Smelly Cat, Smeeeellllly Cat!

I am not about to “look over there.”

I am seriously considering whether it is too big a risk to yank my daughter’s rabbit fur earflap hat off of her little head and jam it on my own and exit the building incognito.

Probably. I am not known for blending in to begin with. I may as well just send up a flare.

Without looking up at anyone and while pretending to be completely consumed with my daughter instead of the fact that I am pitting out, I whisper back into her ear. “Where exactly? On the other side of the church? In front of us or behind us, or OH GOD, next to us???”

She tells me that she thinks he is on the far side of the church. Across the aisle somewhere imprecise.

I whisper again. “Under the window of St. Anthony of Padua or closer to the one of St. Rita, honey?

“Really, Mom?” she says with a sarcastic shift in the eyebrows that I can tell is there, even with the furry forehead flap reaching down to her eyelids.

I toy with the idea of asking her to describe what he is wearing so I can pick him out more efficiently. My eyesight is not what it used to be; it would take me a few minutes to focus sufficiently enough to distinguish Casey from a kangaroo. He’ll surely catch me staring. Not a good plan.

I decide I will not look around to ascertain the enemy’s position and will instead, for the moment, will myself to be invisible.

What if he sees me first? I am suddenly completely self-conscious and adjusting all of my garments to make sure nothing is inadvertently on the loose.

What, pray tell, is my hair doing right about now?
Do my children look like they were raised by wolves?
Did the harangue that was the journey from house to car to church leave me looking more frowzy than fabulous?
Do I look fat in these pants?
Why on Earth do I care?

And here is where I tune out Father’s introduction of the pimply-faced seminarian who is here to chat up the priesthood and encourage us to encourage our boys to enter the seminary. I want to dwell on a little insight into the female psyche for a moment.

Whether they are good, bad, ugly, or of no consequence, we want to be considered attractive and desirable by all male beings. On all levels. Pretty much everyone. Even those guys who still live with their mothers, or who wear socks with their sandals, or who are drunken meanies, or who have been incarcerated on and off since the Ford Administration, or whose breath could tarnish precious metals.

And so while I am loathe to have to speak to Casey, (for reasons that transcend his atrocious breath) and would feign a seizure to avoid any kind of interaction with him, and don’t want to Friend him on Facebook, and certainly don’t want to date him, if he happens to get a glimpse of me before I run screaming from the building, I don’t want him thinking “Ick! I am glad that didn’t pan out!”

I want him thinking I am the cat’s pajamas.

And I want him thinking "Lucky cat."