The Brad Pitt Factor

Friday afternoon I get a frantic call from Becca.

"PLEASE TELL ME YOU DON'T HAVE PLANS FOR SUNDAY."

I do a quick mental inventory. Please. (mental laughter) Like I'd EVER make plans for a Sunday. Sunday is when I sleep.

"I really need a favor."

Silence.

Fuck. I'm thinking, how do I get out of this? Sunday is MY day. I do not share this day with ANYONE unless expressly invited.

I have to ask.

"Um. What is it?"

"Well, you'd be getting paid."

I do perk up a bit. Because I am poor, you see. And I just may sacrifice a Sunday for a bit of cash.

"You'd only have to work from like 10:30 till 1:30."

"What would I have to do?" I say this with enough trepidation that if the 'favor' is at all repugnant, I can gracefully bow out.

"You just have to run the nursery at my church for a couple of hours. I'm not going to be back until Sunday afternoon so I can't make it and EVERYONE ELSE IS OUT OF TOWN AND THE WHOLE CHURCH IS FREAKING OUT."

The irony does not escape me. I don't even go to church. But fuck it. They're paying me to run after infants. It can't be that bad.

So I agree. Excited that I'll get to play with wee infants and toddlers (I'm a sucker for cute ones, though don't for one second think I might push one out of my vaginey) and even more excited that someone is going to pay me SIXTY DOLLARS to hand out animal crackers and play-doh.

Here's where you're probably expecting a story relating to my heinous experience with the monstrous heathens that blossom only when the mommies and daddies leave the nursery. But no. No such story. The kids were unbelievably cute and sweet and nice smelling. Not one poopy diaper needed to be changed. And they all thought I was cool because I had a shiny in my nose and noisy, sparkalie bracelets.

No, this story actually goes wrong while standing in the buffet line outside the church. It was roughly 10:15 and the overly-competent woman who runs play-time and snack-time and kid-time at the church had given me a tour of the nursery digs and shown me where the baby wipes were and then pushed me outside to taste their famous cheese grits and cheese eggs with mushrooms and chives.

I smiled tautly and hoped it came off as genuine. I couldn't escape and I knew it. I'd have to stand in the moving, snaking line that protuded from the white tents set up in the parking lot for the May Day celebration. (Sidenote: Are they aware May Day has a seriously non-Christian, non-JesusLovesMeThisIKnow history?)

So I'm standing in line, being greeted by anyone and everyone who recognizes me as a new face and feels it's their Happy Christian duty to shake my hand and inquire as to the whereabouts of my normal church that they've so sneakily stolen me from just to watch their precious and cuddly infants. I smile and say "here and there" only because I know it's not advisable to launch into any kind of religious discussion while standing in the buffet line at a Lutheran church.

And while I'm standing in line, basking in my first full minute of peace, I feel a hand on my arm.

"Rachel, right?"

I look up into the strangely familiar face of a very Amazonian-like woman standing directly besie me.

"No, it's not Rachel, is it? I can't remember names for anything.. Do you remember me? We used to work at Dillards together?"

Random, but yes, I recognize her.

So I respond.

"Liz, right?"

She beams like she's won the lottery.

"I thought it was you over here. I know you left about two weeks after I did and I had heard rumors that you were working with J at your new place so I just HAD to come over here and ask about him."

ARE YOU SERIOUS? SHE WALKED ACROSS A CROWDED TENT FULL OF BRIGHTLY DRESSED SOCCER MOMS TO INQUIRE ABOUT A POTENTIAL PIECE OF ASS???

She went on to ask me if I knew if J and "the girlfriend" had gotten engaged and then listened to a very lengthy schpill detailing WHY they should NOT get engaged and if I see him tell him she said "hi" and that she works at XYZ Company and she'd LOVE to hear from him and doesn't he just have the best ass and did I ever try out the goods once I started working at MonotonyLand, Inc and I'd tell her if I got to try out the goods, right, because she wouldn't be jealous but she'd just DIE if she knew if he was a good "catch" (actually made with fingers forming quotation marks in air while winking as if to say, subtly, I wonder if he's a good fuck but I can't ask that question at a church gathering) and if Sara's 9-incher claims were really true (at which point I do sort of gag, because I had pegged him as being a bit, okay, A LOT above a girl like Sara {pregnant by a man not her husband, on meth, crazy and, oh, FUCKING CRAZY} ) and the things she's saying involve words that imply first-hand knowledge and I start to remember those times I use to laugh and tell J what new scheme Sara had concocted to get in his pants that week and I cringe because his dismay at her agression seemed quite real and I'm grossed out and weirded out and, again, I'M FUCKING STUCK IN A BUFFET LINE A MILE LONG AT A CHURCH GATHERING, PREVENTING ME FROM SCREAMING "OH MY FUCKING GOD" AT THIS AMAZON WOMAN AND TAKING MY SHORT, STUMPY LEGS AND MY FRIZZY HAIR AND MAKING A RUN FOR MY CAR.

So I smile. I tell her I haven't really kept those kinds of tabs on him. I tell her I never tried to "try out the goods" because he's in my category of "otherwise occupied" and when I met him I had just started the downward spiral in my psuedo relationship with Jon and was more interested in making it to my car at night without Jon driving by to check on my whereabouts than locating the whereabouts of J's purported 9-inch dick. I tell her I was unaware of Sara's exploits and, for the sake of what I truly believe is a good person, did express doubt that in her overly-hormonal and slightly cracked out state she was able to distinguish between reality and fantasy. And then I tell her that I'll be sure and pass along her well-wishes.

I'm done, DONE, being polite to weirdos. I mean, why would you approach me to get the lowdown on some guy you know next to nothing about, that you worked with for a mere few months, and that you assume I'll be willing to shell out information on?

WHY DO FREAKS ALWAYS APPROACH ME?

I thought I only attracted male freaks but upon further consideration I've realized I attract ALL FREAKS, REGARDLESS OF GENDER.

So I'm going to hit the D (a place, not a person) for a little Sunday night action with a bottle of beer and a play-by-play account of Becca's trip to Memphis in May and my utter dismay at being so close to seeing The Killers but being SO FAR AWAY.

And then it will be Monday. Rock on.