Forgive Me Father, For I have sinned, and this is my confession.

I go to the same mass weekly, and I must say, I give a cheer of gratitude to God now when I see you there, as I know I understand your accent, you speak with a non-monotone tempo, you smell good, and we’re about the same age, although I’ve probably got you by 10 years.  I’m often hopeful that the group of priests is going to relate the homily to something that I can apply in my life, instead of a dissertation published in a catholic journal by a priest more out of touch with contemporary issues than the Ronald Reagan era appointed Supreme Court justices.  Honestly, mass and homilies at Holy Spirit are becoming painful.  Father Ricardo got it.  I would sprinkle myself with holy water, say the sign of the cross, and say, “Thank God” when he was there.  Things got really exciting the week we all thought he was holding a gun under his vestment, but instead it was a Burger King crown, or the time he told us that he had received a death threat from someone and he reminded us that he was from the “South Side”.  I was hooked and shouting “Amen!”

Your homily on Sunday really struck a chord with me and I was optimistic that your insight might indeed provide some relevance to my life.  I still feel like I’m listening to my little brother tell me what to do, but I believe you may have “lived a little”.  I hope your Homily meant to imply that we should go to confession more often rather than seeking out medical treatment, especially in light of the economy.  And that, my friend, was met with an “AMEN”.

As for the “proper” confession, I’m not into the face to face thing these days, unless it means I get to rest on my back on a couch and get prescription drugs afterwards, just as you referenced on Sunday.  The bad news/good news though is that I have a disease called Ménière’s disease which causes me to get dizzy frequently, sometimes when I am driving my kids around in my 2002 minivan reaching speeds of 80 mph!  Initially we feared it was a brain tumor, but I’ll get to live my life out fully with this incurable diagnosis.  Fully dizzy.  So, the symptoms are controlled through a low sodium diet and medication.  One of the drugs they prescribe for Ménière’s is Valium, another is a diuretic, and another is Meclizine.  I no longer retain water (some could say I’m a skinny bitch), I don’t get sea sick, and I used to be mellow.  I didn’t enjoy the effects of Valium (I had no emotion and combining it with post-partum depression didn’t work to fulfill my wifely obligations), so I got my internist/nannynapper (long story) to prescribe Alprazolam (aka Xanax) about six months ago and it’s done wonders for me, and my anxiety, and my marriage.  I take it before going to bed, my ears no longer ring constantly, when I take it regularly, I don’t feel like I am about to jump out of my skin, and I can sleep peacefully “sometimes”; last night wasn’t one of those nights.  Oh, did I mention, our “new” health insurance since starting my husband’s company three years ago doesn’t cover treatment for Ménière’s disease, so I have to sweet talk the gynecologist, neighborhood ER physician, and nanny napper into writing the prescriptions for me.  That has been stressful in itself, but for the time, I’ve got my disease under control.

So, for the time being, I’ve got the prescriptions covered; now I just have to continue to save my soul.    Personally, I can’t really cost justify seeing a psychiatrist for my worries. Our health insurance is a high deductible, and if I ever wanted to get different coverage, the new insurer might raise our rates, or worse, not cover us at all because I saw a shrink.   I know I’m going to get even crazier as the years progress.  Not to mention I can’t seem to get a regular mammogram to fit into my schedule.  I’m not one that keeps it all inside.  I have a very good communicative and supportive relationship with my husband about all things on my mind, besides sometimes him, of course.  And while I am the highly educated chauffeur, driving my children around while they are living their lives, and the pause button is on my own life and my own ambitions beyond my current deck of cards, I have a very introspective dialogue with God.  I’m very honest with myself the world around me.

I need feedback, if that is what your homily was suggesting that you could provide.  What really is a sin in my world of motherhood and wife dumb besides the random hangover which causes me to miss Mass?  Frankly, I’ve got enough “issues” that would probably cause the fellow behind me to become, let’s say, a little impatient and me, pressured.   I don’t know if “issues” are “sins”.   What do you want to hear about?  Putting it down in a “I got mad at my husband” categorical statement wouldn’t really illustrate what part of that was a sin, and seems a bit disingenuine and too “let’s check a box” Catholicism to me.

