Jesus Saves... Bourbon Balls ...and Happy Endings

I distributed a few of the post-Bazaar treats at ORounding tonight, a mix of buckeyes and bourbon balls and MarthaWashingtons and Millionaires. The St. John Ladies made a point of packing up my go-bags in these little numbers -- knowing my friends would get a kick out of them. (Jupiter's caption for it reads "ace gives gifts with a spiritual message. And she claims she doesn't like Oprah!" -- he did later review them as a "near religious experience," which will make Mom happy.)

I was just so tired from a weekend that included high heels and makeup from Friday thru Sunday, tonight's crew was lucky to find me showered -- Treats were my atonement for schlumpedinking my way through dinner.

Whenever I mentioned St. John's, I could see mah geek (straight)Jason's eyes get wider and wider until he finally asked, incredulously, "Youuuuuuuuu, go to Chuuuuuuuurch?!"
I explained I had just spent the weekend there for family festivities, as opposed to any sudden zealotry. But yesssss, I do go to Mass -- just never during the busy season (I steer entirely clear for Christmas and Easter). When I do go, the paint doesn't spontaneously peel off the walls when I enter, and babyJesus doesn't suddenly begin to cry tears of blood. (But when I dip my fingers in the Holy Water, it is exactly like when Al Pacino does it in The Devil's Advocate.)

I just haven't been very committeed since my last priest left The Church, and I do mean: left. His transgressions aside (an alleged affair with a married parishioner), he was a fabulous priest. Very philosophical, very scholarly -- I always felt like I'd just come out of a really great class. I also saw him for "pastoral counseling," which -- as it turns out, I found out later -- is apparently how he met his girlfriend (which you'd think woulda gone more "posterboy" than "pariah" for the Catholic Church -- she was an over21 heterosexual woman for Chrissake! -- but he reportedly counseled her, and we don't mix the Couch and "the Couch.") All I'm saying is, I had weekly appointments for a couple months, and while he helped me immeasurably, let me stress: there was not one untoward move. Not ONE dammit. What the hell am I, chopped liver? He clearly had a predilection for patients, and I was all adorably weepy and vulnerable.... I got bupkis.

My friend Pam said I probably just went about it wrong. Like that episode of Sex and the City where Samantha went in for the Massage at Elizabeth Arden and left mad when Sven didn't come thru with "The. Massage" (the one that included the "happy ending."

Apparently, I shoulda elbowed the receptionist, and said "youuuuu know" (nudge nudge wink wink) "I'm here for the PASTORAL CounseLING." (Say no mo'. Say no mo'.)