Bad Habits (20 page)

He then told me that he gets inspired by his feces. He peers into the toilet and reads his stool like tea leaves.

Yes, I met a real-life shape-shitter.

I shook my head and tried to bring myself back to the present. Out of the yoga class. Back into the teepee. Another dimension of Hell.

My heart started to beat with the rhythm of the drum, which started to go faster and faster.

Then Chief poured more water on the stones, causing the temperature to get to at least 175 degrees. My face felt like it was melting off and I didn’t know what to do with the huge amount of pain I was in.

I tried singing along with Chief.

“Hiyayayayayaya,” I sang, but it wasn’t working.

I dug my fist into the dirt I was sitting on and brought it up to my face so I could smear the dirt on it. I thought the mud might cool my skin. Instead, I just had a muddy face that was melting off.

Then Chief poured more water on the hot rocks. More steam filled the teepee. You could hear moans as if people were burning in Hell. I started to have a panic attack. I was freaking the hell out. “Excuse me, Chief.”

Chief stopped mid-song.

“You can interrupt only if it’s an extreme emergency. You must work through the panic attack. If you work through it, you will have moved past a part of you that needed to go and will never come back. Be strong. You can do it.”

How the hell did he know I was having a panic attack?

I had no idea how to calm myself down. My body was screaming at me to cool it off.

So I was left with no other choice but to come up with a sneaky plan.

I dug my index finger through the mud and poked it out the teepee. I only got one inch of my finger out, but the breeze on the tip of my finger was enough to calm me down.

About two minutes later, people started moaning strangely and then I heard the sound of vomiting.
Oh my God,
I thought,
that better not be the person next to me
.

Chief stopped his singing and spoke.

“Someone is letting evil spirits into the tent. People are getting sick. Who is doing this?”

Damn it,
I thought.
What the hell do I do?

I sat there waiting for someone else to admit to the demon entry, but no one did. So I did what any other wise person would do and stayed silent.

Chief then spoke again.

“Please understand that this is a very important part of the ceremony and you must not lift any part of the tent. We are all counting on each other to respect this.”

Then Chief started singing again.

I felt bad about my finger poke, but it was like taking a sip of water after being in Death Valley for a week. I had to do it in order to survive.

As the third hour rolled around, I started to hallucinate. I think I was detoxing all the drugs I’d ever done in the past. I started seeing pink doughnuts singing songs to me in front of my face. Then I saw a leprechaun, with whom I had a full, audible conversation.

I finally realized that I had to poke my finger outside the teepee one more time in order to push through.

Ahhhhhhh, relief.

My index finger felt like it had won the lotto. I don’t think any of my other nine fingers have forgiven me to this day.

Then, just when I thought I had gotten away with murder, I felt my finger getting crushed outside the teepee by a three-hundred-pound man in steel boots. I knew the fire keeper patrolling the teepee had just busted me. I couldn’t scream because then everyone would know that I was the opener of the evil spirits.

Now my body was burning alive inside the teepee and my finger was being crushed to pieces outside the teepee.

If Hell on Earth exists, I had put myself in it here.

I finally managed to squirm my finger away from his boot and close the teepee back up.

As I sat there in the home stretch, I was amazed to realize that I had overcome my fear of evil spirits. To me, that was growth. Sure, I jeopardized the ceremony and possibly fucked some people up, but not caring about evil spirits was a huge accomplishment.

The ceremony was finally over. When I crawled out, it felt like I was being born again.

The cool air hitting my muddy face and the sound of the fire crackling were all so beautiful.

I sat down and felt good that I had managed to at least get through the ordeal … even if I cheated a little.

After reading about this experience, one would think that I would never go back to the lodge again. But no, not Jenny! Yes, that’s right. I went back every Monday for ten years (except during moon time). I went for so many years because I was still under the belief that you need to suffer in order to be a good person.

It was only once I began to question my need to suffer, and subsequently couldn’t come up with an answer, that I finally stopped going. I thought I would attempt something new in my life—the state of grace.

I no longer needed to feel pain in order to reach enlightenment. I was on a new path, and I was so grateful to my Indian lodge for teaching me this.

Aho Mitakuye Oyasin!!

To my mother and most other Catholics, the Vatican is to us what the Wailing Wall is to the Jews. Holy, holy! And for Catholics it doesn’t get much holier than the pope’s crib.

Growing up, my mother would have us turn on the TV to watch the pope say Mass from the Vatican, and I remember thinking how it looked like the most beautiful palace. Except there were no princes or princesses there, just really, really old people.

My mother was in love with the pope. Especially Pope John Paul II because he was also Polish.

