Get on your knees baby and....pray?

I have a cousin that's going into her eighth month of pregnancy. Before you start bitching and moaning, no. This is not another anti-pregnancy post...I saw her the other night and made a comment on how absolutely beautiful her hair had become. She then informed me that when you get pregnant, the hormone that makes your hair fall out (we all lose 100 strands a day, or so) stops being produced, so you simply stop losing your hair. Seriously, she has, in turn, this crazy-thick, gorgeous, stunning, awesome and shiny hair! The catch? Of course there's a catch... After the baby is born, a woman loses her hair FOUR TIMES FASTER than she used to. FOUR TIMES! Babies steal your hair. That's fucked up.

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When I was in New York, I stopped with a friend of mine to see the inside of the old St. Patrick's Cathedral. While we were there, I decided that I wanted to light a candle.. After we left, I told my friend about my bright idea, and we ended up going to another, rather large church with stunning architecture. Nothing like St. Patrick's but that's beside the point.

When we first entered, I thought we were the only ones inside until I saw a nun praying close to the front of the church. I saw the prayer candles that I was there looking for, but I had to take a different entrance to get to them. I went back out and back in the other door. It was extremely dark and kind of eerie in the corner by the candles... I hadn't done this since I was a little kid, so I was a little bit nervous. I dropped my backpack and read the sign on the wall. "PRAYERS 25¢." There was something else that cost a dollar, but the fact that I had to pay a toll at first had really thrown me off. I dug inside my pockets, found no change, and ended up going into my backpack. Still no quarter, so I ended up pulling out a dollar, and figured I'd light 4. I mean, hey, I guess candles are pretty cool and they're sure fun to light. (No. I'm not a pyromaniac or anything... I just like lighting fires... which is technically the definition of a pyromaniac, but I don't enjoy it enough to burn houses down...whatever...shut up.) I folded up my dollar and put it into the little slot opening at the top of the box, and began looking around. I looked around for matches, a lighter, torches? Anything? Nothing. Then I spotted the other sign which in much smaller print, read "PUSH BUTTON ON TOP."

Blink. I rubbed my eyes. Double blink.

The Candles were light bulbs.

I ran back out as quickly as my short little legs would carry me and I found my friend. "You're not going to believe this," I said to her. I then proceeded to point to the candle display. "Nah, come on. There must be matches and real candles around here, somewhere," she said, squatting and then standing on her very tippy toes and peering around like it was going to change her view or the fact that there were no candles anywhere in the whole fucking place... "I mean, how else are you supposed to light the candle?"

I held out one finger, placed it above the candle and pushed the little red button.

"POP!" The little light came on.

"It's like a game of Trouble," I said.

"Weird!" (she giggled.)

"I know..." (I wasn't giggling.)

"I've never seen anything like that. It's seriously not normally like that." (she giggled again, almost uncontrollably.)

"I don't believe you." (me. still not giggling.)

Out in the foyer, which I'm pretty sure has an entirely different name when it's a church foyer, we read the information painted on the walls. According to the history of the church, it has already burned down. Twice. I guess they just weren't taking any more chances.

"Well, damn, S. Why didn't you light a candle while we were at the huge St. Patrick's Cathedral?" my friend asked, while still smirking and giggling, unable to control it anymore, so it had actually, by this point progressed to full-on laughing by this point...

"I didn't know I could." (at this point my lip is out about as far as a pouty lip can go.)

Who's in charge here, anyway?" (I swear I wasn't drunk.) I saw the nun standing up from her prayers and I slowly walked over to her waiting for her to pull a yardstick out from under that gown and smack my knuckles with it, "Sister? Um..ehhm...uhh..."

"Yes? Do you need help with something?" the nun asked.

"Well, uhmm.. yes. I do."

"How can I be of assistance?"

"Who's in charge here?" (I should note my friend in now sitting in a pew, with her face so buried in her hands becase she just can't hold it in anymore, at all.)

The nun raises her hands, smiles and before I say it, I can bet, you guy know what's coming. "HE" is in charge. This is "HIS" house."

(fuck. see? I knew I needed an invitation..)

I'm looking around for this "HE" and I said, "well...where is he?" I swear at the time I thought that she meant a Monsignor or something.

"HE" is everywhere.

"Kay, time to go..."

