“You kiss strange men and take nudie pictures. How are you going to help us?”
No matter how many times I tell her that kissing those men is a way for me to catch them cheating or how tasteful the photos are that I’ve done, she knows someone whose best friend goes to this church who has a daughter who posed for Playboy and then went on to do porn, or something like that. As soon as I was hired for my first modeling job ten years ago, she started praying the rosary every single night because she thought she’d lost me to the dark side.
“They aren’t nudie pictures. How many times do I have to tell you this?” I whisper angrily.
She shushes me again.
“We’re in the Lord’s house. This isn’t the time to be talking about your boo-boos,” she informs me, her hands waving in the general direction of my boobs.
I love my mother. I love my mother. I love my mother. Maybe if I keep reminding myself, I won’t strangle her in a church full of people.
The organ music starts up again and everyone stands.
“Mom, we’re a little busy at work right now. Why doesn’t someone just call the police and report the theft?”
She frowns at me. “That chalice was a gift from the Pope.”
She quickly crosses herself at the mention of the Pope and I roll my eyes.
My mother was born and raised Catholic and she had a very strict upbringing. When she left for college, she sowed her wild oats and went a little crazy. She never settled down and by the time she was forty, she had given up on ever finding Mr. Right and having a family. Fate decided to give her a nice swift kick in the ass on her fortieth birthday, however.
My mother was . . . how do I put this nicely . . . basically, my mother was a cougar. On her birthday, she decided to celebrate with a few girlfriends at a local college bar. After too many shots of whiskey, she met my father. He was a college student from the University of Michigan, visiting a few of his friends at Notre Dame for the weekend. Wham, bam, thank you, ma’am, and six weeks later, the stick turned pink. She never got my dad’s name and was too mortified to ever go back to the bar and ask around about him.
My mother immediately went back to her Catholic-guilt roots and started going to confession and Mass every single day. At seventy years old, she continues to go to Mass every day, I’m sure to pray for my soul, which she assumes is indecent and always naked.
“See that nice young man two rows in front of us with the blue shirt? That’s Harold Johnson. He’s single and his mother told me he’s always had a crush on you.”
I don’t even bother looking at the man in question. Ever since Andy and I got divorced, she’s been trying to set me up with random men at church.
“You’re kidding, right? His name is Harry Johnson?” I whisper back, trying to contain my laughter.
“What’s wrong with his name? It’s a strong Christian name,” she argues.
“That’s not a strong Christian name. It’s a name that shouts ‘my parents hate me.’”
“He has a good job and he even takes care of his mother,” she replies, ignoring my barb.
“Takes care of her, or lives in her basement?”
She huffs in irritation. “There is nothing wrong with a forty-year-old man living with his poor, ailing mother. You’re not getting any younger, Paige. You need to find someone special.”
“How do you know I haven’t found someone special?” I demand.
She pulls her head away and stares at me, searching my face to see if I’m being honest. I’ve never been able to lie to my mother and she knows it. Even in high school when I thought I could get away with anything because she was always gone from the house doing one thing or another for the church. Five minutes in the door and she’d be able to figure out just by looking at me how many beers I snuck at a party when I was supposed to be studying.
“Maybe I’ve already found a great guy,” I mumble, sniffling in sadness.
“You’ll never find a great guy if you continue working as a floozy,” she counters.
“Oh, my God, I am not a floozy! I haven’t had sex with anyone since Andy!”
Of course the church chooses that moment to go completely silent. My mother looks around frantically and smiles embarrassedly to the people within hearing distance.
“At least wait until after Communion to talk about s-e-x,” she scolds in my ear, spelling out the word like I’m a toddler.
I make it through the rest of Mass without doing my mother any bodily harm and as we exit the church, she walks me up to the priest.
“Beautiful sermon today, Father Bob. You remember my daughter, Paige?”
Father Bob shakes my hand and gives me a warm smile. “Of course I remember her. It’s been a while since I’ve seen you at Mass.”
My mother looks pointedly at me and I immediately feel like I’m in second grade at confession for the first time and quickly drop Father Bob’s hand.