walked away from the podium Mr. Brighteyes Shortpants leaned over toward me and said, loudly and yet in a manner that was meant to be confidential, "YOU KNOW INDIA IS THE LARGEST DEMOCRACY IN THE WORLD."

I looked around and no one seemed to be staring in our direction, which was a relief. Then I noticed the sweaty meatball I'd seen walking in earlier--he was on the other side of the altar, right in the front row, a stocky Ditka-like fellow in baggy shorts and BUM tee shirt. He hadn't taken off his sunglasses and still had that sunburned, sweaty look. He had rolled up one sleeve of his shirt and was vigorously scratching his upper arm. I looked away, and when I looked back he had a large tube of lotion and was pooting a glob of it into one hand. I mean, really pooting--you could tell that anyone within 10 feet of him would hear the sound of the lotion spurting out. Then he proceeded to rub lotion onto his arms while the priest turned the wine and wafers into the body and blood of Christ. I missed the transubstantiation completely, I was so distracted by this guy. He finally finished swabbing himself down and I was able to concentrate on my salvation again.

The rest of the mass continued without incident. Mr. Brighteyes Shortpants left as soon as the priest said "the mass has ended, go in peace" without even waiting for the processional hymn to conclude, so I didn't have to talk any more baseball.