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After what is now referred to as The Family Feud Incident (not the Family Feud Incident In Which Brian Refuses to Ask Peterman About the Urban Sombrero), my mother wanted to make sure we got to Mass Saturday night. She was certain we wouldn’t make it back to St. Mark’s in Venice by 5:30, so she told me to drive back to a church we’d already passed. I pulled in to the bare parking lot at Blessed Sacrament in Hollywood, only to discover we were an hour early for the next service.

We waited. I tried to dissuade her by reading off the bulletin that the Saturday night service was multi-lingual. My tactic didn’t work, and so I sat in an ice cold draft in front of an open door on one of the hardest wooden pews ever for what seemed like an eternity.

The lector got up for the second reading.

Her {loud enough for those in the back to hear}: Did you understand what he was saying?

Me: No.

Her: Why not? You took Spanish in college.

Me: That wasn’t Spanish.

Her: That was Spanish?!

Me: No. That was not Spanish. That was Tagalog.

Her: Tagalong?!

Me: From the Philippines.

Her: That was Spanish.

Me: I’m going to get up and walk out if you don’t stop.

Her: …

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