Last night I had to go to St Martin of Tours church to attend pre-Jordan class. I am going to be the godmother of my sister's son, Liam. Not William, or Leon, which are two of the most common mishearings of his name that we've gotten. Hey, kid, I understand, people say "Warren?" to me when I say my name. Uh, yeah, my mom thought I looked manly when I was born. Come on!
Anyway, so here we are, sitting in this SWELTERING hot church. You'd think because of all the marble in the joint, it might be cool. WRONG! So I'm sticking to the pew, right up front, while this nun yammers on and on about the Church. She really dumbed it down, too. She didn't seem to know the PX symbol has a real name, the chi-rho, or that it spells the first two letters of christ. It's an early christian symbol, Constantine, in hoc signo vincit and all that stuff. So anyway, we're getting the whole Catholic lite treatment. One thing she really hammered home was the paschal candle. Sister, remember when we lied and said that we're all good, practicing Catholics? Yeah, we all know what that big ole candle in the front is, m'kay?
Why is it that all nuns smell the same, anyway? They take a vow of poverty, so maybe they all have to use the same products and that's why? It's a mix of old lady smell, undoubtedly the products, and mothballs, and maybe a little old lady perfume. Weird.
Anyway, back to the heat. I had sweat dripping down my back as I sat there and smelled olive oil and chrism. And then she kinda skimmed over what we actually have to do the day of the Christening. So I don't know who holds the baby, and what I have to do, and the godfather doesn't know that he has to light the baptismal candle (I only know because I saw a baptism this week at church. What, I do go, about 50% of the time.) It was just like our wedding rehearsal, except this nun last night didn't yell at us the whole time and make me cry. The wedding Nazi was awful, and which of my friends did she like the most that night? Jim, good old, messy, often looks like he's homeless jim. Jim courts the tortured artist thing sometimes, and his hair is wild and curly. He's often mistaken for being Middle Eastern, but he's just regular old Italian. Sicilian to be exact. The reason the catholic nazi liked him was because he was wearing a tie and kissing her ass to make fun of her. Good ole Jim.
So what I'm trying to say with this whole entry is that I feel a little unprepared to do this whole godmother thing. I hope I do a good job, because I've never done this before. I mean, I'll be able to always be there for little william, and I'll always be a doting godmother to lil leon, but I just hope I don't fall into the font.