I am a Godfather, it seems

bride
A bride waits outside the Basilica for her big moment.

FOR THE FIRST time in my life, I have been roped into the role of Godfather.

This is strange due to my not being a Catholic or a Christian or even a believer as they define it. I’ve dodged this job a number of times since moving south many years ago, but I finally got volunteered by my child bride. I don’t recall if she asked me first or not. She likely did due to being a Mexican wife.

They are quite different from Gringas. Better.

While I am the Godfather, she is the Godmother, and she did all the work. I just showed up yesterday and tried to look devout. I was the only Gringo there, so I stuck out like the proverbial sore thumb.

Our guest of honor, our Godson, is the second child of a nephew. The baby, about eight months old, is named Oliver Lobsang if you can believe it. Lobsang is not his last name. It’s his middle name, and Oliver Lobsang doesn’t even like me. He howls when I enter the room. He’s anti-Gringo.

But now I’m his Godfather. Take that, Oliver Lobsang!

When we showed up at the Basilica downtown at 1 p.m., there was lots of activity, mucho money-making on the part of the priests. A little girl was getting what I assumed was her First Communion. Waiting in the wings outside was a bride-to-be. That’s her in the photo. Fewer quesadillas, honeybun.

The Baptism took place in a side chapel, and there were about eight babies being soaked at the same time. God gets assembly lines.

I assumed a sanctified face, exuding spirituality.

The deed being done, we headed nearby to the traditional party. Tacos were served, as was beer, Sprite, Coca-Cola, salty nuts and a big cake. I only stayed an hour because the music was loud, and those things run on forever.

As I stepped out to the cobblestoned street, I heaved my Holiness aside, and headed to the Honda with a smile on my face. I’m a Godfather. I hope Oliver Lobsang doesn’t expect much from me. I was dragooned, amigo.

Fooling God

plants
Saturday morning on the veranda

THIS SATURDAY is somewhat different than most, so I thought I’d gossip with you about it.

Normally, Saturdays are identical. My child bride is in her private kitchen out by the property wall, preparing her pastries for the afternoon sale on the big plaza downtown.

But not today.  She’s going to church this morning.

But first, here’s what I’m doing, and it’s not much different than what I do every Saturday morning. I make rounds under the cursed peach tree scooping up fallen peaches to toss out.

Then I sweep the veranda. I hear the shower running in the bathroom, and I hear a lively Mexican tune blaring from the backstreet neighbors. I also hear the electric pump that’s sending water from the underground cistern to the tank atop the roof. And I hear birds. Lots of stuff to listen to.

Soon I’ll be hearing the lawnmower and weedeater because Abel the Deadpan Yardman arrives later to trim the grass.

The sky is blue. The air is crisp. The lawn is wet because it rained quite a spell last night, making sweet sounds.

Now here’s why she’s going to church. It’s to fool God.

Relatives often ask us to be godparents to the endless array of babies they birth because we look like the best deal going in the family. Problem is that our marriage was only a civil one, not a religious one. A judge connected us, and that’s not good enough to be godparents. I suppose we’re seen as living in sin.

There has been a recent spate of new babies among the bunny-breeding kin, so we received at least two new invites to godparenting. I pass. But my child bride really wants to. There’s nothing she loves more than babies.

This morning, she’s pretending to be single to get the proper paperwork, so she can be a godmother without me tagging along. The proper paperwork requires a three-hour instruction from a priest. She’s doing that in a church downtown.

I hope she remembers to remove her wedding ring.

This amuses me while I sweep the veranda and wait for Abel to cut the grass that I’ve already liberated of fallen, rotting peaches.

It’s a lovely morning.

A good child

Kandra

RECENTLY, A READER lamented that I no longer write about my Mexican relatives, something I used to do quite often.

So here is one of my kinfolk, the lovelier variety. She is 5 years old and the daughter of a nephew who’s had a very difficult life. But things are going rather well for this little girl so far.

When my wife recently asked her why she was so pretty, she replied that it was the way God sent her.

Can’t argue with that. Her name is Kandra.

War against men

I’M MAD AS Hell, and I’m not taking it anymore!

To what am I referring? The corporate war against men. Corporations are the root of all evil, as any clueless Smith College coed will assure you.

And what is the specific battlefield on which I wage war today? To wit: There are two sizes of nail clippers, right? A small version for fingers, and a large version for feet.

But those sizes are for women exclusively. The foot version doesn’t work for men’s feet unless the man is a midget.

I use the foot version for my fingers because the finger version fits my fingernails about as well as the foot version fits my footnails, which is to say not at all.

This is a clear corporate attack on men’s rights, men’s Constitutional and God-given rights to have neat feet.

And I’m sick unto death of it.

footLet’s be clear: The “big” clipper is about half as wide as my big toenail. And the smaller clipper for fingers likewise goes about halfway across my nails.

What are we to use? Hatchets? Cutlasses?

This is a feminist-lesbian plot* to diminish men, to put us in our place. I encourage all men to withhold sex from their women until something is done about this outrage.

Man up for nail clipper equality!

* * * *

*Yes, feminist-lesbians are in bed with corporations. Who knew?