Sometimes, my lack of religious knowledge is kind of embarrassing. I did go to catholic school growing up, and my grandmother is absolutely devout. I, on the other hand, am not. I almost figured I was going to have a problem going into that church without someone that was actually from it or some kind of a formal invitation. I didn't want to get thrown out or unintentionally disrupt anything. My aunt tells a story about getting in trouble for taking communion before she was old enough. I know there are tons of rules. I just didn't want to be disrespectful.

But come on...dropping a quarter into a box and then pushing a fucking button? For some reason, that just doesn't quite seem like the right way to pay respects or send off some kind of "prayer." So Dad, I know there's no one relaying messages to you or anything but you should know that you were thought of and to prove it, there's a church somewhere with little light bulbs lit, just for you.

Ahh how I love the sweet bliss of ignorance...

SiMpLy CuRiOuS gIrL

The gun in Sister Rose Marie's Handbag

For those of you that belong to a church or at least pretend to, you know that every Christmas there's some kind of boutique. They sell presents that you wouldn't buy for anyone but your Grandmother or great Aunt Edna. Everything from crocheted crosses, to little handmade aprons for your dish soap. (if you don't know what that is, look below and cringe)

click to enlarge if you dare or care

Today, I went to visit my Grandmother who is all of 82 with all of her wits about her. Don't let this woman fool you. She's a cunning, sneaky woman. I love her to death because she raised me right. Coming in at night with her yardstick making sure we said our Our Fathers and our Hail Marys was always a treat. I go to visit her every single Saturday and she plays all old and innocent and shit. I'm getting distracted, as usual. OK. So, today she calls me on my way there and asks if I'd like to accompany her and go to the Christmas boutique. I absolutely despise these events but I knew that if I didn't go, she wouldn't get there, since she's completely immobile and she really did seem to have her heart set on it.

After practically carrying her up a flight of stairs, we get into the room and I see 75 old withered women look at us coming through the door. A luncheon! She tricked me into taking her to a League of the Sacred Heart, luncheon! She turned to me and swore up and down, I'm sure with her wrinkled little fingers crossed behind her back, that she forgot it was a luncheon. (For someone that forgot it was a luncheon, she was quick to pull that envelope with her dues that was obviously made way ahead of time.) Along with lunch, they were having a little boutique, as I mentioned before, with strange crocheted or knitted, (I really don't know the fucking difference) toilet paper holders and handmade quilts, along with all kinds of other shit you hate getting for Christmas, and will never use. Not once. Not ever. Also included, for the low price of 6 for $5.00, were raffle tickets. On the table of things that were being raffled off were 5 bottles of booze, and some other stuff. After seeing the booze, my vision became tunneled and I bought my raffle tickets.

I didn't win. I never win a thing. With a room full of lucky Irish people, some are bound to be less lucky than others. The raffle went something like this...Cue obnoxious swishy music. ~~~~~~~~~

A woman named Rose, screamed out, "Number 2806!!! I SAID, number 2806!!! Does anyone have number 2806?? Last call for number 2806!!!" Last call came at least 4 times. Everyone sat there squinting at their pile of tickets, wondering if it was them, and I hear a deep, raspy voice scream, "Beengo!" I turned around to see a man! *GASP A MAN* An elderly man, named Patrick had slipped in. I suppose he was married to one of the women. He was waving his raffle ticket in the air, calling out,"Beengo! Beengo!" Women looked appalled and whispered, while another woman walked over to him and told him gently that it wasn't bingo, but it was, in fact, a raffle. In any case, he traded the winning ticket for the Vodka. (I don't know how these old people can in good faith, take these bottles of alcohol when they know damn well they can't drink with all those fucking medications they're on. My Grandparents have whole tables full of pills) Or maybe they can. My grandmother was a little loopy this afternoon. Maybe she's been nipping at the cooking sherry with her Codeine. I wonder if Patrick thought he had died for the sake of Jihad and realized the Quran had a typo. It wasn't 72 virgins after all. It was one 72 year old virgin and her name was Sister Rose.

The day was pretty uneventful other than my Grandmother tricking me into an old lady fest... I bought a few handmade cross magnets for the fridge that already has too many magnets from my many travels and escapades. Does anyone know why 7 out of 10 women over the age of 70 are named Rosalie? Whenever someone screamed the name Rose, 10 people turned around. I'm glad I have a name that isn't common.

Until we meet again,

S