Bad Habits Confessions of a Recovering Catholic

  DEDICATION

  For Mom and Dad

  Not sure if God chose you to be my parents or I chose you, but I will be eternally grateful for the gift of love and faith you instilled in my sisters and me. Well … JoJo could use a little more help, but for the most part I think you both did an amazing job.

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Dedication

  1 I Knew I Should Have Worn Underwear to Church

  2 The Age of Innocence

  3 Sister Jenny

  4 I Want to Be a Jew!

  5 I’m Totally Possessed by the Devil, Like Totally

  6 Jenny’s First Fall from Grace

  7 Stay Home and Make It a Godbuster Night

  8 Jesus’s Baby Mama

  9 Like a Virgin

  10 If Gluttony Is Evil, Why Are So Many Catholics Alcoholics?

  11 Monkey See, Monkey Do

  12 GOD: Thou Shalt Not Have Strange Gods Before Me.

  JENNY: I’m Cool with That But … Who Are You?

  13 Jesus Was My Justin Bieber

  14 GOD: Thou Shalt Not Covet Thy Neighbor’s Goods.

  JENNY: But What If My Neighbor’s Shit Is Really, Really Awesome?

  15 The Purpose of Lent? I Give Up

  16 Girls Gone Wild

  17 O Holy Night

  18 Can Someone Kill Our Dog, Please?

  19 Leap of Faith

  20 PRIEST: You Sold Your Soul to the Devil!

  JENNY: And I Gave It to Him Half Price!

  21 I’m Losing My Religion … Just Like R.E.M.

  22 I See Dead People

  23 There Is Only So Much Bleach a Girl Can Take

  24 Oh No, My Mom Is Going to Hell!

  25 Belly Cries to Belly Laughs

  26 Aho Mitakuye Oyasin

  27 Curious Jenny and the Man in the Big White Hat

  28 Step Away from the Vicodin and Sit on the Toilet

  29 Losing My Identity

  30 Evan’s Chapter

  31 Recovering Catholic

  32 Finding My State of Grace

  Acknowledgments

  Twitter page

  About the Author

  About the Book

  Praise

  Other Works

  Copyright

  1

  I Knew I Should Have Worn Underwear to Church

  Lord, You are holy indeed, the fountain of all holiness …”

  Father Colin conducted the service in his usual monotone delivery. He was middle-aged and portly with jiggly jowls. He always wore humongous glasses and bore a strong resemblance to Peter Griffin from Family Guy.

  “Let Your spirit come upon these gifts to make them holy so that they may become …”

  Squeak, squeak.

  Father Colin stopped mid-prayer as the parishioners looked around. He needn’t look at the three altar boys who always stood behind him like the three amigos (except they weren’t friends), because they were ass-kissers and not at all mischievous. They were in their early teens, and didn’t even let out an occasional snicker at deaf Mrs. Connors and her loud farts that managed to slip out at the quietest of times.

  Squeak, squeak.

  Father Colin started to look agitated. He took one more scan of the room before continuing.

  “… so that they may become for us the body and blood of our Lord Jesus …”

  Squeak, squeak.

  Father Colin’s head snapped up, trying to catch the little pissant making the disturbing noise that kept interrupting his 157,000th Mass service.

  Squeak, squeak.

  “What is that noise?” Father Colin shouted.

  Once again, all the parishioners looked around at each other as if to say, “It’s not coming from me.”

  I was six years old and sitting with my mom and dad, older sister Lynette, and younger sisters JoJo and Amy. My mother was a hairdresser, so she made sure all of her daughters were coiffed perfectly. We were always dressed beautifully, even though we were poor as shit. We looked liked the kids from the show Toddlers & Tiaras.

  Squeak, squeak.

  The parishioners began looking at our section. My mother turned around to stare at the pew behind us, trying to deflect some of the stares we were getting.

  My mother’s expression changed as she spotted her worst enemy. Almost like when Jerry Seinfeld would see Newman.

