This heat is hot. It just is. Inside the house, it feels like you're draped in a steaming wet towel that's been partially stuffed down your throat as well. I say all this in my defense. I was wearing jeans and a tank top and wanted to rip the jeans to shreds. They aren't mine, so I didn't. Instead, I put on The Dress. It's purple and strapless, a tube dress that falls a good six inches above the knees. That's the way it fit when I bought it, back when we lived in Florida and I needed something to wear to the beach over my suit. It was never meant to be worn over an eight-month pregnant belly, I'm pretty sure of that. With my tummy like a melon (see photo above), it's short. Very short. But I was desperate and hot and certainly didn't expect to run into a priest.
We sat there sweltering in our house, me laying on the couch like I was in a coma. The phone rang. Would we like to have some watermelon at my parents' house? Drink in some AC? I didn't bother to change; headed straight for the car. We arrived fifteen minutes later, threw open the door and there he was, taking my grandma's confession. The new Spaniard priest in town heard there was a Catholic Ecuadorian in the area and came to visit. It was too late to leave; he had heard us walk in. I stood behind him, not sure what to do. My mom's eyes were wide*. My poor sweet grandma, mostly blind, was waving me over. Being mostly deaf as well, she was yelling. Come meet my granddaughter! My granddaughter is here! Jennicita, why are you lurking in the corner? Come meet the priest! I stepped forward and stretched out my hand, smiling like an idiot.
He asked if I was Catholic or if I was "like my mother" (his euphemism of choice for Going-To-Hell.) I assured him I was south-bound. He looked as me as if I had told him the pope lives in Rome.
*I assumed that she was embarrassed, but she says she wasn't. Which means that what her expression really meant was Ha ha hahaha!
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