I didn’t know this was religious pluralism, I was 7!

The chapel was small, like the living room of somebody's house but it had an altar in it. I didn't know that's what it was called in the second grade; I just saw a big tall table with a white cloth, a shiny silver cup and a shiny silver plate. The picture window looked out onto the street, that would be the place the Christmas tree would go if it was the living room of somebody's house, I thought. The nuns lived in the house and the priest came every Friday to say mass, whatever that was. All I knew was that I was not allowed to "eat the bread," because I hadn't had my first communion and I didn't get to wear that really pretty white, crepe pinafore that Tina Halpin's mother had starched to perfection the way Tina, my best friend, got to, and it wasn't fair. And because of that I never got to taste the bread, which I know wasn't bread because it was really small, and really flat, and really round, and almost see through. But that's what they called it, bread.

    It wasn't fair that the boys got to help the priest at the altar either. I thought about this a lot. Why did Tom, or Paul, or Robby get to help the priest but none of the girls did? My favorite part was when Paul, or one of the boys would carefully fold this really white, stiff, fancy cloth napkin over their arm, and in one hand hold this beautiful, shiny miniature silver pitcher and in his other hand hold a small glass bowl and then very precisely the priest would put his fingers together above the bowl while Paul ever so slowly and gently would pour the crystal clear water over his fingers. The Priest would very carefully rub his fingers together under the water, never splashing or sploshing the water around, and then take the really stiff napkin, dry his fingers, and fold the napkin precisely the way it had been before and laid it over Paul's arm again. Then Paul would take the items to the table and put them back where he found them.

    The entire thing was magical. I was mesmerized by the words of the priest and couldn't figure out for the life of me how Jesus' body was turned into that really little, flat piece of see through "bread." I figured it was magic, that was how, and that it was super important because the priest washed his hands the same way every Friday, and said the same words and every Friday everybody else in my class got to eat the bread except me and Eric, who obviously didn't get his first communion either.

    Mayfield Jr. School of the Holy Child, nuns, and priests, habits and collars, catholic and non, and Eric and I were in the very small percentage of non. My first recollection of religious difference, and just like everything else in 1971 in my family, no one thought to explain anything and I am not sure if I even asked.

    

 

Forever 21?

I went to the mall with my friend, we will call her Katherine.  If there is really a recession, someone needs to tell the nice people of Glendale, because they were all at the mall on Sunday.

My friend Katherine is beautiful. And much closer to 21 then I am. Although, she is a mom to an 18 month old, her body bounced back and she can still shop at Forever 21 with a straight face. I am so far away from 21 that I am embarrassed to even walk into the store.  Wandering the mall we had this conversation: when exactly is the appropriate time to walk away from Forever 21 and walk into the 22 and over stores?  We did not come up with the answer, but I can tell you, my time has come.

In the past, I have been able to find little things here and there at Forever 21, a t-shirt, those stretchy long tank tops that they sell for $2.50, a tulle skirt that I needed for a Halloween costume, etc. but nothing that, come to think of it, I have been able to wear out in public.  This could be due to the fact that I didn't really start shopping at Forever 21 until I was 40.

Here are a few reasons why women over 40 should not shop at Forever 21. In grown woman's sizes, a large is medium, a medium is a small, and a small is an extra-small.    In grown woman's clothes I am size 4.  Which in 1980's sizes is really a size 6/8, because frankly even when I was 21 I wasn't a size 4.  A size 4 is on the way to anorexic in my book. The only reason I am a size 4 now, size 6/8 in the alternate reality of real size clothes, is because I breastfed both my kids until they sucked every last ounce of fat off my Italian bones, and left me a size 4 (6/8) with saggy almost A/AA tits. Of course, I had to rip my daughter from my breast at almost 3 years old, she left teeth marks to prove it, to retain a little cush in my tush.  Katherine and I are on a rampage to find bras for post-breast feeding saggy AA titties with huge nipples and may have to design our own line of bras, because even at Forever 21 the bras are too big.