  My mom’s enemy was named Janet Baruch.

  The Baruch family lived on the same street as us, but they had six children. Janet would always try to outdo my mother in everything—having the most plastic fake-animal decorations on her lawn; donating more time to charities; even having two more children than my mom.

  My mom and Janet stared at each other with an intense gaze that you usually see only at the beginning of a UFC fight. It was the look my mom had the time she went over to Janet’s and kicked over her fake-duck family, the newest addition to her creepy lawn.

  Janet said, “I think the noise is coming from one of your children, Linda.”

  Now, let me tell you something about my mother. She is one of the most wonderful, loving, caring, sweet people you will ever meet—unless you cross her family.

  My mother used her infamous fake smile while talking through clenched teeth to reply. “No, Janet. I’m pretty sure it’s coming from your pew. And speaking of pew, I think your baby could use a diaper change.”

  My mom sat back with pursed lips, pleased with her response.

  Squeak, squeak.

  Father Colin threw his hands up in the air and shouted, “Okay, I’m sure most of you don’t want to be here all day, so whoever is making that noise, please stop.”

  My dad did a once-over at all of us. He always had that Irish, blue-collar, exhausted look and liked to turn a blind eye to controversy. I smiled sweetly to reassure him of my innocence, as did Lynette. My two other sisters, Amy and JoJo, were too young to possibly create this bizarre sound, so my dad leaned back and his eyes began to flutter and close as he fell back asleep. This was Dad’s usual nap time. A few other people were dozing off too, so it appeared that they were also safe from being labeled as the holy squeaker.

  Lynette leaned over to me and said, “I think it’s coming from Greg.”

  Our neighbors, the Baruchs, were sitting right behind us. Greg Baruch, the son, was the same age as I was and was an evil little prick.

  One time, Greg peed inside my Baby Alive doll after I left it in our backyard. He told me about it two days later—after I had already resumed playing with her. Imagine my horror when real pee came out of my doll’s vagina hole! I thought she was possessed. I screamed and ran inside the house to tell my mom, who then stormed over to the Baruchs.

  Janet came out and accused my mother of lying about her precious Greg. A screaming match followed as she adamantly defended that Greg “would do no such thing.” I looked upstairs to his bedroom window and saw the asshole laughing. Later that month when I heard my parents talking after I was “asleep,” they made reference to my dad getting revenge.

  I can only imagine where my dad might have unloaded his bladder.

  Meanwhile, in church, I whispered back to Lynette, “Yeah, I think it’s Greg too.”

  Then Lynette leaned over to my mother and said, “Ma, the sound is coming from Greg.”

  My mother quickly turned around and proudly whispered, “Janet, my daughter just told me that the squeak is coming from Greg, not my kids, so don’t be so quick to judge. Remember Matthew 7:1: ‘Do not judge, or you too will be judged.’”

  Janet leaned in ready to counterattack. “First of all, it’s ‘Judge not, lest ye be judged.’ Don’t butcher the Bible—and G
reg is not making that noise.”

  Squeak, squeak.

  My mom and Janet both whipped their heads in their kids’ direction. I immediately looked at Greg and pointed to him. Janet violently tugged Greg’s ear and loudly whispered into it, “I will beat your ass raw if that sound is coming from you.” I heard him whimper, and for a moment I felt redemption for the doll urination act.

  The Mass continued.

  It was like the scene from Ferris Bueller’s Day Off when the dull teacher keeps saying, “Bueller … Bueller … Bueller … Bueller,” in his flat voice while the class is half asleep. I think some parishioners were actually drooling.

  Squeak, squeaaaaaak!

  Not anymore. Everyone inside the church jolted and suddenly became alert with this last squeak.

  Then came another sque—, which was abruptly stopped by a church usher grabbing me.

  “It’s coming from her,” he pointed dramatically, as if he had caught a thief stealing a precious jewel.

