Cathal and Gareth joined us for Easter Mass at the Cathedral in Denver. On and on, mass went, each word dripping from the lips of the poorly dressed Psalm reader like molasses. I looked around at a sea of scrunchies and elastic waist jeans, people put into a trancelike state by the most boring Easter Mass in the history of Catholicism. And even sneaking out after communion to meet dear Molly for brunch, I wouldn't shut up about the shitty service, the boring priest, the crappy Easter outfits.
And suddenly, from upon high, God retaliated.
And I ate concrete.
My perfect floral silk skirt flying into the air, one shoe twisted in irreversible disrepair, an entire leg torn to shreds and a family shocked into silence.
Instant karma. I now believe in God.
I also realized that I hate children.
I used to say that I took kids like I take pets and the elderly; on a case by case basis. I'm not one of those, "Oh, I love kids!" girly girls who'll make wacky faces at every drolling toddler with sticky hands.
I love some kids.
Or at least I did. But after flying home, obscenely hungover, behind William the screamer, I give up. In the great words of Mama Fratelli, kids suck.
William wouldn't shut up, belting out his cries like he was being stabbed with his complimentary swizzle stick. His idiot father, in an attempt to shut him up, gave him these bizarrely heavy metal toy trucks, which William, still screaming, chose to throw. The old lesbian on my right leaned over. "I think it's time to put the damn truck away."
I took a pained sip of coffee, crossed my bruised legs and responded, "I think it's time to put William down with the luggage."
As if on cue, the plane surged with turbulence.
Shit, here comes that karma...