I swanee

So I think I might be giving up swearing for Lent.

Yes, I know Lent is for good people.

Yes, I know Lent is 40 days long.

Yes, I know better women than I have crumpled in a heap of cusses blazing that same trail.

Yes, I know June is far from speaking.

But dammit, I'm doing it anyway.

Oh man, I just swore. DAMMIT!

Wait, it's not Lent yet.

And does damn count? If it's in the bible, is it unreasonable to give up? I mean, I guess prostitution, sodomy, booze and abuse of the word "begat" are in there, too. And I think a few people might really benefit from giving those things the 40-day heave-ho.

Being a marginally good Catholic as a youth, I always observed the Lenten tradition of sacrifice. One year it was black licorice. Another year it was lip balm. As I got older and more asshole-ish (still not Lent) I gave up broccoli. You know, all pursuits that really separate the girls from the women. My intentions were not steadfast, however, and I was one of those pansies that considered Sunday the day off. Smash cut to teeth blackened by Jelly Bird Eggs and lips so shiny one could look at them and see through time.

I said before that I was a marginally good Catholic as a grade school-aged kid... but I just remembered my confession racket. Now, I would rank "confession" as one of the more bonehead sacraments, but only because checking that one off the list didn't merit a party, presents or even a special outfit. One day you we're tainted with the sin of Adam and Eve and the next day you were clean as a whistle -- still wearing a plaid uniform skirt and not one book of McDonalds gift certificates richer. Boooring. So I suppose I never took it very seriously. I recall sauntering in to the confessional and, rather than hiding behind the screen like so many punks before me, I would sit square in front of Fr. Ferrigan and look him right in the eye. Yeah, I sinned. What? Try and fade this swagger, padre. I would then rattle off the Act of Contrition with the greatest of butt-kissing ease and start the show.

I hit my brother. I talked about a friend behind her back. I stole a dollar from my mom. I used the Lord's name in vain (that was always a good one). But I actually didn't do any of those things. I was lying to the priest. And my last sin I confessed to? Father, I lied. BLAM! Clean slate. Confession? Your ass is mine. Lest you think I was some perfect kid with no sins to own up to, I was actually too chicken shit (still not Lent) to admit to the real things -- like sitting through mass and mentally choreographing the most bitching gymnastics routine ever involving the altar and poor Jesus on the cross above it. Or having thumb wars with my dad during the readings. Or counting all the letters in one line of the Nicene Creed and conjuring up which NHL-er wore that number. And I won't even get into the swearing.

So here I sit, recalling how I made a mockery of Catholicism and I'm thinking about co-opting one of its traditions in order to make me a better mother to June. And on Sundays? It'll be like a Quentin Taranino movie in here.

Happy f***ing Easter. (still not Lent)