Chapter Fifty Three; My Tainted Catholic Past

“Would you like to get together this weekend?”

“No. I just want your big boat and you just want my big boobs.”

“You’re funny! We can just watch a movie? Maybe some spooning?”

“Whatever. Spooning lead to forking, buddy.”

Welcome to my friend, Naomi!

The above was a texting exchange between she and some guy far too desperate. And far too cheeseball. And far too lame to handle the queen of sarcasm.

I love this woman.

Would you believe Naomi and I first met a million years ago when we were teachers at a Catholic high school?

True story.

Well, I was the teacher. She was the sub. I must have been sick a lot or something because she was always filling in for me. This was long before email so I had to communicate my lesson plans to her the old fashion way: handwritten notes. (I know, hard to believe we are not 85-years-old isn’t it? This was only back in 1998!)

It was soon apparent from our archaic correspondence that we had far more in common than a love for education. Our footnotes and side commentary soon clearly illustrated we were cut from the same smart ass cloth.

When we finally met in person I half expected her to produce a birth certificate and announce that she was really my identical twin and that we’d been tragically separated from each other at birth as a result of some freak accident involving a sleep deprived night shift nurse and acid-dropping unobservant birth parents.

And even though that wasn’t the case, I’d found something better.

A kindred nut job.

And a great friend.

And let me tell you, there is nothing better than that when you are working at a place where the janitor’s paycheck is higher than yours, the student parking lot is full of Land Rovers and Audis, and the only man your age on staff is celibate.

Talk about saving grace. Naomi was all that and more.

My favorite blast from the private school past involves a spontaneous coffee run to the teacher’s lounge. I had a prep period and Naomi had a gig subbing for the gym teacher and was between games of floor hockey. As we sauntered down the hallway chattering away, I was explaining to her how I’d caught one of my goody goody sophomores making up journal entries about doing hoes and smoking crack. Just as we opened the door to the lounge Naomi was exclaiming, loudly (the only way she knows how to communicate), “That kid wrote that? Oh, he wishes he had some hoes or even knew where to buy crack.”

The beauty of this commentary is that she announced it right as she opened the door to the lounge. And ended up screaming it into the face of a staff member who was just leaving the room at that precise moment.

Which staff member you may ask?

Oh no one important.

Just.

The priest.

“Oh, hi Father,” she nonchalantly tacked onto the statement and then turned to me without skipping a beat and inquired, “Coffee?”

Did I mention that I love this woman?

Well, it’s ten years later. And thankfully Naomi is still around Her hair is longer and her boobs are bigger. (Who says Americans aren’t spending their tax returns wisely?)

And she is still cracking me up.

And yes, she too has entered Divorce Land (46% are the stats people. By the time you get to my age, yes, half your friends are divorced. It’s just true.)

But I am happy for her company.

And even though the two of us no longer teach at a Catholic school, some shred of morality and values from that gig must have obviously stuck.

After all, you gotta admire a woman who won’t go around forking some guy.

Simply because he has a big . . .

. . . boat.