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The ceremony was finally over. When I crawled out, it felt like I was being born again.

  The cool air hitting my muddy face and the sound of the fire crackling were all so beautiful.

  I sat down and felt good that I had managed to at least get through the ordeal … even if I cheated a little.

  After reading about this experience, one would think that I would never go back to the lodge again. But no, not Jenny! Yes, that’s right. I went back every Monday for ten years (except during moon time). I went for so many years because I was still under the belief that you need to suffer in order to be a good person.

  It was only once I began to question my need to suffer, and subsequently couldn’t come up with an answer, that I finally stopped going. I thought I would attempt something new in my life—the state of grace.

  I no longer needed to feel pain in order to reach enlightenment. I was on a new path, and I was so grateful to my Indian lodge for teaching me this.

  Aho Mitakuye Oyasin!!

  27

  Curious Jenny and the Man in the Big White Hat

  To my mother and most other Catholics, the Vatican is to us what the Wailing Wall is to the Jews. Holy, holy! And for Catholics it doesn’t get much holier than the pope’s crib.

  Growing up, my mother would have us turn on the TV to watch the pope say Mass from the Vatican, and I remember thinking how it looked like the most beautiful palace. Except there were no princes or princesses there, just really, really old people.

  My mother was in love with the pope. Especially Pope John Paul II because he was also Polish.

  When I was nine, I asked my mom how the pope was chosen.

  She always had the best response: “By God.”

  How can anyone counter that?

  Anything that had to do with anything was by God.

  “Mom, how do miracles happen?”

  “They are chosen by the grace of God.”

  “Mom, who picks the president of the United States?”

  “God.”

  “Mom, why does it rain?”

  “God is crying.”

  “Mom, why didn’t the milkman come today?”

  “God didn’t want him to.”

  Boom, end of story.

  So, being that the pope was like God’s wingman on Earth like Robin is to Batman, my mom felt compelled to buy all the necessary pope merchandise she could get her holy hands on. It was damn near intervention time.

  She had a collection of pope votive candles, pope air fresheners, pope travel cups, pope party plates, and even pope soap-on-a-rope. In 2009, the Vatican said no more to these trinkets in order to protect the papal brand. They claimed that the sale of pope paraphernalia was sacrilegious. In other words, they were missing out on the serious cash crop it could have brought in. The Church must have finally realized it should have seized the sales years ago and trademarked the pope like the Jolly Green Giant.

  When I was six, there was an announcement that the pope was coming to Chicago. My mom went out of her mind with excitement. The whole neighborhood was shaken up.

  Leading up to his arrival, my mom was crossing days off the calendar like it was her wedding date.

  I remember the day he came quite clearly because my mom suddenly had no qualms about leaving us with a babysitter. She never got us a babysitter. She was always home. Looking back now, I appreciate that, but once I got to the teenage years, I couldn’t have wanted her more gone from the house.

  But the day the pope came, off she went in her big blue parka and her hair perfectly set, leaving her four girls with the babysitter. I sat home sad because I missed her. Our babysitter did what most sitters did best and turned the TV on for us.

  There, on the television, was the pope live from Chicago. He kept blessing the crowd, and all these baby boomers screamed as if he were a Beatle. The camera panned to a group of crazed women crying and waving their arms wildly, and lo and behold, there was my mother. In all of her glory, she was blowing kisses to the pope and jumping up and down. I couldn’t believe out of a million crazed people, they showed my mom on TV! All I could think was that I really hoped Janet Baruch was watching. As you know, we didn’t have a VCR back in the day, so my mom had to take my word for it that I saw her geek out on the pope.

  Fast-forward. I’m now twenty-three.

  I had to go to Italy to promote a new pair of sunglasses some Italian designer was launching. When I was told the gig was in Rome, I nearly crapped myself. That’s where the Vatican is!

  Anyway, upon my arrival, I was greeted by beautiful Italian men dripping with sex. I wished I didn’t have a boyfriend at the time because I would have totally Jersey Shore’d it with every hot guy I saw.