  The entire church gasped: How could such an adorable, innocent-looking blond girl in a fluffy pink dress be the squeaker? I looked over at my mom. She turned pale and mumbled softly, “What in the heck?”

  Even at this young age, I remembered that honesty is always the best policy, so I said, “I like the noise my butt makes on the pew when I don’t wear underwear.” Then I proceeded to illustrate to everyone that I was telling the truth by lifting up my dress as I stood up on the bench and did a spin, just like a pageant girl would do, except only mine flashed my bum cheeks.

  Mom couldn’t pull me back down fast enough as I fell on my tush with a thud.

  As my mother dragged us out of church that day, a little piece of her died. This was the beginning of Jenny testing her faith and patience. It was also the beginning of my love of not wearing underwear.

  2

  The Age of Innocence

  As a little girl, I spent a lot of time staring up at the sky. I felt an amazing connection to it. It felt like home to me. I can still remember the warm breeze that would glide across my face as my eyes wondrously gazed up to the heavens.

  I think I was only about five or six years old during this time. I hadn’t gone to school yet to learn how to be a Catholic, so all I had was my reliance on an innate knowledge in my soul that God was glorious. God was real.

  In my house, I would visit the bathroom regularly to have meetings with my guardian angels. I would sit on the floor and discuss important things with them for hours. This was until my mom eventually pulled me out because to her, I was just talking to the walls. I would stare into the mirror (not because I was unusually vain but because it was fascinating). I was intrigued that a mirror was an instant telling of who we are. Beyond just the reflection. I would stare intently at myself to try to see through my young soul and understand what it meant to be me in this world.

  The biggest issue I had at that age was whether dinner would be yummy that night. I walked around free of concern and with love in my heart. I hadn’t yet been programmed to worry about Satan, money, or anything else.

  I realize now that the more catechism I had through the years, the less connected to the heavens I felt. The love in my heart morphed into fear. To be told stories at such a young age about the wrath of God doing dreadful things like floods and famine made staring at the sky go from love to worry.

  On walks home from school, I would keep my head down because I felt like God was always watching me from a soft, cotton candy–textured cloud. Learning that God can really get pissed off and do bad things to us on Earth paralyzed me with fear.

  Then, as if that weren’t enough, I learned about Hell. I was told that Hell is the place where sinners go to spend a horrific eternity in torture and despair. As further descriptions of Hell were taught, I felt my heart breaking. The beautiful world that I used to float around in as a little girl became dark and terrifying.

  What if I wasn’t good enough to make it to Heaven? The little girl I stared at in the mirror suddenly had more questions that needed answering because the world had become more confusing.

  To make matters even worse, I was told a demon named Satan used temptations on Earth to bring us to his fiery pit. As you will read in future chapters, this caused irreparable damage to my childhood.

  Being taught by nuns was no help either. I looked at them as if they were psychically connected to God, so I initially believed everything they said. They also worked hard to constantly remind us about Hell in order to help us remain good.

  “Don’t forget, kids, if you break a commandment, you will burn in a fiery pit for all eternity. Now go have a great day!”

  Looking at Hell now from a grown-up perspective, I can’t think of a better way to get people to follow rules. All you have to do is scare the shit out of them. I’ll have to try that with my son, Evan, sometime and see how well it works.

  “Evan, if you don’t clean your room, I’m afraid you’re going to burn in Hell forever.”

  I bet his room would be cleaner than a bar of soap.

  3

  Sister Jenny

  I was seven years old when I told my mother my dream of becoming a nun. She couldn’t have been more proud. To me, it seemed like an obvious profession. I loved the idea of being a teacher, and if I got a straight ticket to Heaven by putting a habit on, why in the heck would anyone not want to be a nun? It seemed so logical. The fear of going to Hell was constantly on my mind. I became extremely paranoid and was scared to do anything that could possibly alter my final destination—Heaven.

