I promised to write about some past religious experience each Sunday to reflect on a part of my life that a) was a huge influence in why I didn’t get pregnant before I was 28 and b) helped mold me in to the kind and gentle hearted non-sarcastic woman that I am now.
Well, A, anyway.
So I grew up, as previously mentioned, in the Catholic Church. I attended mass and CCE (Continuing Catholic Education) for most (all) of my school years, which pretty much means I have a hellofalot of blog fodder from my childhood in this topic.
One such story goes something like this:
“Mom! Mom! My Teacher said if we go to seven first friday masses in a row we’re automatically going to heaven!”
“She did, did she?”
“Yea! And I don’t want to go to hell. So can we go to mass every first Friday for seven Fridays?”
“um. Ok, dear. If it’s important to you.”
“YES! Our salvation is important to me! Let’s do that.”
(Read: I was TEN)
We attended mass for probably three first Fridays in a row. Then something happened. I dunno, maybe I had school or some inconsequential shit that Jesus wouldn’t really “get” since he was a carpenter and stuff and never had to attend PUBLIC ELEMENTARY SCHOOL. (The horror) So I get all sorts of pouty because “OH MY GOSH MOM! We have to START ALL OVER WITH OUR SOULLLLSSSS.”
Mom glances at her watch and wonders if she has time to take her first born daughter to a psychiatrist. Or a exorcist. Or a drug store.
Years later I asked my Mom and she agreed it was a little weird. But she let me believe it because it was something I needed at the time.
Of course, also? I believed my Dad couldn’t change the toilet paper by himself because my Mom said so.
Apparently.. I was one fucked up ten year old.
*The winner of the Flat Belly Diet
Book is! ... dundundunnnn….
FRUIT LADY! Give me your addy, chick! It’s all yours!
Thank you for playing, peeps. I’m still here to shred with you. Together we CAN fit in to our jeans.
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I was told in Confirmation classes that people who were divorced weren’t allowed to get communion. Coincidentally, after I informed my mom that her best friend was shit out of luck during snacktime at Mass, I didn’t have to go to those classes anymore.
By missbanshee on 2009 03 08
Miss Banshee… SNACK TIME? She was Shit outta luck at SNACK TIME?
I spit coffee. F’ing. AWESOME.
By Mrs. Flinger on 2009 03 08