Today was my mother’s birthday brunch, starring the entire family, from the oldest, my grandfather at eighty-eight years old, to the youngest, my nephew at eight minutes old. Or eight days. Or something. He looks like Billy Barty, if that makes any difference to the story. Whenever I’m around my nine nieces and nephews, I feel hideously inadequate because they despise me to a one. I asked three of them if they’d ever like to spend the night at Uncle David’s house, a prospect they viewed with as exactly as much enthusiasm as a visit to Dracula’s castle. I don’t know what I do to deserve such horror. When I pay them to say I’m their favorite uncle, they take the money happily enough, but when push comes to shove, it’s the old heave-ho for poor Uncle Dracula. My only reward at these gatherings is getting to feel like Jane Goodall amongst the apes. People like Jane Goodall, don’t they? At the very least she was a saint to those apes. When one of my nieces arrived at the restaurant, she emptied a plastic bag of Disney Princesses onto the floor, attracting my other niece like a fly to honey. They divided this ladylike battalion between them, admiring their beautiful dresses and hair, and when my nephew asked to play, one of them shrieked and beat him over the head with Princess Jasmine.
Later, my brother brought his son over and, using him as a ventriloquist’s dummy, asked me to be my new niece’s godfather. This was an eerie moment, largely because of the particular vocalization the ventriloquist felt was necessary, but also because my first thought was, as an atheist, I might not be the most apt choice for this role. But then I figured, what the hell. My other goddaughter turned out well enough, and when she got married in a church, none of us burst into flames. When her real father unexpectedly died, I was there for her, and I seem to recall sending her a serape when I was in Mexico.
Last night, at an event with the potential baptizee’s mother, we discussed this very thing. If she was feeling me out as a candidate, she was very subtle about it, but maybe I was just distracted by all the dolphins. The point is, she said that as long as a potential godparent is spiritual, it didn’t matter to her if they were Catholic. Let me tell you, Internet, I am as spiritual as fuck. I take every movement of dust as a meaningful sign from the universe, my shamanic ritual to evoke good parking spaces is almost always effective, and at least three of my chakras are in perfect working order. I have experience with yoga, erecting wards to banish wicked spirits, reading tarot cards, casting runes and the I Ching, kabalistic folklore, karmic retribution . . . and I no longer feel like clawing my brain out when I try to meditate, which is a distinct improvement.
If nothing else, I can probably conjure up another serape. And of course, the unsuspecting parents have ample time to change their minds.