  The night I arrived, I was invited to dinner with the sunglasses designer. I didn’t want to go by myself, so I asked if I could bring my wardrobe stylist and my makeup girl. They were both really close friends of mine and I pretty much traveled the world with them. After a few bottles of wine, I began playing footsie with a hot guy under the table.

  Then I overheard someone at the table start talking about the Vatican.

  I put my foot back inside my shoe and spoke up.

  “My mom is the pope’s number one fan. Have any of you guys ever met the pope?”

  One of the Mafia-looking men said, “Sì!”

  Then the misogynistic guy next to him said, “We know people. That’s what Italy is all about. Connections.” He said this so matter-of-factly as he picked at his teeth with a business card.

  Then, in all seriousness, I asked, “Do you think you can get the pope’s autograph for me?”

  The entire table burst into laughter. It was a scene straight out of a sitcom where the dumb blonde asks a question and everyone laughs their asses off, leaving the dumb blonde scratching her head. I felt like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman when she’s sitting with a group of upper-crust businessmen and is confused by the forks.

  “I don’t get why that’s funny,” I said.

  Again, the table exploded into uproarious laughter. The misogynistic guy was checking me out from head to toe. He was totally jealous of my outfit and it added to his holier-than-thou behavior.

  “Well, you said you were connected, so I was just looking to get something for my mom.”

  One of the Mafia-looking guys said to me, “Pope’s not gonna sign an autograph, but I can do something else for ya, if you don’t tell anyone.”

  “Of course not.”

  (Although, here I am about to write it all in a book. Note to the reader: Don’t ever tell me a secret.)

  The Mafia guy looked at his watch, which said it was about midnight, and then looked at me with a grin.

  “I can take you to the Vatican right now and take you to see the pope’s apartment, where no one gets to go. He’s out of town, so we can sneak you in.”

  “Oh my gawwwddd!!! My mom is gonna shit when I tell her!”

  “We just told you not to tell anyone.”

  “Oh yeah. Oops.”

  Mafia man looked at my girlfriends and said, “You guys want to come too?”

  I could tell my friends did not want to go. They were exhausted from the flight. Plus, they were Jewish.

  Of course they wanted no part of this, but I gave them the stare of death so that they would join me in one of the most amazing invitations a mere mortal could get on Earth.

  “They are Catholic too. Of course they want to come,” I blurted out.

  “Yay,” my friend Alyssa responded.

  Then Andrea, my even more Jewish friend, said, “Sure. I love the pope.”

  What good friends I have!

  Off we went, shoved into the backseat of a little town car, zipping through the streets of Rome at midnight. My tummy had butterflies with the anticipation of being in a place that was basically the Holy Grail.

  First, the car pulled into the front of the Vatican to give me a peek out the window. It was the palace I saw on TV when I was a little girl! Stunning.

  My mouth
hung open as I looked at all the statues of saints on pillars that surrounded the Vatican. I used to pray to all of these saints with JoJo.

  This was an amazing moment for me, but it was quickly ruined by my Jewish friend Alyssa, who said, “Why do they have all these gargoyles around the Vatican?”

  I kicked her in the shin as hard as I could.

  “Those are all the saints, you idiot. You should really have worn your glasses.”

  Moments later, we pulled up to the gate. It was spooky. It reminded me of going into my scary basement with JoJo. The guards looked more like Mason cult leaders than Palace Keepers. Had this not been the Vatican, I would have gotten out of the car and run for my life.

  Then our car slowly crept in and we drove to the back of the church. A man came out to greet us who resembled Igor, Frankenstein’s assistant. Except this Igor spoke in Italian.

  The men I was with began to go back and forth in conversation and kept pointing at me. In any other situation, I might have flashed my boobs to gain entry into a place, but here I think I would have been struck by lightning.

  “Sì,” said Holy Igor, and we walked past him.

