i only wear white when it rains

Recently I swapped sleeping in and spilling espresso all over my Sunday morning paper for attending a Catholic mass. Once you recover from the utter shock of that intro, let me explain that I risked the sky falling (I should note that it rained like a mothereffer that morning) so that I could earn the title of godparent for my best friend’s son “Pick.” Choosing me to partake in any child’s spiritual development is like asking Margaret Thatcher to pole dance. It’s unsettling at best. But I think Pick’s parents, The Copper Monkeys, know that when the time comes, I’ll pose as the Attorney General (I mean blow the Dean of Admissions) to get him into Law School. I love the kid that much.

So against their better judgement, The Copper Monkeys ignored their very justified fears of my cleavage offending the priest during the baptism. They overlooked the odds (100 to 1) that I would rather loudly comment on herpes-infested chalices and a very good-looking altar boy. (Settle down. He was at least 25 and clearly hailed from a country known for churning out hotness — like Italy, Spain or…don’t even get me started on my penchant for Brazilians.) They didn’t bat an eye when I insisted that sitting through that long of a mass should be considered a crime against humanity. And never mind that Pick’s mother whispered, “Don’t burn” as the priest sprinkled the congregation with holy water.

The bottom line is that I was there the minute Pick entered this world. Okay, I was there 23 minutes later since I had to stop for Starbucks, and it took me a little longer than expected to coerce the security guard into letting me park in a reserved for emergencies spot. I was the one who almost punched the lactation consultant as she dangled a newborn Pick in the air like a dish towel while she crushed his mom’s swollen nipples into a Nazi vice grip. I’m also the primary suspect in a Pick Amber Alert. The Copper Monkeys check my Louis Vuitton backpack whenever I leave their house because there is a good chance I’m trying to smuggle that little guy out for some exersaucing and a onesie shopping spree. So suffice it to say I’m the natural choice to throw him a kick-ass Jesus party when he receives communion in about seven years.

Plus, I feel a certain responsibility to ensure he refrain from drinking out of the community wine chalice once he earns the right to get drunk off of the Jesus blood. I already have my speech planned:

Me: “Pick – you wouldn’t kiss every girl in your school, would you?”

Pre-pubescent Pick: “Um. Yes I would.”

Me, pointing to Lucas Lightning: “Okay, well, you wouldn’t kiss that guy, would you?”

Pick: “Ew. No way. He drinks Charlattes.”

Me: “Okay then. Jesus Christ. Don’t drink from the chalice then. And ask what year/vineyard that Jesus blood is. No godson of mine is drinking cheap wine.”

So after scripting precautionary warnings about the need for Purelling after the “peace be with you” handshake-and-hug-a-thon and trying to formulate an algorithm for outlet shopping during the holidays, the 14-hour long mass was coming to a close. I was on deck for the actual baptism and feeling surprisingly nervous. Although I am already the godparent for my cousin’s precious little nugget, I’m ashamed to admit the extent of my involvement in her christening (due to the fact that she lives six states away) was the mailing of a David Yurman cross. Now here I am in a ridiculously unflattering Nanette Lepore brocade suit, looking like a flight attendant trying to conjure up the Lord’s Prayer from somewhere in the depths of my agnostic bowels while standing before a thousand-year-old priest with a distracting amount of basal cell carcinomas peppering his face.

Then as if the pressure of hiding my apostasy wasn’t enough to make my boobs sweat like a can of Coors Light at the Daytona 500, the priest asked if I was willing to “renounce Satan’s temptations.” Um. Am I going to get disqualified if I ask you to clarify what exactly you mean by that? Can I never eat a fat-laden slice of Starbucks holiday gingerbread? Will I have to refuse Penelope’s pre-party punch? Skip the Neiman Marcus Last Call Sale?

Luckily before I could dissolve into a complete mess, suffering from caffeine withdrawals and screaming, “Jesus Fucking Christ. I am so not cut out for this,” the priest opened a sparkly container of something that resembled hair pomade and distracted me from the fact that I was beginning to believe church and hell were indistinguishable.

“Smell this,” he said, waving the waxy substance beneath the noses of Pick’s two sisters since, it goes without saying, I smelled that stuff before it cleared customs. “This perfume is $500 an ounce.”

Holy shit.

My Godson doesn’t just get a dirty church water bath. He gets the Catholic equivalent of Chanel No 5 rubbed on his forehead. I looked at The Copper Monkeys wondering how much coin they fork over each week. Isn’t this extravagant? A bit much? Is no one asking why Pick’s pomade is so damn expensive? The kid doesn’t even have hair yet. But…I think I love this church.

And from that point on, I couldn’t help but wonder what sort of shoes the priest was sporting beneath that robe. If a thimble of his “perfume” was $500, I’m guessing father basal cell was probably sporting Gucci loafers. Okay, so maybe the church collection is better spent on the homeless, scholarships, or a dermatologist for the clergy, but the thought that this imposing, sun-damaged priest might be rocking Prada Oxfords made me feel like he wasn’t such a scary guy after all.

As for the renouncing Satan stuff? Don’t worry. Totally had my fingers crossed.