Diary of a Sex-Starved Pseudo-Mennonite, Part 10

We may have experienced a slight delay in my breakup with online dating. I got distracted for a minute by some salty chat with a King Kong-sized union iron worker and a man bun candidate who lives in his van. But I extricated myself soon enough and the deed is done, app uninstalled (that's how you do it, right? Please share in the comments if that doesn't really get rid of it). I feel so free.

I expect my readership consists entirely of rationalists and men of science, so I will assume a numerology lesson is needed for my future point. This is the 10th installment of my blog. I just hit 10 months out of my marriage. 10 means completion. So I am taking this appearance of 10 10 to mean I am done with the cruel yet necessary cycle of fucktardery that has been the past 10 months of my life. It's over. I'm free from the delusions. The distrust. The cynicism about and armor against love. The weight of expectation and desire and trying to control outcomes. I'm free. And just as soon as the nunnery returns my calls regarding the flexibility of the Catholic Church's anti-masturbation policy, I'm signing with Team Jesus. 

I can see it all now. Press gathered, cameras flashing, sweaty postulants surrounded by beaming and anxious kin all hoping their angel apprentice gets picked by the Big Show in Vatican City. Pope Francis himself wiil present me with a freshly pressed white linen habit (nuns stationed in Italy get a vow of poverty exemption for fashion purposes and to afford the ingredients in tiramisu), the back reading "Sr. Sweet Ness" in gilded letters above a gold sequin number "2" (because Jesus is always #1).

I'm gonna be the BEST. NUN. EVAH. Rollerskating through St. Peter's Square, linen habit breathing and glittering in the nearly Tuscan sun, biscotti crumbs nestled in the corners of my beatific smile. I'll jockey for the Vatican Museums gig so I can drop knowledge on portly American tourists (straining against the sticky RIck Steves' travel money belts stuffed in their Vatican-disapproved shorts) about the in-house Dalis and Berninis. Yeah. Catholics care about the poor, but we like having nice stuff around. I mean, God loves successful artists, too, not just hobos and lepers.

I can already hear you contemplating shade simply because I appear to be choosing my Catholic roots over the other highly spiritual fam referenced in the title of my blog. But I took a long look in the mirror and was like "damn, you sexy" and Catholics seem to make a lot more room for day to day (and night to night) sin than the Amish, aside from that rumspringa thing. I mean, the sin is built in. If we don't sin, who's gonna confess? And the priests need those confessions to make it through the long, lonely Jesus-lovin' nights.

If the Vatican doesn't take me it will be quite a blow. But this is where faith comes in. And prayer. Lots of prayer. My historically Mennonite grandmother converted to Catholicism to marry my grandfather. Which was no big whoop to her, because low key legacy Mennonites are very tolerant. Which makes them perfect spouses to buck wild cultural Catholics tormented by self-created daily dramas of lust, destruction, remorse and rebirth. When she dared to engage an Irishmen, Grandma didn't even really know what her ancestry was, because she had never heard anyone talk about it so much before. (You may have noticed that we the Irish don't really ever shut up about being Irish.) Anywho, Grandma the Convert gave me a rosary from the Vatican that I still have. It's white and cheap because she wasn't rich and she bought enough for all her kids and grandkids in an Irish Catholic family (which has to be big or you're doing it wrong). Should I pray this Mennonite rosary, maternal spirit sources united, I'll get my shot in the Big Show. Or my paternal Viking spirit will raid the Museums and burn that motherfucker down.

Please return next Sunday to take a knee in an open pew and see if my prayers are answered.

Until next time, Sweeties!

Ness Sweet Ness