Tag Archives: nuns

Live Life Like Your Favorite Panties.

I’m one of those people – at the worst possible moment I’m going to be the one that can’t help herself and will burst out laughing.   It won’t be one of those dainty Miss Manner’s kind of laugh either.  We’re talking full on cackle call, tear fueling and breath gasping type of laughter that leads to getting your self into trouble with the nearest authority figure.

I was always in trouble in school for talking….laughing.  Detentions and study halls.

Yeah, yeah, yeah.


The worse time, was always church for me.  I grew up Catholic.  I know.  Say no more.  The whole seriousness of the visit got me.  Perhaps it was the lecture we got before even going into the church got me going.  Yes, see I went to a Catholic school, so by default we had regular church services.  Before we even left the classroom and right before we entered the church we’d get the same lecture by the Sister.

“DO NOT embarrass me!”

Anyone that says to me, “DO NOT __________”  Well, that’s not so much an ultimatum as it is a challenge in my book.  I get it and I respect it but my goodness.





Lighten up a bit.  Something would just catch in my crawl and next thing I know I wouldn’t be able to contain myself.  I’d have myself and those either unlucky or lucky enough around me in fits.

No.  My mouth is NOT big enough to stuff my fist inside.  I’ve tried on numerous occasions to stifle the giggles.  Oy.  Once I start I can’t stop.  It’s terrible.

So today when a friend called me and mentioned about a meeting she had to go through at work I suggested she wear these goofy eye glasses I bought her for Christmas.  Everyone needs a lighter moment or two in life.  She thought I was nuts.  I kept telling her the same thing:


We talked later in the day and guess what?

She did it!


I was most excited to hear she had actually done the challenge and the best yet – they LAUGHED.  Shut the door!  Good god, people laughed!  The horror and yet they SURVIVED!

So worth the giggles.

We all get so wrapped in being so serious and working.   Lighten the load and take a breath once in a while people.  It’s good for you.

Just like wearing your favorite pair of panties.  You know the pair.  I bet you have several pairs.  I do.  Why be miserable and wear a pair that going to be pinching or chafing you all day long?  It’s not worth it.  Wear the pair that makes you happy.

Like I want to spend 1/3 of my day adjusting my ass?  Panties riding up my butt.  Have to adjust.   Now they’re creeping to the side.   I don’t have the patience or the time for this.  Why be miserable?  And these people, men and women, who think they are casually picking their roos out of their ass – aren’t fooling anyone!


It’s like the people who come into each day being miserable.  It’s not worth it.  You create your day from the moment you open your eyes.  Are you wearing grandma panties or a thong?  Be happy, be comfortable – go with what moves you.  Why be miserable all the time?  It’s not worth the aggregation.  Trust me.  It doesn’t do you any good and nobody around you enjoys your negativity either.

Oh wait, let me guess, you’re wearing your underware backwards?  That would explain a lot actually.

Maybe you prefer the granny panties – fine.  Then get rid of those fucking thongs cause you’re attitude sucks when you wear them.

If boy shorts are your thing – excellent.

Boxer or brief – yahoo.

Free balling – that’s fantastic!

However, if you are the kind of person who rips the elastic out of their panties and you know who you are – that isn’t cool.  You have an issue.  We need to get you in touch with some special therapist and get you turned around.

Garter belts with stockings – yes.

Suspenders with panties – no.

NOTE:  Unless you’re PeeWee Herman and have some type of weird fetish happenings then we could discuss with Boy George in Group Sessions.

Go with the flow.  Enjoy the laughter.  Relax a bit and know it’s okay to share a grin or two.  Life is too short to be mean and miserable like the Grinch.  Besides, it’s not good for wrinkles….and nobody wants wrinkles.  Unless you’re a Shar Pei dog….they want wrinkles.

For example….my kinder half is gone starting tomorrow for a week.  Some people would be annoyed and upset.  Not me – I get the entire bed to myself!  I get to eat whatever I want!  Maybe I will go to the movies! AND I may choose to spend all day Saturday on the beach!  Perhaps I will adopt a pygmy goat!  The possibilities are endless.

The point is…..laugh.  Laugh a lot.  Even when it’s not the “right time” to laugh – do it any ways.  There’s a lot of worse things you can do in this life….seriously!  Laughing during inopportune moments truly isn’t one of them.  Take the risk.  Roll the dice.  LAUGH.

Be silly.

Choose to be happy – like your panties!

Aftermath of Growing Up Catholic

I grew up Catholic.

When my parents got divorced mom packed up the car and we moved back to Philadelphia, where her side of the family lived. My Aunt had her daughter in the local Catholic school and so Mom sent me there too. To be honest, I was relived when I heard I’d be required to wear a uniform. My thought, to be exact, was: “At least I won’t have to worry about what to wear.”

I was in third grade.

Enter: Saint You Be Damned and Take the Elevator Straight to Hell Parish and School. Although I loved the ease of the uniform, where the only decision was which pair of shoes to wear….Penny Loafers or Saddle Shoes, the organization was enough to terrify a small kid.

