As I mentioned the other day, Chooch’s Kindergarten class got strapped with “Up On the Rooftop” for the school recital, so I had to endure two weeks of random “CLICK CLICK CLICK!!!!!!11” outbursts. The recital was this morning, so I have high hopes that perhaps this nerve-prickling carol will be put to bed.
Remember a few weeks ago when I went to Saint Anthony’s and the Holy Ghost anally entered me, deluding me into thinking that I should start going to church? That was obviously a very fleeting consideration, because from the moment I set foot in that church this morning (Chooch goes to Catholic school, remember? Please swallow your need to put out this glaring irony), the mark of the Devil on the nape of my neck began to singe and I was afraid to open my mouth for fear of the parseltongue that would come somersaulting out.
Most of those parents are True Catholics. I watched in disgust as some of them genuflected every time they went in and out of their pew. Get a fucking grip, you God nerds. This is just a bunch of beaten-down moms watching their tone deaf kids sing obnoxious Christmas carols. There wasn’t even a priest in sight!
Fuck, some people have a lot of respect.
Before the recital started (if the 8th grade band honking and squelching on their ragtag instruments counts as kicking off a recital), the principal got up on the podium and reminded everyone that this is, after all, a church (don’t let those stained glass windows fool you into thinking you’re in a gothic strip club) and that all cell phones should be turned off (make me) and all hats removed. Because God hates a fucking hat.
“Dude, take your hat off,” I whispered to Henry.
“No,” he said defiantly.
After the band wheezed and puffed their way through some handicapped version of a Christmas carol (“Away in a Manger” maybe? The mind has a funny way of blocking out traumas), the prinicpal once again took her spot at the podium and reiterated in a very Mussolini-tone that THIS IS A CHURCH, HELLO YOU HAT-WEARING MOTHERFUCKER, TAKE IT THE FUCK OFF YOUR HEATHEN HEAD.
Again, Henry made no effort to take off his hat. People were starting to turn around, scanning the heads of the audience for that douchebag with a covered scalp.
Henry was the only one wearing a hat.
I waited a beat for God to blast his Heavenly spotlight upon Henry’s cotton-topped pate.
“Take it off!” I hissed.
“Me?” He asked. No, the other blue collar beverage warehouse worker. He finally pulled his beanie off his head, and then promplty started muttering about how his hair was still wet. I didn’t even care at that point. I hate having people look at me and I’d rather be the poor lady next to the douchebag who dared come to church straight from the New England fishing boat than the lady next to the man who needs a hairdryer for Christmas.
O Come (the Fuck On and Finish the Goddamn Song), Emmanuel. WHAT. Seriously, this is the longest song in the history of songs I have heard and been annoyed by. Some of the upper classes would sing like, two stanzas and then pause to have the fucking principal read some religious shit. It went on and on like this. Singing. [ME, TWEETING] Religious shit. [BABY CRYING] Singing. [OLD PERSON COUGHING] Religious Shit. The parents were encouraged to sing along and everyone (but me) made a mad dash for the Missalette. Even Henry eventually grabbed one, but I think it was just so he could distract himself from the shame he felt for being That Douche In the Hat.
After what seemed like an eternity, but was actually only fifteen minutes (which, in church time, IS ETERNITY), the Kindergarteners finally took the stage (altar?) and there was a rush of parents into the aisle, cameras and phones in hand. I was actually a Good Mom and joined them because I wanted to record it on my phone. I am a Very Good Recorderer, as you are about to find out. Plus, you get to hear my whiny voice in the beginning and Henry having no patience.
I am so happy that after all that “practice” he did in the house, in the car, in my nightmares, he just STOOD THERE SMILING and NOT SINGING. He didn’t even do the arm motions!
Oh well. At least it was a short song.
Right after they were done, Henry said all quickly, “OK, gotta go back to work see ya bye!” and LEFT ME ALONE IN CHURCH. Some little girl in the pew in front of me kept turning around and gawking at my finger tattoos and I was feeling extremely uncomfortable and kept averting my eyes. God, I don’t like little girls. And this one wouldn’t just sit the fuck down, either. SIT THE FUCK DOWN! DON’T YOU KNOW GOD IS WATCHING YOU?
It seemed like I was there all day. My lower back was burning from sitting on that goddamn pew. The principal made this smooth transition from school recital to MASS by ending with some lame ass prayer and making us all do the Sign of the Cross (I remembered how to do it! Then I was like, “I can’t believe I just mindlessly followed along like a fucking sheep! I hate myself!”) and it ended with a part of church that I had forgotten about: that weird Flanders-esque “Peace be with you” segment where everyone engages in a mad flurry of spreading viruses and pestilence through clammy-palmed handshakes. I found my shoulders rising as the rest of me slid lower and lower still in the pew. I knew at least the little girl wouldn’t turn around, wanting to shake my weird tattooed hands, so what a blessing after all.
I made it out without having to touch anyone or look anyone in the eye or speak to anyone about anything in general. And the roof didn’t collapse. All good things.
Oh, and I got to see my kid wearing cute antlers, which was the whole point, right?