Holy Water

It was a regular bottle of water. One of those cute sizes by Poland Spring. 

And it was being held out to me, despite the brimming Brita pitcher on the counter.  

"What the—?" 

"Just drink it," she said wearily. 

I eyed it suspiciously. "Why . . . ?"

"It's been . . . blessed."

I recoiled. 

For those who are unfamiliar with my background: We do not do segulos. We appreciate the kabbalah for a gut vort, but not as a way of life. We believe the Big Guy in the Sky needs no middleman.

I certainly do not believe that an incantation said over water makes it anything else other than plain, hydrating, boring H2O. The idea is too synonymous with transubstantiation. And last I checked, water bottles don't set up dates. 

"Just drink it, okay? Then he'll back off." 

"He" is a relative that recently drank the Kool-Aid. 

Ma assumes that pained look that makes it impossible for me to have a flaming scene. In a few speedy movements, I wrench the cap off and take a gulp as though consuming Pepto-Bismol. 

My nose curls. My mouth grimaces. My stomach heaves. 

"You see? My body is trying to reject it." 

I glower as I sprinkle the rest of the bottle over my sauteing lunch (waste not . . . )

I call the well-meaning yet off-base relative a few names in my head. Apparently, it is a lot easier to score me some mystical water than to try to set me up. 

A few weeks later he calls, breathless, to ask if there is "anything doing." No, there isn't. Get a refund.