bits of cellophane are in the air

Easter Sunday this year was my last full day spent in California visiting Pat. My parents were insistent about finding a church nearby the hotel and attending an Easter service that morning, and my mom had scouted out a church beforehand and everything. Not wanting to shake hands with all of the early-morning churchgoers, Pat and I exited through the back and walked idly through a shrunken courtyard, doors leading into unmarked rooms bordering the entire perimeter. One of the doors gaped open, presumably leading to a Sunday school classroom. A few boys stood in the doorway peering outwards, like pudgy gophers scouting their surroundings from their dwellings. As Pat and I wandered around the smallish quad, arms around one another (by this time we'd had adequate practice in synchronizing footfalls and whatnot while doing so), Pat asked if I had heard what the boys were shrilling as I was in mid-sentence. I paused to listen.

"Hee hee," they giggled in a boyish manner, attempting in vain to retain their masculinity. "Love is in the air!"

Looking over my shoulder, I replied with pride, "Damn straight!" I heard a chorus of titters behind me. I assumed it was because of my unsightly language that would frighten shirtless truck drivers with gruesome tattoos weaving up the muscles bulging from their forearms, dripping of testosterone. It was then I wondered if I should have restrained from such derogatory phrases in a place of worship.

But then I realized that if they're allowed to see Britney Spears decked out in an outfit constructed of tinted cellophane, they'd probably be okay.

[sidenote: This entry has been entitled "bits of cellophane are in the air" to ensure that hilarity will indeed ensue.]