Bad Habits Page 4

  When we got back to our house, we would drop the anvil of a VCR in the living room and dash into our bedroom. We hid our collective stash under our mattress so we could later feast on chocolate in bed. We would race back downstairs with my Jesus scrapbook in hand, excited about our next religious viewing.

  Sometimes my dad’s friend George would join us for movie nights. Well, he would more like interrupt our movie nights, if you were to ask my mom. I think my dad must have organized it that way to get out of watching Jesus movies. George would show up with beer and snacks and plant himself on the couch to start his usual offensive commentary. Mom would eventually shoot my dad a stern look, and then Dad would haul him into the kitchen like a performer being caned off the stage. Dad didn’t seem to mind this routine.

  George was an atheist, but he was still welcome in our house. Mom explained that even though he annoyed her at times and had a different belief system, he was a good person with a big heart. My mom, the most religious person in our family, was accepting nonbelievers into our home. I liked that!

  One night, we kicked off family night with King of Kings (1961). It was amazing that George hadn’t said a word five minutes into the film. That was a record. I was actually disappointed; I enjoyed the levity he brought to our house. I noticed that he was starting to doze off, so I nudged his jiggly chest to jolt him awake. I smiled as he began watching again.

  “Are you shitting me?” George came to life as he slapped his thigh and chuckled to himself. He reminded me of John Candy in Uncle Buck, only a bit more colorful and pear-shaped. “All seven of ’em gladiators had perfect shots? C’maaannn.” He grabbed a fistful of popcorn and shoved it all into his mouth, chewing wildly as half fell out onto the floor. He grabbed a stack of our Jesus VHS tapes and started to look through them.

  “Jesus of Nazareth. Holy shitballs, six hours? Hoo hoo hoooo,” George laughed. He had eyes like Rodney Dangerfield.

  Mom shot Dad her classic menacing stare to take George out of the room. Dad shot up perkily off the La-Z-Boy and summoned George to mosey on over into the kitchen. I was on to them and their master plan, and so was Mom. She rolled her eyes as she sank back into the sofa to enjoy God cinema with her four girls.

  Ding-dong.

  “Who is that?” said Amy.

  “Mallory’s coming over for the movie, remember?” my mom replied.

  JoJo and I looked at each other with a finger pointing inside our throats. We couldn’t stand Mallory. She was so pretentious. But Mom didn’t care. She pretty much allowed anyone into her home.

  “Hi, Mallory. How’s your family?” my mom asked.

  “They’re very well. Thank you, Mrs. McCarthy,” she said with a sweet smile.

  “That’s nice. I’ll go fix you girls some snacks,” my mom said as she left the room.

  “You’re such a brownnoser,” I had to say to her.

  “Takes one to know one,” she replied quickly.

  Mallory walked over to our pile of Jesus tapes and grabbed Jesus of Nazareth.

  “Put this one on,” Mallory said assertively as she shoved it in the VCR.

  “Get real. We don’t want to sit with you for six hours,” said Amy.

  Mallory pulled out a Bible from her overnight bag. JoJo and I face-palmed ourselves when we realized she was sleeping over.

  “Oh no, my mom’s babysitting you?” I said.

  “My parents are gone for the night. Now shut up so I can read my Bible.” She rolled her eyes and fingered through her Bible, flipping pages but not reading anything.

  “You don’t even care about God, you just pretend to!” JoJo said with an accusatory finger pointing at her.

  “God hates you and He loves me! You’re just jealous,” she said.

  “You don’t even go to church! Wait, I take that back, you’re a Chreaster!” I bounced back like a crazed girl on Jerry Springer. (“Chreaster” is the term Catholics made up to call other Catholics who go to church only on Christmas and Easter.)

  “That’s because we’re so holy we don’t need to go to Mass every Sunday like you sinners,” she snarked back.

  “You are so jealous of my relationship with Jesus!” I said defensively.

  “God, you guys are dumb,” Lynette said, rolling her eyes.

  “You guys are just bitter because you’re so poor and your house is disgusting,” Mallory said, flipping her hair.

  I wanted to punch her in her face, but Mom came back in with snacks to feed the bitch.

  It was a defining moment for me to realize that people could fake being religious. How could an atheist like George be a kinder, more respectful person than our “Catholic” neighbor?

  It became obvious to me that even the holiest of households could have family members who were faux Bible-thumpers. Even at this young age, I thought that being a good person was the most important thing. It was all about motive. I wanted to find my happy place in the world. And I had a lot of motivation to drive me there.

  8

  Jesus’s Baby Mama

  I was twelve. Sister Betty says, “So, children, today we are talking about how Mother Mary got pregnant without having sex.”

  My mouth hit the floor so hard I was sure I broke it. I raised my hand.

  “What now, Jenny?”

  “What are you talking about? How can someone get pregnant without having sex?”

  “Mary was born without sin. That’s what the Immaculate Conception means. Mary was told by angels that she was going to be carrying God’s son. Then she became pregnant.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense. She had to have sex with someone,” I shouted.

  “It’s a miracle,” she replied.

  “So can this miracle happen to me? Can I get accidentally pregnant right now?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you were born with sin.”

