Thirty Year Old Jail Bait? It Really IS the New Twelve!

Let me start out by stating that I've missed you, dear bloggery. The waves of joblessness and poverty ebb and flow, thus I have had less time to pour out my ridiculous soul. I'll take busy over broke ANY day of the week, though. That being said.....
Today when I left church, I didn't feel the spiritual upliftedness that gets me through to, say, Thursday. Today was different. Today I needed several showers and a nap.
Mind you, I did not show up to church today wearing a whore's uniform, either. I wore the cutest blood orange colored linen dress WITH a slip (thank you, Granny), BELOW the knee (cute shoes, too- one of the colors on the shoe matched the dress perfectly, and the heel was just low enough to be comfy). My cutest accessory, Party Sub, was on my lap.
The Party Sub is the reason I usually sit close to the back- in case I have to dash from the church to change a diaper or murder a toddler (Buzz Lightyear goes to Children's church, Carlton Banks, Teen Church). Today, ushers sit us next to the sweetest looking elderly man with thick glasses and two hearing aids. He looks at Party Sub and goes, " CUTE BABY!!! HOW OLD IS HE?!?!?"
Yep- it was THAT loud. During Preservice prayer.

Hold onto your panties, girls. It only goes downhill from here.

He goes on to tell me, during preservice prayer, that he is a ninety one year old Navy Veteran who finally got his recognition from the government, and how he had SO much fun in Normandy last month (thanks, POTUS*, for the pick up line), and now he just needs someone to share his life with.

WHAT? What life? Didn't you just say you were ninety one? Ninety one is SO not the new fifty one, dude.

You know that record scratching noise that happens on television when some bull shit is going down?

I could totally hear it.

Then, he asks me if I am married.

Oh. Hell. No.....

Thankfully (I think), a lady comes and tells him, REALLY LOUDLY, that we are still having prayer time, and to shut up (politely, though).

What does Jesus's third cousin do? He pulls out a PEN.

And writes me a NOTE.

He asks, AGAIN, if I am married. I nod yes.

He asks if I am happy. I nod yes and point to the obvious indicator (a baby) on my lap.

He asks if I need a "friend". I look around for Ashton Kutcher.

As I look for Ashton Kutcher, I see an usher. I whisper the exchange to him, and he LAUGHS.

NOT what I am looking for, here.

He tells me to take it as a compliment and see if I can get his check. Funny, but as much as I need money, I don't want it like that.....

BLETCH. I experience the tiniest of dry heaves here.

Service goes on, and he leans over to look on in my Bible before the preacher begins. At this point, Sub Sandwich is getting sleepy, so the "mommy take out your boob" wrestling match begins.

Old dude is VISIBLY delighted.

So delighted, that he drools on my Bible. Splash.

I know.

You can fling yourselves back into your seat and scream now.

I will pause to allow you to compose yourself.

As I am finally able to wrestle Sub Sandwich's tiny (but very strong) arm from between the buttons of my dress, Chester the Molester suddenly leaps (as fast as he could, anyway) from the pew and races out with his "excuse me" finger held towards Heaven. Then I look over.

And see the wet spot, about the size of a dollar bill (scream again here).

Why Jesus, why?

Don't stop reading. The worst is yet to come.

The usher (the same one, no less) comes with gloves and a cloth, and gives the spot a quick spritz. When the molester returns, the dollar sized spot is covered. Yes, he RETURNS. I guess a little pee in the drawers never stopped a budding romance (he thinks romance, I think stalking)?

Then he writes me a note telling me I am nice, and get this, "prettie". I guess they spelled it that way before the Civil War? As I smile and nod.....

He puts his HAND on my damn thigh. Next to the BABY.

I'll pause again here.

I know I looked at this hand in horror. What I don't know is for how long. I also know that I took that cold ass, bony, ninety one year old hand between my thumb and forefinger and flung it so hard I almost broke is whole arm.

He was completely unbothered by this.

I think he just wanted me to touch him.

GROSS.

So then I write HIM a note, telling him that the pastor was preaching about living a holy life, but I would kill him if he did that again. Also, that there was a girl two rows in front of us that seemed to be wearing a blouse for a dress. He smiled and nodded.

After the benediction, I raced for the door, going the long way down the pew so as not to give Grandpa Perv an accidental lap dance and heart attack.

I swore, as I was leaving, that I heard the shriek of a woman with a hand under her blouse as she passed by. I mean dress.

Dress.

Really (no, not really. It WAS a freaking blouse. Sheer- with no slip. Being a size zero does not allow you to show up a Jesus's house dressed like a hooker. Come as you are, my ass. It was a BLOUSE. It barely crested the bottom of her nonexistent ass.).

Don't ask me what the Pastor talked about today. I really have NO idea.

And so, that was today.....

*POTUS is President of the United States, dumb ass. We don't call the Commander in Chief by his first name like he is our homeboy or something. Oh, and God bless America. Not the person, the country. Just so you know, that's a stupid name. Just saying.