Happy Birthday, Jesus! Part 2

Link to Part 1

After the Methodists, the Pineda family singers took a well-deserved food break. And if you’ve spent any time with my family, you know not to get between us and our plate unless you’re looking to lose a finger. Unfortunately, the time between the Methodist service (aka church job 1) and the Catholic Mass we were scheduled to sing at next (aka church job 2) didn’t give us the requisite nap and digestion period we normally require. This, of course, left us all nauseous and extremely irritable for the Catholics.

So grudgingly, we jumped in the van - bloated bellies and all - and headed to Our Lady of Lourdes to rehearse for midnight mass. Another nasty side effect of eating right before a performance is increased phlegm production. So halfway to the church I had worked up a nice, juicy loogy and had nowhere to spit. Trish asked Val for a plastic water bottle she had left in the front seat. I dutifully deposited my spit in the empty container when Trish remarked, “This bottle wasn’t empty before.” To which Val replied, “No, I was really thirsty earlier and drank it.” After an initial confused/horrified look on Trish’s face, she started cracking up and said, “I’ve had strep throat the last couple of weeks and I’ve been spitting in this bottle that whole time. And you drank it - the whole thing!” Of course, normal people would have been sickened or nauseated by the thought, but we’re not normal people, Dammit! We’re Pineda’s, and we thought this was the most hilarious thing we’d ever heard and couldn’t stop laughing all the way to Church. Val then reminded us how she had been complaining all week about not feeling well, and that made us laugh even harder. Aren’t we just sick?!? Of course, Trish immediately had to call our white son, Chris Grimm, and tell him all about how Val drank Trish’s nasty spit water. FYI, Chris thought it was hilarious, too, and that’s why he fits perfectly into our sick little family. And although still painfully bloated, we at least arrived at Church giddily happy.

Once there, we thought, “This’ll be easy. Just sing a couple of carols and we’re out of here.” Of course, nothing is easy. As soon as we arrived, John, the musical director asked if any of us knew the recit before the "Glory To God" from Messiah. I wanted to say, “Hell’s no.” But instead, we all just looked at each other and shrugged. Of course, being siblings, I knew in their heads both Juan and Trish were saying, “There is no way in hell I’m going to learn three pages of recit at 11:30pm at night for $75.” Being diplomatic, Juan said, “Why don’t we all look at it and then decide.” Which of course meant, “Fausto, you’re the oldest, so you’re gonna’ have to take one for the team.” So we, meaning me, grabbed the music and hatefully, though with a full smile achingly stretched across my face, learned the recit. After that, the rest was painfully easy - just your traditional choral part-singing.

In the spirit of Christmas and love and all that good sh*t, I won’t go into the quality of the other “paid singers” except to say that John only asked the Pineda’s about learning the recit. Well, OK, I lied, I will go into it, a little. The attitude that some of these singers were swinging around, you’d think we were competing at the Met finals. I mean, we were not being snooty or aloof. We were actually on our best behavior. But a certain singer, who shall remain nameless and sexless and who obviously had sour grapes for dinner, refused to shake my hand at the “sign of the peace.” With a smile, I offered my hand, (s)he blatantly pretended not to see me and turned her back on me. Ouch. I mean, come on. You’re a thirty-something year old (wo)man (and I’m being kind) and you’re still gonna’ play High School popularity games? Grow up already, (girl/boy)-friend! Okay, sorry, back to the spirit of the season. It was nice to sing with the timpani, organ and full brass quintet. And after staring at the first trumpet player through the whole mass, Val and I finally figured out he had played in the pit for our production of Millie. And yes, sometimes it wasn't exactly clear which verses we were supposed to sing (often we'd start a verse only to realize the congregation was singing a completely different one) or that sometimes the harmonies written for the brass didn't always match what was in the choral books. But these are all minor details. All in all, it was a successful evening of winging it.

Finally, after 1am, tired and spent, Trish, Val and I jumped into the van to head home for last minute gift wrapping. Juan had left just moments earlier with mom and dad since they weren't quite sure how to get home. You'd think we'd have been rewarded with good traffic karma for pulling double duty on Jesus' Birthday, but instead got slapped across the face with a sober dose of reality. Just minutes after pulling onto Route 22 and only a few miles from home, traffic came to a complete stop. We were literally trapped in the middle of the highway, a cement barrier to our left, and only dead end streets to the right. We sat for over 45 minutes and moved maybe three feet. Our only thrill was seeing the guy in front of us jump out of the car, whip out his weenie and pee on the barrier.

To be continued...