Forgive me father, for I have sinned, and because the confessional schedule, my children’s schedule, my husband’s schedule and my list of too many things to do between now and when I forget my sins, I’ve decided to just write to you instead of show up behind the booth on Saturday.  Besides, how can I be sure that I get to confess to you?  I mean, last year I was mustering up the courage to go to Father Ricardo, (we’re new to the area, from Florida – long story), because he was “with it”, and I felt like he could relate to me.  Just when I was getting comfortable with Father Ricardo, just when I was about to reveal my conscience, Promotion!  My oldest son gets his first confession from him, but not me!  I was at home with my two youngest children, one of whom had an ear infection.  However, my husband gets to absolve his sins – of course he does!  I leave for the summer, Father Ricardo leaves the parish, and I’m back to square one, praying not to be finally judged between then and when I get ready to feel comfortable with a new substitute.

You explained in your Homily the meaning of confess, and you said something about “getting it out”.  I’ve been doing that, by writing how I feel, and interpreting my own emotions, religious beliefs, and relationship with God my entire life.  I thank God every day, but I also get pissed off at God too.  I haven’t been to real confession in YEARS (I was a regular back in 2nd -12th grade with Father Joe in Virginia when Billy Joel was writing songs about me).  My last confession was a few years ago to a priest I believe was listening to the Florida game on his walkman, but I can assure you, it was pretty standard, and received a few Hail Mary’s and an Our Father as my penance.  After scoping out the confessional setup at Holy Spirit, well, if we’re not doing it in a sound proof booth, how can I feel comfortable feeling like someone can’t hear what we’re talking about?  To be completely honest, I think I’d start motioning for Father Paul to speak faster and use fewer adjectives.   It……would……..take…….forever……., Monsignor Ed smokes, and most likely I wouldn’t understand the penance from Father Pra.  So You, Father Flanagan….congratulations!

I don’t really think I’m a sinner and really have to dig deep inside my psyche to find some good ones.  Unless you include the misfortune of missing Mass on Sunday because one of my kids has a fever, we’re travelling, or very rarely, I’m suffering from a rabid headache from the night before, listening to the woes of a friend going through a horrible time or a job loss, or really just enjoying the time with my husband and some good New Orleans jazz.  I also know I’m sinning while the wine is being consumed as a therapeutic aide because I use the expression “No F***ing way” a lot while listening and think to myself, “what in God’s name where you thinking?”  Is judging someone a sin?  Probably using God’s name is a sin, right?  How about the F bomb?

I have an old friend, a lifelong single guy that has been dumped so many times by women, he’s now 38 and was rumored to be considering going into the priesthood.  It is probably a sin that I was hoping that he would do it so that I could confess to him, but also hoping that he wouldn’t go into the priesthood because just in case my marriage doesn’t work out, he’s pretty eligible.  He’s shorter than me, but isn’t everyone?  You remind me of him.  I’m sure there are a few women shaking their heads about you too.  He’s my friend on Facebook, and it’s beautiful.  Whenever I have a very lack of faith ridden post, Joe (not Father Joe) is there to provide some faith-based guidance.  Yeah, he probably should be a priest.  My roommate in New Orleans once had the unrequited love of her life declare himself to the priesthood in the midst of her pursuit, and I swear it’s caused her to be nuts fifteen years later.  Okay, it’s probably a sin that I hope most eligible single men in my life don’t get married “just in case”.  Don’t get me wrong.  I am completely committed to my marriage.  It’s not my side of the equation that I worry about.  Probably doubt is a sin here, right?

I’m very solutions oriented, so I know after years of listening to friends problems exactly what I would do if that same thing happened to me, and I’m known to be very decisive, but I know that I must be sinning in some form or fashion just being a party to it, or being disgusted by it.

The most recent drama is that my best friend and her husband have somehow managed to cause the housing crisis and financial meltdown because she never listened to Dave Ramsey or knew her pin number for the bank account until now, and has a shoe closet whose value exceeds the second mortgage on their first home.  I’ve been counseling them both for a year in the “save your marriage” “better or worse” line that I practice myself.  Initially he believed she was being unfaithful, so I suggested “His Needs, Her Needs” and “Forgiveness”, but time reveals the truth (now that she’s talking about it), and he’s mortgaged all three of their homes above their value instead of getting a JOB.  So, their business has probably caused me to fall under the “I’ve sinned” category because I am 100% on the side of the fence of divorce is necessary, and supporting my friend in her decision to proceed, and pray that one day she’ll meet a guy that’s not deceitful and a deadbeat.  So, you did well on Sunday.  Well enough that I pinched my husband while you were speaking and said, “That’s what I’ve been talking about!”  So, Congratulations, Father Flanagan, I’ve picked you as my Priest.  And with that award inherits me anonymously and all my sins as they arise.  I hope you don’t mind, but writing seems to work for me too, since I find myself up late at night ridden with anxiety and it would probably be rude for me to wake up Monsignor Ed, or the other priests all sleeping peacefully there in the house, dreaming in their respective languages and intonation, so that we could talk.  Plus, chances are, once we really get going, and I really need saving, you’ll get promoted and move on.  This way, we can still email.  I can’t see calling in my sins either, my children seem to interrupt me whenever I’m on the phone, and I really want to make an effort to confess, when I need confessing.