  “Why was I born with sin?”

  “Because Eve was tempted by Satan and then made Adam take a bite of an apple so we now have sin.”

  “Wait a minute. You are saying that we are all born sinners because Adam and Eve were hungry and ate an apple?”

  “Well, they were supposed to be strong and not be tempted, but they chose to disobey God and became sinners.”

  “That stinks. Why aren’t we angrier at Adam and Eve?”

  “Well, Jenny, Adam and Eve is more of a myth …”

  “What?!”

  “We don’t really know who the first human being was. We use that story as an example of how and why we are born with sin.”

  “Whoa whoa whoa,” I replied. “Again with the fake story. So I think what you are trying to say is that the Bible is a fictional book.”

  “No, that’s not what I’m saying. There are many true stories that Jesus’s disciples wrote down and put in the New Testament.”

  I replied, “Yes, but last week you said most of those stories were not written down until one hundred years later. How can they even get anything right?”

  “You have to have faith, Jenny.”

  “I’m starting to think that word means trust someone else’s beliefs.”

  “Do you believe in God, Jenny?” she asked.

  “Well, duh, yeah.”

  “How do you know He exists?”

  “Because you told me I had to believe it,” I said with the utmost honesty.

  “But we have never shown you proof that He exists, so what makes you continue to believe that we are right?”

  “Well, you scared me into thinking I will burn in a pit of flames for all eternity, so I’m pretty sure I’ll just believe in God in the off chance you are right.”

  “But don’t you feel God’s love in your heart?” she asked.

  I took a moment to reflect to see if I could feel God’s love in my heart and I could.

  To this day, I don’t know if that was the love I had for myself or if God was doing a happy dance on my heart, but it felt good.

  I smiled and looked back at Sis
ter Betty. “Yes, I do feel God’s love in my heart.”

  “Then have faith that we are right.”

  I nodded to her once again, having faith she was right.

  “Okay, now, class, I want you to take out a piece of paper and draw a biblical scene that we will hang in the hallway for parents’ day. Please draw something that you have learned in class over the last semester.”

  A week later, my mom came home from parents’ day. She was holding the picture that I drew in class that day.

  “Jenny, what the hell is this?” She held up the picture of the biblical scene I drew.

  “It’s the Virgin Mary, pregnant.”

  “But look what you have Joseph saying to Mary.”

  The bubble above Joseph’s head said, “Are you sure this baby isn’t mine?”

  9

  Like a Virgin

  I was in seventh grade when Madonna’s “Like a Virgin” came out. I remember staring at the TV with my mouth hanging open, watching her frolic around in a sexy wedding dress and rocking crucifixes like they were trendy accessories. I truly believed that the lyrics, “touched for the very first time,” were written for me. How was this creature named Madonna able to talk about sex like that and still call herself Madonna? How come she was allowed to roll around on the ground humping the floor and wear see-through shirts? I wanted to be her.

  But my mother came into the room and stopped in her tracks when she caught a glimpse of Madonna “for the very first time.” “There’s that sinner!” she said.

  “Madonna?” I replied.

  “Yes, who would ever wear a rosary as a necklace?”

  “Um … nuns do,” I said as quietly as possible.

  My mother did not enjoy my quick point of view on the matter. “That’s different,” she said.

  “How so?” I asked.

  “Because Madonna is using them to be sexy. Nuns wear them because they are respecting God. Madonna is evil. There is no way any mother would name her child Madonna and let her look like that. She’s trying to lure men into her sexually spun web of promiscuity.”

  Wow, that’s awesome, I thought.

  My mother pointed to the TV just as Madonna began practically masturbating on a boat in the canals of Venice.

  “I like her music,” I said casually. “I think she’s pretty.”

  “Jenny, you can’t look up to girls like that. She’s a disgrace to God. What self-respecting man wears a lion head? That’s obviously symbolism for bestiality and that is a serious sin. You wouldn’t be friends with someone who slaps God in the face, now would you?”

  “No, of course not,” I said.

  My mom patted me on the back and walked out of the room.

  I ran to my bedroom and pulled one of my two thousand rosaries off one of my two hundred crucifixes and put it around my neck with a scapular for good measure. I then proceeded to pull one shoulder of my sweater down to reveal my training bra strap. I walked in front of the mirror and began flipping my hair as I danced around and sang every lyric. “Like a vir-r-r-r-gin, touched for the very first time.”

  It felt so good to be doing something I wasn’t supposed to do. It kind of felt like when I would wake up in the middle of the night to steal a bunch of JoJo’s trick-or-treat candy (which I did only two times, JoJo … okay, maybe three). I couldn’t understand why being naughty felt so good. So I went to the free therapist—our priest.

  “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

  “What is it?”

  “Well, I kinda just want to know why it feels so good to sin.”

  “Hmm … Let’s start with which sin you are referring to.”

  “Well, I’m not even sure if this is an actual sin, but I know it’s not right.”

  “Go ahead, continue.”

  “I like Madonna,” I whispered.

  “Well, I love Madonna,” Father Colin replied.

  “You do?!” I replied with glee in my voice.

