The Dog Days Are Over

This one might be a li’l rough.  Cause I’m a li’l wasted.   Ya hurd me?  I started the morning off with all kinds of craziness, having to get everyone ready for school early because it was Mom’s Club Mass at the big Darling’s school.  You don’t miss Mass with the muthas.  Ya hurd me?  Here’s the thing about Mass.  It’s hard.  Hard for me to do it.  In order to get through church, I have to think of ridiculously inappropriate images.  Otherwise I will lay on the floor and cry.  And then you all will lay on the floor and cry.  Mass will be ruined, on account of all the muthas laying on the floor crying.  So, instead of paying attention during church, I think of inappropriate stuff.  You name it.  I think of it.  When desperate, I even think of...well...I'm not even going to say it.  I think of other stuff too.  Like if child laborers hemmed the dress of the mutha in front of me.  I wonder what country they are from, and if they have enough to eat.  I wonder where people bought their shoes.  What people had for breakfast.  Anything to not think about what the priest is saying.  Because I can’t deal with what he’s saying.  I can’t deal with the fact that one of the muthas is sitting right where I sat at the funeral.  I can’t deal with the fact that Dave’s casket was sitting right there not too long ago.  I can’t deal with the fact that I walked out of here that day, with all my babies hanging off of me, and walked what seemed like a mile to the back doors of the church, and then Dave’s body was put into a hearse and driven to the funeral home and was burned up to be cremated.  How hot did it have to get?  What did it smell like?  What did it look like?  That body, that I made love to, and made babies with, and kissed and stroked and all.  That body that put that gun just so, and did that.  So I think of inappropriate things, because I can’t go there.  Soon it’s the part where we all hold hands and say the Our Father.  Suddenly, I’m connected to all the muthas.  And I can’t hold it in anymore.  Because I feel all the muthas.  I feel their pain, my pain, their hope, my hope.  And so the tears fall, while I think of anything I can muster to make them stop.   I’m doing pretty good, by pretending to be a hard ass with no feelings in church.  The mutha on side of me watches me nervously.  I love her.  I don’t dare pray.  I can only do that at home.  And believe me, I do.  A lot.  With fervor.  Then, because it’s a Mother’s Day thing, one of the muthas reads a poem about mothers.  Only she cries.  Shit.  She’s not supposed to cry, because now I’m crying.  Hurry.  It is really uncomfortable for me.  And I hate that it’s uncomfortable.  I don’t want it to be this way.  When will it not be this way?  Soon enough, it is over, and I can go.  The muthas hug me, and ask if I’m ok.  I say no.  I’m not fucking ok. But I’m about to be ok, because there is good news.  A bunch of us are going to brunch at a cool place, then to Jazz Fest, to celebrate an early Mother’s Day.  We meet for brunch and start drinking giant mimosas.  We have fabulous food, like shrimp and grits. We talk and laugh and cackle and have fun.  We all pile into a Mercedes SUV and head to the Fest.  We have a parking pass, which means we bypass everyone and everything and park near the main stages.  We are picked up by a golf cart, because we are too important to even walk the little bit to the Miller VIP tent in which we are headed.  This is so the way to do the Fest.  I laugh, because I’m going back Saturday with different friends, and I won’t have this parking pass, and I’m going to be bitching and moaning the whole way.  Ya hurd me?  We eat ridiculously good food, like crawfish Monica, Cuban sandwiches, and bread stuffed with all kinds of delicious things.  We pour smuggled vodka from our water bottles into our iced herbal teas and giggle. It’s good to be in Nola today, and it’s good to be with the muthas.  The evening winds down with Florence and the Machine at the Gentilly stage.  I’m looking at Florence on the stage, and at the same time I’m looking at the most enormous live oak tree off to the left of the stage.  It must be 200 years old.  It’s breathtaking.  Simultaneously, I’m studying a tattoo that’s spread across the upper back of a girl in front of me.  It’s a live oak.  It looks exactly like the tree to the left of the stage.  Florence is belting out “The Dog Days are Over” and I’m so hoping she’s right.