  The nuns made themselves look like Mother Mary, who was so beautiful to me. I would wrap my head up in a towel, put a crucifix on, and glide around the house blessing my family. My mom told me that nuns hear a voice from God telling them to become nuns, and I desperately awaited those words from God.

  In these early years, when I went to school, I would kiss the nuns’ holy butts. I wanted to be part of their sorority and tried to be teacher’s pet.

  My mom used to do their hair in the convent, so one day she decided to take me with her.

  Walking into a convent is pretty much like walking into the meat department at a grocery store—cold and a bit stinky. My mom rang a little bell. What happened next will haunt me forever.

  Around the corner came three of the nuns from my school without their habits on and dressed in normal clothes! This was devastating to my seven-year-old psyche. My young brain couldn’t handle seeing these nuns gallivanting around in their casual attire and intermingling with us as everyday humans. They were superior to us. These women were married to God, but now one of them was wearing a Freddie Mercury T-shirt. Did they not know that he was flaming gay? Well, I guess that was a common misconception at the time. But did the nuns lead a secret life that the rest of us weren’t allowed to discover? I felt betrayed for being in the dark, but I was also more intrigued than ever. I wanted to know more about their double life, but in that moment, it was too much to take in, and really, I just wanted to run and hide. The confusion overwhelmed me so I did what any seven-year-old would do. I burst into tears. Unfortunately, this only drew more attention and made them all run toward me.

  “What’s wrong, little angel?” they asked so sweetly.

  “You look scary. You don’t look like you do at school,” I responded in horror as I hid behind my mother’s leg.

  “Well, we don’t wear our habits all day long.”

  What the heck? Were they like uniforms? I couldn’t imagine the nuns wearing anything else, as if the habits were stitched to their bodies.

  As their faces drew in closer to mine to comfort me, I was also amazed by their facial hair. I thought, Why do they have beards? Are they men?

  My mother tried to do the clever trick that moms do when their child might be behaving rudely. She gave me giant saucer eyes that beamed an invisible laser into my soul to shut me up.

  I then followed my mom down a corridor. As we passed the rooms, I was able to catch a glimpse into the life of a
nun. Many were reading or knitting. It was also painfully quiet—the kind of quiet that makes your ears ring. It was like the convent was set at the right frequency for everyone to always tune in to the God channel without interference.

  Finally, we made it to a large room where my mom began to set up her hair stuff. I was doing that thing kids do where every step your mom tries to take, you block it and get in the way.

  “Jenny, you need to sit down,” Mom said. “Or go walk around and talk to some of the nuns.”

  “No!” I yelled.

  “Okay, fine then. Just sit in that chair and sit still.”

  I walked over to the chair she was pointing to, clutching my Cabbage Patch doll, and sat down. More nuns started entering and mingling about. I heard them talking about some other members of the church. “So-and-so is such an alcoholic,” they would mumble. Later on in life, I struggled with the term “alcoholic.” Considering I’m Irish Catholic, it seemed like every other person was an alcoholic. From my young perspective, it just seemed like “alcoholic” was a name given to the dads who yelled louder than the other drunks.

  As I sat there eavesdropping and combing my Cabbage Patch doll’s hair, a nun came and sat next to me. “What’s your baby’s name?”

  “Well, her birth certificate said Mandy, but I changed it to Sarah.”

  The nun chuckled. “I bet you’re going to be a great mom when you grow up.”

  “Yes, and I’m gonna be a great nun, like you.”

  The nun looked perplexed (rightfully so) and said, “Well, in order to be a nun, you have to make a promise to God and not have any children.”

  My heart started beating quickly. What was this crazy nun saying to me?

  I responded, “I have to be a mom, a nun, and a teacher. That’s what I’m going to be.”

  The nun replied, “Okay, first tell me why you want to be a nun.”

  “Because you go straight to Heaven.”

  Again, she giggled. “Just because you are a nun doesn’t mean you go straight to Heaven.”