So, I hope emailing my confession to you works in the updated Vatican II doctrine is considered acceptable, and is considered polite.  I’ve been blogging to God for years.  Holy Spirit has a very updated and technologically savvy website, so I’m feeling that this might work for both of us.  You can think about it, and get back to me on your schedule too.

Sincerely,
SM

The best thing about a dog is their loyalty.  Kids…not loyal!

I had it on my mind to make French Onion Soup.  Sweet Onions, sauted over medium heat with some butter for 90 minutes until they reached a nice deep brown.  I now know why French Onion Soup is expensive in restaurants.  It’s very labor intensive.  I chose the incorrect day to make soup.  Monday was a very busy day in our household, I spent the morning paying bills and doing laundry and then realized as the boys were coming home from school that it would be in the best interest of keeping to the schedule if I started chopping onions at 2:30.

John had his client calling from California just as the boys were walking in the front door, and I had to quell their typical excitement as John looked at me with this look of “can’t you keep them quiet” as he waved his hand for us to move along out of his earshot.  I did think briefly to myself that he could do a better time scheduling conference calls, but we need business so I keep my mouth shut and shimmy the kids out to the back porch to update me on their day.

Mignonne was swinging happily with her American Girl dolls sitting at the table under the swingset.  Lille was sunning herself in the perfect sunlit spot fitting for a freshly groomed minature schnauzer.  Ashton had a fresh batch of Pokemon cards, and Jack was giving the update on a new book he was going to read this week “Matilda”.  All quite interesting, but my onions were not sauting.  I got Jack started on his reading, and told Ashton and Mignonne to stay OUTSIDE until daddy was off the phone.

I went and tended to my onions for the next 30 minutes, then it was time to take Jack over to tennis.  I asked if either of the little ones wanted to come, but they said they wanted to play outside.  Turned off the onions, and left the two little ones, and the schnauzer in the back yard.

Five minutes later, I returned, lit back up the onions, and decided to turn on Oprah in my kitchen where I learned that I could have multiple TYPES of orgasms, and exactly where inside my vajayjay I could locate the “G Spot”. Note to self:  if you are ever feeling around in there, it feels like the tip of your nose.  Ashton and Mignonne kept coming inside and I kept telling them to go back out.  “Daddy is on the phone”.  My stress level was increasing and I realized that I hadn’t left the house to get the refill on my Xanax…and it was one pill from being “out”.

Sauting onions add another 45 minutes, almost over with Oprah and then I shall never look at that Iranian installed fence the same way ever again.

Ashton came rushing inside yet again, saying “Mommy, Mommy!  Lille pooped on the playground!”

“What?”

“Lille POOPED on the playground.  Come see!”

So I turn off the onions again…go outside and Ashton leads me to the playground and the table under the fort part of the playgroud.  Lille was really into eating something.

“Lille Pooped!”

And there it was.  A very thick tootsie roll shaped log was right under the picnic table, right next to Julie, the American Girl doll, resting comfortably on the pinestraw.  I gagged.  Then right at EYE level was an impaled turd right on the ladder going into the playhouse.  The turd must have first hit the ladder, made a point of impact, and then proceeded to fall to the ground.  Half of the turd was on the ladder, the rest was on the ground (which the dog was eating).

I gagged several times and headed towards the garage to get a shovel.

When I returned I saw two big flies munching away on the impaled ladder turd.  I heaved.

The dog was over under the lawn table.

Mignonne was gagging too at this point.

I just shoveled and chucked the turds into Mohammad’s yard (over the fence and into his weeds) without thinking.  I went and got the garden hose to rinse off the impaled poo off of the ladder, and headed inside to tend to my onions and tried to get my mind back on finding my G spot one day and making french onion soup.

But wait…

It was a thick turd.  It wasn’t a doglike turd.

Lille doesn’t typically eat her poo.  Does she?

