Bless Me Father...

Last Friday, a young cousin of mine was married and because our family is insanely huge she invited only the old aunts which was just fine by me. However, my mother drafted me to be her chauffeur for the evening and so I had to accompany her to the church before entertaining her for 2 hours and hauling her off to the reception. Now, I knew my mission was difficult; however, my children have sufficiently broken me so I thought, "What's left of my sanity that my mother could actually break?" (Hint: never ask yourself that question sober!)

The ceremony at the church began at 5pm so it was completely logical that my mother insist we arrive at 4pm to get a good seat. Of course when we arrived the church was locked and therefore we did the next best thing--we walked around the cemetery for 30minutes which in itself is enough to bring your mood to suicidal, but when she stopped at my father's grave to tell him that the refrigerator he bought her 40 years ago finally broke and he did her no favors by building custom cabinets around the refrigerator because now she can't find a g-d refrigerator to fit the g-d space because they don't make that g-d size anymore...!--well, let's just say I was rummaging through my purse for any expired prescription drugs that may be rolling around the bottom of my bag.

Finally, the church doors opened and I convinced my mother to sit in the last pew because I had just come from the pool and a cover-up dress was not appropriate attire for a wedding. The real reason I wanted to sit in the last pew is because my mother is a devout Catholic who believes in confession. Not the "Bless me Father, kneeling in the confessional" confession, but the very loud, very public confessions made from her seat in the pew about the people sitting near and around her. Having not seen her extended family and old friends in quite some time I knew she'd have a lot to say.

As the church began to fill and strangers sat in the pews in front of us I thought we were safe from any family members who would be seated towards the front overhearing the comments I was sure she would make. And then the priest flipped on the two gigantic fans that sat right behind our seat in the last pew. I began to sweat because now the fans would push her comments to the front of the church amplifying her vitriol.

Her first victim was a young cousin of mine who, I admit, is amply endowed and wore a dress that accentuated her healthy cleavage, but my mother in her loud church whisper said, "Will you look at the size of her boobies!" My head snapped to look at my mother in disbelief. Now I'm sitting next to Theresa from Housewives of NJ? "Those boobies are enormous! If she coughs her boobies'll fall to the floor and then what will she do?! I thought your boobies were big, but..."

"Stop saying 'boobies' in church!" I seethed.
"Oh you're being ridiculous!" she snapped back.

I handed her the a copy of the wedding booklet the bride and groom had placed in the pews for guests hoping that it would amuse her. She idly flipped through it and without looking up said, "You should talk to her about her boobies. Tell her about your BREAST REDUCTION."

I nearly pushed her to the floor in matricidal rage. "Stop talking about boobies...her boobies...my boobies...stop!!!" Now I couldn't stop saying boobies and the people seated in the pew in front of us began to shift uncomfortably.

"I'm just saying that you should tell her about your BREAST REDUCTION because your boobies were humung..."

I pinched her arm like she was one of my children and told her if she didn't stop talking about overgrown body parts we were leaving!!!

I couldn't quell the nausea rising like the perfect storm in my belly as the grandmothers of the bride were escorted in. I could tell my mother was shifting her thoughts from boobies to whores when she pointed to a guest and said, "Will you look at her--in that outfit! You know she cheated on her husband in 1955! She always had a reputation as a ..."
Another pinch accompanied with, "DO NOT SAY IT!" Now STOP!"

Now, people were willing to ignore 'boobies' but words like 'cheating on her husband' and 'reputation' registers with people especially when they're directed at a seemingly harmless 80 year old woman.

Just when I thought there was nothing worse she could possibly say it was time for the vows. A hush fell over the congregation when the bride and groom stood to take their vows. I could see that my mother thought this was her cue to give a play-by-play commentary. The first pitch 'whispered' was, "She married someone who's bald? She's so beautiful!" The second pitch: "Why would she want someone who's bald? and is he Mexican or an Arab? I can't tell." The third pitch: "You see that old fat woman wearing that awful red dress with the knee-hi's? She was voted most beautiful in 1945. Look at her now! I hope they don't sit me with her--I'll never get anything to eat at the reception!"

At this point my mom conveniently drops her tissue, bends down to pick it up so that when everyone finally turns around to see who's been spewing all these comments I'm the only one standing. I thought the crowd was going to attack me there and then, but thankfully the priest pronounced the bride and groom, man and wife, and there was no time for retribution of the masses as the newlyweds kissed.

By the time the bride and groom made their way down the aisle, I was hoping to get my hands on some of the sacramental wine because I was done! I made my mother wait until everyone left the church because I wanted to leave by the side door afraid that I would be assaulted by the crowd. However, before I could make my get-a-way my mother said, "Wait, I want to go light a candle. Here-- take this dollar, it would benefit you to light one too. Oh, and don't forget to talk to your cousin with the big boobies about your BREAST REDUCTION!"

"Bless me Father..." I said as I looked up towards the statue of Jesus who, unless my eyes were deceiving me, seemed to be smiling just a little.