  We did it. The Mafia men opened a door and we were inside. No one was in sight. The door we went through seemed more like an employee entrance, but that all changed when we opened door number three.

  Remember when Charlie from Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory opened the door to the chocolate river candy room for the first time? How his eyes took everything in?

  That was me.

  The room we stood in looked like a secret cathedral unto its own. There were high ceilings with Michelangelo-like paintings on them. The faint, familiar scent of frankincense tickled my nostrils. The most interesting part was that each corner of the room had enormous wooden doors. They weren’t just any doors. They looked as if each one was meant to take you to a different part of Heaven.

  “Where do these doors lead to?” I asked. “They look so important.”

  Mafia man said, “You are standing in the room that adjoins the Vatican, St. Peter’s, the Sistine Chapel, and the pope’s apartment. It is the center that no visitors get to see. Clergymen can easily access where they want to go by opening that specific door.”

  It really was an amazing sight.

  It was just like being in a dream where someone says, “Choose the door to your new life.”

  Even my Jews were amazed by the creativity of the architect who was able to have all these structures meet up in one room. But just when I thought this couldn’t be more awesome, one of my Jews put her foot in her mouth.

  Pointing to a painting of Jesus, she asked: “Who is that?”

  Nooooo!!! was all I could think. I could see the Mafia men look at each other strangely. I wasn’t going to let this stop me from living a dream of my mother’s, so I started laughing with a loud cackle.

  “You are so funny, Alyssa. Hahahahahaha.” My voice echoed louder than I’ve ever heard it before.

  I was the only one laughing, but it was the only thing I could think of to cover the embarrassment.

  Mafia man then pointed to one of the doors in the corner of the room.

  “Through that door is the pope’s apartment. Ready to see it?”

  I wish I could have done cartwheels all the way up to the door, but instead I shouted, “Sì! Sì! Sì!!”

  With his permission, I opened the door and holy aioli! My eyes had never seen a hallway like this. Marble, gold, and cherubs hanging off the ceiling.

  It was absolutely spectacular.

  As I continued to walk, I started to take in how much money was around me. These weren’t cherubs from Target, if you know what I’m saying. Thoughts of cracking one off and feeding a starving nation crossed my mind.

  “Psst. Come here.”

  Mafia man then brought us down a hallway and we entered a closet.

  Holy Stromboli, this is the pope’s closet! I was surrounded by all of the pope’s robes. Needless to say, there were a lot of them.

  I looked at my friends and whispered, “Isn’t this amazing?”

  They whispered back, “Not really.”

  Mafia man then said, “Come here, Jenny.”

  “Don’t. He might be trying to kill you,” Andrea said.

  “What is wrong with you guys?” I said. “We are in the Vatican! People don’t get murdered here. Relax.”

  I walked over to Mafia man, who led me to the mirror. He then put on top of my head … wait for it … the pope’s freaking hat! That’s right! That tall, giant hat he always wears was sitting on top of this Playboy Playmate’s head.

  I couldn’t believe my eyes.

  I stared at myself in the mirror in awe. It was totally insane.

  I mean, come on.

  Can you even imagine what the nuns at school would think?

  I turned around to show my Jews.

  “Look, you guys. How insane is this? I’m wearing the pope’s hat!”

  I couldn’t contain my childlike excitement, so I started bopping around in an impromptu Teletubbies-style dance.

  They both responded with a monotone “Wow.”

  Alyssa was carelessly chewing on a KitKat bar, so I smacked it right out of her hand.

  “What the hell are you doing? You can’t eat in here.”

  I carefully took off the pope’s hat and thanked Mafia man immensely. Then I spotted the most beautiful selection of crucifixes. To say “beautiful crucifix” sounds like an oxymoron, but if these were for sale, the Kardashians would certainly have one in their home.

  I brought my Jews with me to take a closer look to try to get them involved in some way.

  I held one beautiful cross up and said, “My mother would absolutely lose her mind if she saw this crucifix.”