Even though in real life, grown woman's size I am a small/medium top, at Forever 21 I am a large because the large at Forever 21 is a large that is supposed to fit a girl from 13 to 21. Those girls are hardly large. From 13 to 21 you are still a little girl, with a nice shapely figure that hasn't been destroyed by copious amounts of beer or childbirth.  Your breasts are perfect, nice little waist, waif like arms.  The large at Forever 21 would flatter any young woman 21 and under.

I tried on a very cute, and may I say inexpensive, dress(?), at Forever 21.  This time, I was able to fit into a medium, and that's only because I starved my body of sugar during the 40 days of Lent, more specifically cake and cookies, and that is a subject for a whole other blog! So, I tried on the medium, and it was at that moment, when I was gazing at way too much of my  46 year-old legs that have those 46 year-old wrinkles above the knees (which if you look close enough, even Demi Moore has)  right below the cellulite that no matter how much I walk or how many eagle poses I do, neither will go away,  under that way to short shirt dress, when it hit me.  I am 46 years old, a quarter of a century away from 21, and perhaps it is time to say goodbye to Forever 21, forever. 

Oh, I'll be back. I have an almost 12 year old going on 19 who loves Forever 21.  I think she has already picked out her dress for the 8th grade spring semi-formal dance and she hasn't even graduated from the 6th grade yet.  So, I will visit, and perhaps purchase clothing from Forever 21, for my daughter who appropriately belongs in the store.

And because 46 is the new 36 and I'm getting a new tattoo in a few weeks, which will surely de-age me by a few years, which might put me at 33, and unless someone comes up with a store called Forever 29, I will wander the dark forest of the mall searching through the thick trees of stores like Forever 21,  for a store that carries clothes that are cute, but appropriate and if the skirts are short either they will cover my cellulite or show enough of my tattoos to distract you from looking for my knee wrinkles.

4 years to 50

Today was my birthday.

This whole obsession with 50 started with my brother calling from Rome, where he lives.

"Hey, I called to wish you a happy birthday a day earlier.  How old are you going to be?" "46." "Oh my God, your old."  "I know.  But I don't feel 46." (Whatever the fuck 46 feels like.) "I know! That's what's so weird about it."  "I know."  "The other thing about being 46, your only 4 years from 50!"  "I know!"

So, for 2 days I've been obsessed with 50. I know, let go of 50 for god's sake your only 46. I know 50 is 4 years away and projecting that far out into the future goes against every principle I know and love. And yet, I can't seem to shake it. I can't seem to shake the fact that 50 is around the corner,  but I feel 25.

I have two kids. Fourteen and eleven. Frankly, I wonder all the time if their mine.  I watch TV with my son or go shopping with my daughter and I wonder when the real parents are going to come home and pay me so I can go party with my friends. There are so many things as a mother I feel like I might be missing because of "Aren't I just the baby sitter?" Syndrome.  Like when I tell my son to get off the computer and go out side and play, and he stares back at me with that freaky stare he gets when he's been doing non-stop quests for 6 hours, like I might just be a giant troll from his game who is set on destroying his life and he wants to just zap me with his super powered laser vision. And I can tell we are not speaking the same language, so I try again to see if I can muster some authority, and tell him to go outside, and he rolls his eyes and goes back to battling giant scorpions with his cape and sword, and I just pick up the remote and turn on Oprah.  


I will get off of the 50 thing, because everybody knows 50 is the new 40, and 40 is the new 30, etc, etc, etc. I am going to get up tomorrow and forget that I am 46. Until about a month before my birthday next year, when I start telling everybody I am 47, just so I can get used to saying "47."  Then I will grab my cape and sword and battle the giant scorpions.

2003

I want to write 2003
On the line on the check that says: date.
Because time flies and I haven't caught up.
I am still trying to figure out what it all means,
Two divorces, two children.
Perhaps there is no reason,
Or rhyme;
Maybe God has a plan and isn't telling.
Which makes me wonder
Until my brain cramps.
Then my mind shrinks back
In humility
At the enormity of life
And the smallness of me.
Because some days are are barely bearable
and others sing with joy.
Its just life they say.
Have some ice cream.