“Ashton!!!!”

I went back outside and found my middle child.  “Ashton and Mignonne, come with me”.  I walked them over to the most recent Lille poo over in the side yard.  “This is dog poo.  What was that on the ladder?”

“Am I going to get in trouble?”

Seems that Mr. Ashton pooped off the fort thinking it would land in Mohammad’s yard but instead the bomb misfired and did some damage of the “friendly fire” variety.

So, I need to let me kids use the bathroom inside from now on if there is a conference call scheduled after school and it would probably be in everyone’s best interest not to make French Onion Soup on a weekday.

On Retrospect, my counsel was wasted.  She Divorced Him.

I think I have a career in marriage counseling.  Not in my own, but in others.  I just have to figure out how to monetize my advice – maybe my patients could buy me a nice bottle of wine?

Spent :53 on the phone helping out daddy daycare.  Gave him the his needs, her needs counsel, and when I asked him “what does SHE need?”, he went silent.  Sometimes I think we overlook what our loved ones need because we think it’s not “correct”..i.e. “That’s ridiculous!”

My counsel was very close to some “Insight” I learned from Oprah the other day…when we eliminate our “baggage”, our “noise”…we can very much live in the moment, and just enjoy that moment.

Daddy daycare has a beautiful wife.  She’s stunningly beautiful.  She needs adoration and love.  She needs “some frequent lovin!”  Daddy daycare is beat down and not feeling that he’s measuring up.  I remember that episode in Desperate Housewives where Lynette was working and Tom was at home with the kids (who were nightmares in their own right).  Tom just wasn’t able to perform to Lynette’s liking – and she was belittling him for that).  Well, my analysis is that Daddy’s not performing because she’s making him feel inferior.  He doesn’t feel like a “man”.  She tells him that “he’s not being the man that she married”.

“That’s Ridiculous”  she would say.

“I’m so sad”, he would say.

There is always an excuse not to have sex…on both sides.

My counsel was to implement a stroke, per se in that part of his brain, and make the moment, live in the moment, and put all the other baggage aside to satisfy that “need” of hers.

Break it down.

One step at a time.

One need at a time.

I just needed a really good cry.  I’m done crying.

In all of it’s glory.

I can’t cry anymore.

The lyrics to me don’t articulate a breakup – but this disaster of my mommy dumb situation. I spent the better part of my morning today feeling sorry for myself, as I haven’t had five minutes to do that as I’m always distracted by my husband, children, and that pile of laundry that this morning I didn’t have the energy to fold.

This morning though – Princess M. just decided that the dress that Nana so lovingly handmade for her wasn’t the right shade of green and because there was no pink in it – well, she hated it. I however, had just laid out on the bed trying to push my tummy roll into my size 29 Seven for All Mankind jeans and did that side profile view of myself that looked like I was expecting, but as we are so very aware…I’m not. I didn’t breathe in deep enough though…I just keep short breaths as I pulled my shrunken tank top over my only bra that hasn’t made it through Mr. R’s dryer but is still too big since I lost any breast tissue breast feeding- I then caught a nice long view of the belly fat and stretch marks that looked like land mines on my muffin top.

I began to pant as my anxiety of this entire financial mess took over and I thought I had dis invited my brain from acknowledging the fantasy that I’d love to go on a “I’m no longer a size 6” shopping trip when my lack of consciousness was invaded when Miss M. begins her throwing a complete tantrum as we proceed out the door and into the minivan that is in such a mess that the radio turns itself on and off now for no apparent reason. She was screaming, and I just thought to myself, “she has no clue how truly lucky she is – her life is perfect”. Really. As my mother did for me, I’ve given her the life that I always wanted. It made me sad.

Really sad.

We arrive at her sanctuary of pre-school as the ladies take Princess M. out of the car and into her world of art, music, and reading books that rhyme and have happy endings. As they do, they say,

“How do you ever afford to dress her so beautifully?”

“She has the most exquisite wardrobe”

“Oh My Goodness…where ever do you shop?”

I triumphantly reply that my mother made them for her – as she does all of The Princess M’s clothing – and know that they probably think the contents of my book are reflective of the picture that the Princess takes. I then hit the minivan close button, release the break pedal and the tears start to flow.

I know I’m not the only one in the world that feels this way – and unfortunately there are people out there doing horrible things to escape their own issues – but that’s not me.

I just needed a really good cry.

I’m tired of crying.

And just like that…I have nothing left.