  Andrea whispered, “Do you want me to put it in my purse?”

  “Are you out of your freaking mind? No! What’s wrong with you guys? We’re almost done. Just be cool.”

  Mafia man said, “Let’s go to one more spot.”

  We entered a new room that was small and gold. And by gold, I mean GOLD.

  In the center of the room was an elevator. This was no ordinary elevator. This is the kind of elevator that a king or queen would take to Heaven if they died. It was ornate and a tad bit scary.

  Speaking of scary, Holy Igor had now joined our tour.

  Again, the men started talking to one another in Italian and all I could do was smile and nod.

  While they were going back and forth, I decided to check in with my Jews, whom I could hear giggling.

  “What’s going on? Why are you laughing?”

  “We don’t know what’s wrong, but we have the giggles.”

  Oh no! They had caught a case of the church giggles.

  Alyssa said, “We kind of feel like we are going to be murdered any second now and we can’t stop laughing.”

  Their shoulders bobbed up and down as they launched into a fit of hysteria. Sweat dripped down my face. I was about to have a heart attack.

  “Stop it,” I commanded.

  Their shoulders kept bobbing. Squeaky noises held in a volcanic eruption of laughter.

  “Shut. The. Fuck. Up.” I mouthed it to them slowly with daggers in my eyes.

  That one seemed to knock some sense into them. They could tell I was pissed.

  “Do not screw this up or I will murder you myself.”

  Holy Igor then proceeded to unlock a drawer that had a key inside. He held it up like it was the key to the room holding the Ten Commandments.

  “Danananananana,” Holy Igor said in Italian, which I’m guessing meant “Here’s the key!”

  Mafia man said, “He’s going to let us take a ride in the elevator. It takes the pope to do Mass in the Vatican. After he changes, he comes in here and rides the elevator to the church.”

  “I’m not going in that thing,” Alyssa said.

  “Yes, you are,” I said.

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Yes, you are.
You are going to fucking do it,” I whispered into her ear like a gremlin.

  Mafia man said, “I know it looks scary, but that’s because it’s one hundred years old.”

  “Now I’m definitely not going in it,” Alyssa said.

  “Yes, you are,” I said, gritting my teeth.

  “No, I’m not.”

  Then Mafia man, in a calming voice, said, “Trust me, it’s okay.”

  We all entered the elevator. It was a snug fit and tension was in the air.

  Then my worst fear happened. No, we didn’t get stuck.

  My Jews lost control of their church giggles and started busting out laughing to the point of losing oxygen. I’m glad they weren’t wearing a skirt like I was because I didn’t want to witness any pee trickles that were happening. They were half on the ground and half standing, holding their stomachs and laughing their asses off.

  This is where the pope preps to come out and do a big, holy Mass, and my Jews were losing their shit.

  I was totally and completely dying. I tried stepping on their toes as hard as I could, but nothing would stop them—not even the stabbing of my stiletto heels was knocking sense into them.

  “What’s going on?” Mafia man asked.

  “They have a fear of elevators and, you know, it’s like gallows humor.”

  “Okay, well, let’s go back down,” Mafia man said. “I don’t want them to be scared.”

  Damn them! I couldn’t believe it.

  The elevator started to head back down.

  Finally, the girls started to get their giggles under control, but then Alyssa all of a sudden got the bright idea to come out and say she’s a Jew.

  “We should really tell you something. Andrea and I are—”

  I interrupted and shouted, “They are so excited to be here!”

  Not that there was anything wrong with saying they were Jewish, but I had lied about them being Catholic. I didn’t want to get ratted out. The elevator door opened to Holy Igor standing there with a big, creepy smile as he started to speak Italian again.

  Mafia man translated: “He has some holy water blessed by the pope that we could dip our finger in and make the sign of the cross.”

  Shit, shitballs, shit-o-rama, I thought, because I knew two things: my Jews didn’t know how to make the sign of the cross and they were about to blow my cover.