  “Yes, I do,” he said.

  “Oh my God, that’s freaking awesome! I thought you were all, like, uncool and just played chess all day long and watched Leave It to Beaver.”

  He laughed. “Why would you think loving Madonna would be a sin?”

  “Well, she wears a rosary as a necklace.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “That’s what I said! Oh my God, you are the coolest priest ever! My mom also said that Madonna was the spawn of Satan.”

  “What?! Why would she ever say something like that?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. My mom also said that Madonna is definitely not a virgin like she claims to be.”

  “What? What has gotten into your mother? Of course Madonna is a virgin!”

  “Wow, you really are a fan of Madonna. Maybe you can convince my mom to let me go see her in concert.”

  Silence was all I heard for about twenty seconds. I could see his shadow remain motionless through the confessional screen that separated us. “I think we are confused. I’m talking about the Virgin Mary, our Madonna,” he said.

  “Oh … hmm. Awkward. Well, what do you think of the MTV Madonna?” I asked.

  “I don’t know who you are talking about. There is only one Madonna, the Virgin Mary,” he responded firmly.

  I left confession that day with the realization that I had to come up with my own interpretation of why it felt good to sin. The only I thing I came up with was that it was like chocolate. Even though everyone says it’s bad for you, we all enjoy it. You just have to balance it with eating right or choosing your sins wisely, like selecting a quality chocolate. The same goes for sinning. Not too much, but just enough makes life way more satisfying.

  Fast forward to eight years later. I am twenty and have experienced heavenly bouts of freedom. When I heard about the upcoming release of the Madonna Erotica CD, I nearly lost my shit. She was more risqué than ever. I was craving a Jesus-like fix. They almost went hand in hand now. Madonna and Jesus. One and the same. Tearing off the cellophane from my Erotica CD felt like unwrapping a present on Christmas morning. I slid the CD into my stereo and my heart sang while my body started thrashing around provocatively to the beat. I was experiencing an all-time high of the chocolate factor. Just then my mom charged into my room like a bull in a china shop. She was behaving like a tyrant, and I’d never seen her quite like this before. It scared the shit out of me so much that I fell off my bed.

  “I know that voice! Get her out of this house now,” Mom demanded.

  I wanted to scream something stupid like, “I’m twenty, Mom!” or “Leave Madonna alone!” but I knew it was hopeless.

  Momma preached and she made up her mind. She slammed the CD on a retaining wall outside. There was fire in her eyes as she muttered about “the sinner wearing a cone-shaped bra symbolic of two cornucopias” putting a curse on our home. As if destroying my Erotica CD weren’t enough, she went on a tangent bitching about how her suspicions of bestiality were confirmed. She grabbed the album, whose back cover had an image of Madonna sucking on an elephant’s trunk, and tossed it into the fire. I watched it melt down and turn to ash.

  That night, Mom went through all my shit to make sure I got rid of every trace of Madonna memorabilia. Touched for the very last time.

  10

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

  My family was getting ready to go to a ceremony at our parish, where they were going to announce the winner of the Traveling Mother Mary.

  In case you aren’t that Catholic and don’t know what that means, it’s basically a four-foot statue of the Virgin Mary that travels around the world. It is then up to a lucky parish to choose an even luckier family that is holy enough to have it in their home.

  At thirteen, the problem I was having at the time was that puberty and religion just didn’t mix. I was embarrassed by the whole thing and prayed we didn’t win. If we did, my mother would be required to put Mary on a table in our front living-room window to display to the who
le neighborhood, much like in the movie A Christmas Story when the father of the Ovaltine kid wins the leg lamp with fishnet on it and his wife is horrified that he is displaying it for all to see.

  To make matters worse, the other obligation is to have an open-door policy for strangers to come in and join the rosary reciting all day and into the night. That would be beyond embarrassing.

  When we arrived at the church, my mom and my baby sister Amy, who was my mother’s minion, were ecstatic. Me and my two other sisters, Lynette and JoJo, were not that happy. My older sister, Lynette, at this point was goth and had half of her head shaved bald and the other half dyed jet-black. She looked like she was going to sacrifice a chicken, but she never did. Probably because she turned out to be a vegetarian. JoJo just did and felt whatever I did and felt, so she seemed equally embarrassed.

  Once we got to the parish, families ran up to greet us, telling us that the McCarthys were one of two finalists.

  “God damn it,” I accidentally said.

  My mother snapped her head around and gave me her famous evil eye, then continued to talk to her fans. “So who is the other finalist?” she asked.

  “It’s the Baruchs.”

  If this were a movie, it would be directed by Quentin Tarantino. The camera would zoom into my mother’s face, with an eyebrow raised, and then scan the room for her archenemy.

  Now I wanted to win. I wanted to win and shove our trophy … uh … our victory up Diana Baruch’s ass. Screw being embarrassed. I wanted to win!

  Father Patrick took the stage and began the presentation talking about the significance of the Traveling Mother Mary statue—about how it had graced many homes around the world.

  “But now Mary has made it to Chicago to be displayed at one family’s home for one year. This family was chosen after much consideration as the holiest family in the neighborhood.”