What would Carrie wonder?

As they say in the old detective movies, there’s been a break in the case!  The police have found Margaret’s diaries and letters under a ceiling tile.  They were written about and to this person she was having an affair with.  Naturally, the other party was married.

Karen was delighted that she had been right.  Nikki wondered if Margaret had had the drop ceiling put in especially to hide the letters.  I agreed that she was organized and tidy enough to do that.  If only she’d been a little bit tidier with her life.

They told me not to be such a churchlady.

“At least she had something, even if it ended badly.”

“There’s a difference between your boyfriend breaking up with you with a note on the fridge and stabbing you to death."

Karen and Nikki conceded that I had a point.  But as Carrie Bradshaw used to say, I couldn’t help but wonder if it had been worth it.  Margaret had loved tales of passion and hopeless love like Wuthering Heights.  Maybe it had been what she wanted until the last minute.  And I wondered (sorry, Carrie, but “can’t help but” makes my teeth hurt.) if, looking at my messy but conventional life, Margaret had felt sorry for me.

 

What are friends for, if not free psychoanalysis?

“Are you sure you should be drinking that?” Karen asked me last night.  Nikki had been feeling creative and had made some whipped chocolate vodka martinis.

“Very funny,” I said.

Naturally, Nikki didn’t understand, so Karen explained her theory that my being so conflicted about Cilla’s wanting to become Catholic was that I was really upset about “the Baby” getting older and becoming independent and that I was probably going to get pregnant.

Nikki nodded.  “You’re such a nurturer, Charlie.  And since you were virtually an only child, which you hated, you’re unconsciously trying to give yourself that big family you always wanted as well as saying f—you to your parents.”

Neither of my friends has a degree in psychology, although they both had courses in college and they watch Dr. Phil and Dr. Drew.

Actually, that sounded reasonable.  But sad.  Very sad.  But that might have been the martinis.

I must have looked sad, because Karen put her arm around me.  “Do you have any happy memories of your childhood?”

But Nikki was more interested in my religious experiences.  Had I had any friends who had had First Communions?

“Not really.  What Catholics there were went to Catholic school.  I always thought they were exotic.  And I loved the uniforms.  And I’d even thought I wanted to be a nun, until I saw The Nun’s Story on TV and saw they had to scrub floors and hit themselves with little whips.”

Then I remembered.  It was a Saturday morning and my father was driving me to karate class.  I saw a little girl about my age, all dressed up like a bride.  She looked beautiful and so happy.  I remembered she had white shoes (without straps) with sparkly bows on them and socks with lace.

“Look at her, Daddy,” I said, all excited.  “Why is she dressed like that?”

My father snorted and said it was Catholic nonsense dressing kids up like damn Barbie dolls.  He didn’t say anything else, so I thought I shouldn’t either.

I told Nikki and Karen, and they said I had suppressed it because it was so painful.  Karen said that I had been deprived of the God experience as a child, which was symbolized by the happy little girl going to church in a pretty dress.

“And don’t forget the veil,” Nikki added.  “The veil makes the First Communion.”

We all nodded very learnedly.

I felt awful the next morning, but it was worth to have a psychological epiphany.

By the way, Saturday Night Live sent me my Too Much Information Award.  It’s a certificate with a 1950’s picture of a nurse with a finger to her lips saying “Ssssh.”

Thanks, guys!

The Cost of Catharsis

I thought our friends and family would enjoy the story about Cilla and Fr. Barryfitzgerald and I’d get some catharsis, but it snowballed or mushroomed or exploded or whatever.  It had everything  -- a spunky child, a mean priest, feminism, theology, and Lesbians.  The paper was flooded with letters and emails.  

Then other papers, especially the tabloids, picked it up. The headlines were very creative, “Right Back at You, Father!”  “Gay Grandma Not Going to Hell”, “Christian Mom Forgives Priest.  Really?”  The more serious papers wrote editorials about the decline of religion and the decay of the church and permissive parenting.  I kept cutting things out for the scrapbook.

Saturday Night Live gave me the “Too Much Information” award.  Ed said we could put it on the mantel.  I don’t think they really send you anything, though. 

We even got some mentions in other blogs:  Bad Catholic, Woodstock Churchlady, Telling Secrets, and Clergy Confidential.

I was afraid the kids would get flack at school, but thanks to the decline of religion and decay of the church, the other children really didn’t care.  I was afraid it would spoil Cilla’s friendship with Veronica, but Veronica said that nobody liked Father Barryfitzgerald anyway and my friend Angela told me that he was always drunk at the Christmas Eve Mass.

Things eventually calmed down.  After all, slow news seasons don’t last forever.

       

Is this my fifteen minutes?

Sometimes all you can say is, “What the heck happened?”  Karen put it in stronger terms and asked me if I was related to Ned Flanders.

Our local paper read my story about Cilla and Fr. Barryfitzgerald and called for an interview.  But not with me – with Cilla.  I said they could talk to me.  As much as Cilla loves the spotlight, I didn’t think it would be good for her.

So the reporter said, “How did you feel when your daughter insulted a priest?”

“Not as bad as I felt when he told her that her grandmother was going to Hell.  It was a very bad thing to say.  Of course,” I felt obliged to add, “that doesn’t make him a bad man.”  (“Though he probably is,” I added in my head.)

“So you forgive him?”

“As a Christian, I have to.”

“Are you going to pray for him?”

“I hadn’t thought about it, but I guess so.”  (Not the best attitude, I suppose, but it was the best I had.  I’ll have to pray for a better one while I’m at it.)

It must have been a slow news day, because they ran the story with the headline, “Priest Damns Lesbian Couple to Granddaughter.”    They recapped the story and quoted me.  They said that Fr. Barry and the church had no comment.  Janet told me later that they talked to Kate, probably looking for some feminist or gay rights comments, but she just dazzled them with theology.  She didn’t get a mention.

I cut out the story and put in the pile of things to be put in the family scrapbook it I ever get the time.