It’s compatible to working with The Mob.

Boy, do I have stories. Between the nuns, gym tyrant, bullies and various liturgical performances ….I’ve got stories. However, I want to reflect on the mark the church mob has left on me.

Starting catholic school in third grade, I realized this was a mistake.

Starting for me in third grade was a monthly trip over to the church to go to confession. Kids would be kicking and screaming. Determined nuns holding the confessional door shut. Sinners….repent! Avoid damnation to the fiery gates of hell! Confess your evils, small children!

Since we were all little sinners, on the direct bus to hell, they’d line us up in the massive marble entombed church where we’d nervously wait our turn to talk to one of the priests. Each one of us was turning to the person behind us and asking, “what are you saying?”

The conversations would go like this:
(Mind you while trying not to get caught talking by Sister Whip Your Ass Fast)

: Mary, what are you going to say?
:: I’ve chewed gum in math class.
: Good one, I’m going to say I lied about my homework.

: Dude, what sins are you using?
:: Fighting with my brother.
: Cool. I’ve got stole my sister’s baseball.

Hands would be sweating. Hearts pounding. Stomachs churning. Kids would be trying to figure out if they could fake out the nuns and quickly return to the pew without having to go inside the little box or behind the privacy screen.

We’d be standing, some with our foreheads pressed against the cool marble wall, in line praying the same thing:

Dear Lord, don’t let me forget the words. What if I forget the words? I hate this. I hope I don’t forget the words. I have to pee. Don’t let me forget the words. What did I say I was going to say? Oh my god, I forgot my sins! Don’t let me forget the words. This is stupid. I hope I don’t get Father 3,000 Hail Marys today. Please Lord let me get Father Just Get Out of Here Kid today….

Options: screen in a box or face to face. Early version of Fear Factor. I always chose the privacy screen, inside the little box.

Once inside you knelt down and it was dark. Except for a little tiny pin prick of light that shone upon “the instruction” card. While waiting, you could hear the mumbling of the priest behind the fancy screen.

For me, it was always the same process:

1. Quickly read the instructions as I’m supposed to have all this stuff memorized.

2.. Remember this month’s sins.

3. Pondering would it be bad to pretend faint to get out of this situation? Of course, the confessional is so small I’d end up falling and cracking my head open on the marble floor.

Upon graduating 8th grade and moving into high school one theme came up again and again: No more forced confessions! Thank you! We are free at last. We were a lucky bunch, we survived it all. Thank you Jesus.

Enter 9th grade religion class. You can imagine my horror when surprise, surprise, our teacher announced we were going to the chapel for “confession.” CRAP! Eyes darted around the class, beads of sweat broke out on foreheads and I swear a couple kids fell out of their seats. WHAT?!

Up we go to the chapel….conveniently located inside the school. I still remember this day because as we sat in the chapel and the nun announced, “Father Get Your Act Together” is ready to hear your confessions. Not one person got out of their seat. You could have heard a mouse squeal with delight over a cheese crumb. We were in the collective mind set of: if you’re really still and quiet, she won’t see you. We were the hunted, finally out running the hunter. Sins be damned….we’re not going.

Needless to say, I haven’t been to confession since.

You can imagine my trepidation when my Better Half suggested we go to church – on a non-holiday Sunday. He grew up Baptist? Methodist? I can’t remember what he told me. Anyhow, the week before last, we decide to walk over to the non-denominational church, where a friend of ours attends. Honestly, our friend’s dad is the minister. They seem like a normal family so we thought we’d give it a whirl.

Better Half and I decide to wear nice jeans and sweaters (non-matching). Please note, I was not wearing jeans that required me to lay down to zip them up or paint them on…thank you. I wasn’t sure what to expect and as a grown Catholic, I was having flashbacks. I was pretty sure I was on the Hell Express wearing jeans.

As we walked over I continued to argue silently to myself:

What if we’re under-dressed?
At least we’re going.
Should I have worn heels?
Who cares!
Maybe I should have worn khakis?
Get over it Catholic school survivor!

We hit the parking lot and I’m now voicing my concerns out loud about my attire when I see it. A woman walking up to the front door in pajama pants. Yep. Full blown, cartoon character, fuzzy pajama pants with a blue sweatshirt. I look at my Better Half and smile. If God lets in with pajama pants then I’ll be okay in jeans. No, I wasn’t worried about Better Half wearing jeans as I’m 100% certain he didn’t grow up under the Catholic mob.

Of course, there’s more to say in regards to the service. Anything other than the usual: stand, sit, kneel, beat yourself into submission, we’re all doomed sinners….Catholic service is strange to me.

My Better Half, being the smart man he is, conveniently locked me into my seat by selecting a seat that required either I climb up over an elderly regular attending sinner or be restrained by him on the aisle side. As I sat and pondered my surroundings I thought silently to myself…I don’t see any confessionals. This is going to be interesting.