Can I become a member of the Church of Scientology for a week? How much of my soul must I sacrifice to do so? How much of my paltry life savings will it cost me? I am willing to try, just don’t tell my husband.
I am a practicing Catholic. There, I said it in print for my seven subscribers to read. I don’t even know what that means, but I know that I feel a lot of guilt over bashing Catholicism in print. Not because I actually feel badly about it, but because I am a goddamned Catholic and that is what we do: we feel guilt. People tell me that’s what the Jews do also, but I wouldn’t know that because I am not Jewish. I’ve wanted to be Jewish since I was a child but that’s just another of my disappointments. I wanted to be taller and Jewish, wanted to get into Smith and date Elliott Smith, but none of that happened. I did stalk Elliott Smith for a minute, but everything else was impossible to attain, getting into Smith being the most out of reach.
Why Smith? Sylvia Plath went there and I am completely obsessed with Sylvia Plath. If you have not read “The Bell Jar”, stop reading this drivel and read it. Now! Yes, I am talking to you in Ohio, really, it will change your life. Read it and you just may be happy like me.
I digress. You, in Silver Lake, call Beck and tell him to get me into the Church of Scientology. I want to talk about my weight gain with Kirstie Alley, then discuss fashion with that droll speaking redhead from “Orange is the New Black”. I’ll spend my nights listening to Juliet Lewis’s awful band and talking addiction with Giovanni Ribisi while stalking his brother-in-law Beck. Yes, Beck is married to Giovanni Ribisi’s twin sister and they’re all kooky scientologists.
Much like Catholicism in Rhode Island, Scientology seems to be the cool kid religion in Hollywood and I want in to that club. Damn, I should have thought about this twenty years ago.
“You know, you should really start a blog” is a statement that I hear often. It’s most likely because I am a bit of a lunatic, a really well-mannered and nice lunatic, but a lunatic all the same.
So, here’s my first stab at starting my own blog and I intend to set a few ground rules. First, do not call this a “mommy blog.”
Yes, I have kids. I have three cute, fresh and well-dressed children with unusual names, of course. But I’m not going to talk about them much, unless they do something shockingly bad and I will share that because, to me, that’s some funny stuff. I like to boast about my kids’ bad behavior more than their good deeds. I know how boring my lil’ monsters are to you because I am probably sick of hearing about your kids. Can we all just agree that children are precious little wonders spewing words of wisdom and be done with it? It’s just so dull.
Another reason why I do not want to be associated with the “mommy blog” trend is because nobody wants to hear about my child-rearing tips. That’s because I don’t have many. Some may call me laissez-faire in my approach to parenting, others may call me certifiably insane. Your pick. Cake for dinner? Sure, but, let’s use the fancy plates.
I will not write about weight, weight gain, who’s fat, who’s thin. I choose this rule not because I am taking the high road, but again, because it bores me. If I read about another bloggist that is attacking “fat shamers” for making fun of how she looks in a bikini, I will lose my last grip on reality. So here goes: I’m chubby and there’s really no excuse for it. I squeezed out a bunch of kids and never lost all the weight. If you see me at the beach in a bikini, laugh all you want, but first check my stats because I have probably suffered a stroke or a mental breakdown.