Get Thee To A Nunnery

I recently had to go to my local Catholic church to meet with one of the nuns there.  How is it that these places do not change?  Walking into the parish office in 2010 was like walking into the parish office in 1979.  It was hot, the waiting room didn't have chairs but ancient re-purposed pews from a long ago church upgrade, and was filled with the smell of judgment.

 

There I sat, a recovering Catholic with no interest at all in becoming a valued member of the church community.  Me, with my purple hair and zebra everywhere. I felt like that 7th grader all over again, the one that was called down to the Principal's office because I dared to wear make up to school.  That day big bad Sr. Mary Oppression told me, this scared 13 year old, that I looked like a whore on Prospect Ave.  There are lots of problems with that comparison, not the least of which being that in 1979, 13 year olds weren't nearly as worldly as they are now.  So not only did I not know where Prospect Ave. was, but I also didn't know what a whore was.  But I looked like one, apparently, because I slathered Maybelline Strawberry Kissing Potion on my lips and a little blue eye shadow on my lids.  By her tone and disapproving look, I knew it was bad to be a whore on Prospect Ave.

As I sat there on that hard pew with the too erect back, waiting for my meeting, here, now in 2010, my palms started to sweat.  I got that anxious feeling I had so often as a kid growing up wondering what I did wrong and what will happen to me.  I suddenly felt self conscious about everything.  When was the last time someone walked into the parish office with purple hair and asked to see one of the nuns?  Maybe never, maybe yesterday.  Who the fuck knows.  All I know is I suddenly felt like a 13 year old wearing forbidden make up.   Then I just had to remind myself of a few things.  Number one, I'm an adult and as such, I expect to be treated fairly.  Number two, I was doing this for a very important reason.  My niece has chosen me to be her Confirmation sponsor and I will do it for her.  I may not be the best person to guide her in her journey of Catholicism, but she could do much worse than me as her guide on other matters. 

When the sister in question came out to greet me and show me to her office, I was relieved that she was dressed casually and not in the penguin outfit of my youth.  But there was some concern because she was definitely not young.  To her credit, she did not give me the stinkeye upon meeting me.  In fact, she was warm and friendly.    She showed me to her office where we talked about what being a Confirmation sponsor entails.  We talked about how different people experience God or faith or a spirit or whatever you call it, in different ways.  She was open and interesting and dare I say, progressive, for a nun in her 70's.  But there are expectations involved with being a Confirmation sponsor and one of them is being a member of the church.   Was I willing to return to church regularly?  It was a question I dreaded.   My answer to that was as honest as I could possibly be, I'm willing to try.  In the end I don't think she believed I would actually go, but it was good enough and I was given my certificate.  I am now officially a Confirmation sponsor.  What the hell did I get myself into!

Punk Rock Saved Me

One of my most memorable defining moments happened on January 26, 1980.  I had just turned 14.  I was up late, watching SNL.  In those days, everyone watched SNL.  It was the '79/'80 season, before the show went to hell and almost got canceled. Terri Garr was the host.  The B 52's were the musical guest.  The B fucking 52's!   This was so new to me.  It was my first exposure (other than my sister's insane love for David Bowie) that I had to anything remotely interesting musically.  My brothers were listening to Boston and Foreigner and other shit like that.  My friends were listening to Andy Gibb and the Bee Gee's.  But this, this was exciting and strange and good and weird and so many things.  They performed twice that night, the classic Rock Lobster and Dance This Mess Around.  I was mesmerized by them.  And in the course of that 90 minute show,  my life completely changed.

Why did my life need to change?  Oh it did.  Something had to change.  It's 1980.  I have zero relationship with my father.  I sometimes wonder if he knows of my existence.  He never speaks to me.  Never.  It had probably been years by this time since he had spoken to me.  It will be many more years until he does.  Every day he comes home from work so fucking drunk he can hardly walk.  He stinks of beer.  He falls asleep at the dinner table.  My mom screams at him until he goes to bed, and the next day we do it all over again.  There's my mom again, dealing with it so that we wouldn't be without a father, she wouldn't be alone.   I can't imagine what it was like for her then.  Worse than it was for me and my brothers and sister, no doubt.

My transformation was kind of slow, but steady.  The B 52's lead me to more new and more exciting music with each passing day.  It was soon after that I discovered more and more music... Adam and the Ants, The Go Go's, Billy Idol, more and more and more.  I wanted more, I got more and with my new love, I lost every friend I had.  They didn't like the music, they didn't like the look, they didn't like the attitude I was now sporting.  Well fuck them!  I finally found me and I liked it and I wasn't turning back into just another clone at my Catholic school.  I found new friends, friends who had similar revelations.  And we found more and more music.  By 1984 we were going to so many shows, it was almost a weekly occurrence.  We still had our beloved Adam Ant and Billy Idol, but now we had The Ramones, Dead Kennedy's, the Circle Jerks, Bad Religion, Social Distortion, Black Flag (have you ever seen Henry Rollins live in any way?  He's fucking genius).  It was intense and wonderful.  Everything was new and amazing.  Music saved my soul.  Music took me away.  Music made me happy again.  Thank you B 52's.


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Oranges, My Nemesis.

I hate oranges.  Hate them with a white hot passion.  I hate the smell.  I hate the taste.  I hate the zest.  I hate the juice.  Oranges are evil, pure unadulterated evil.  When I had a desk job, my boss loved to eat oranges every day.  She would peel and peel, slowly making me more woozy as that stench wafted from her office to mine. 

The trail to my orange hate was paved by my mother.  I didn't always hate them.  Hell, when I was a kid I pretended to be sick so I could munch on St. Joseph's Aspirin for kids.... those chalky orange flavored chewable tablets.  *shudder*

But then real sickness came upon me.  Nothing serious, but back in the 70's if you were a high strung kid they didn't really know what to call it or do for you other than to say, "snap the fuck out of it!"  Somehow, my mom was able to get some kind of vile tasting medicine for me from the doctor.  I have no clue what it was for, I was just a kid who was scared of my own shadow and meek as a kitten (um yeah, I grew out of it, obviously).  All I know is it tasted like shit.  So my mom, thinking she was masking the horrid flavor of the medicine, started to hide it in my morning juice.  That was probably the worst idea ever.  It went on and on, daily I had to swallow that dreck for what could have been weeks, months or years for all I remember now.  It absolutely ruined me for ever drinking orange juice again.  I've tried, and whenever I do I'm taken right back to my childhood and that mediciney taste.

So keep your fucking Dreamsicles to yourself.  I don't want any vile Orange Cream Pop Tarts.  No thanks on the punch with globs of horror (orange sherbet) floating in it.  And keep your fucking orange out of my chocolate!