When I was nine, I asked my mom how the pope was chosen.

She always had the best response: “By God.”

How can anyone counter that?

Anything that had to do with anything was by God.

“Mom, how do miracles happen?”

“They are chosen by the grace of God.”

“Mom, who picks the president of the United States?”

“God.”

“Mom, why does it rain?”

“God is crying.”

“Mom, why didn’t the milkman come today?”

“God didn’t want him to.”

Boom, end of story.

So, being that the pope was like God’s wingman on Earth like Robin is to Batman, my mom felt compelled to buy all the necessary pope merchandise she could get her holy hands on. It was damn near intervention time.

She had a collection of pope votive candles, pope air fresheners, pope travel cups, pope party plates, and even pope soap-on-a-rope. In 2009, the Vatican said no more to these trinkets in order to protect the papal brand. They claimed that the sale of pope paraphernalia was sacrilegious. In other words, they were missing out on the serious cash crop it could have brought in. The Church must have finally realized it should have seized the sales years ago and trademarked the pope like the Jolly Green Giant.

When I was six, there was an announcement that the pope was coming to Chicago. My mom went out of her mind with excitement. The whole neighborhood was shaken up.

Leading up to his arrival, my mom was crossing days off the calendar like it was her wedding date.

I remember the day he came quite clearly because my mom suddenly had no qualms about leaving us with a babysitter. She never got us a babysitter. She was always home. Looking back now, I appreciate that, but once I got to the teenage years, I couldn’t have wanted her more gone from the house.

But the day the pope came, off she went in her big blue parka and her hair perfectly set, leaving her four girls with the babysitter. I sat home sad because I missed her. Our babysitter did what most sitters did best and turned the TV on for us.

There, on the television, was the pope live from Chicago. He kept blessing the crowd, and all these baby boomers screamed as if he were a Beatle. The camera panned to a group of crazed women crying and waving their arms wildly, and lo and behold, there was my mother. In all of her glory, she was blowing kisses to the pope and jumping up and down. I couldn’t believe out of a million crazed people, they showed my mom on TV! All I could think was that I really hoped Janet Baruch was watching. As you know, we didn’t have a VCR back in the day, so my mom had to take my word for it that I saw her geek out on the pope.

Fast-forward. I’m now twenty-three.

I had to go to Italy to promote a new pair of sunglasses some Italian designer was launching. When I was told the gig was in Rome, I nearly crapped myself. That’s where the Vatican is!

Anyway, upon my arrival, I was greeted by beautiful Italian men dripping with sex. I wished I didn’t have a boyfriend at the time because I would have totally
Jersey Shore
’d it with every hot guy I saw.

The night I arrived, I was invited to dinner with the sunglasses designer. I didn’t want to go by myself, so I asked if I could bring my wardrobe stylist and my makeup girl. They were both really close friends of mine and I pretty much traveled the world with them. After a few bottles of wine, I began playing footsie with a hot guy under the table.

Then I overheard someone at the table start talking about the Vatican.

I put my foot back inside my shoe and spoke up.

“My mom is the pope’s number one fan. Have any of you guys ever met the pope?”

One of the Mafia-looking men said, “
Sì!
”

Then the misogynistic guy next to him said, “We know people. That’s what Italy is all about. Connections.” He said this so matter-of-factly as he picked at his teeth with a business card.

Then, in all seriousness, I asked, “Do you think you can get the pope’s autograph for me?”

The entire table burst into laughter. It was a scene straight out of a sitcom where the dumb blonde asks a question and everyone laughs their asses off, leaving the dumb blonde scratching her head. I felt like Julia Roberts in
Pretty Woman
when she’s sitting with a group of upper-crust businessmen and is confused by the forks.

“I don’t get why that’s funny,” I said.

Again, the table exploded into uproarious laughter. The misogynistic guy was checking me out from head to toe. He was totally jealous of my outfit and it added to his holier-than-thou behavior.

“Well, you said you were connected, so I was just looking to get something for my mom.”

One of the Mafia-looking guys said to me, “Pope’s not gonna sign an autograph, but I can do something else for ya, if you don’t tell anyone.”

“Of course not.”

(Although, here I am about to write it all in a book. Note to the reader: Don’t ever tell me a secret.)

The Mafia guy looked at his watch, which said it was about midnight, and then looked at me with a grin.

“I can take you to the Vatican right now and take you to see the pope’s apartment, where no one gets to go. He’s out of town, so we can sneak you in.”

“
Oh my gawwwddd!!!
My mom is gonna shit when I tell her!”

“We just told you not to tell anyone.”

“Oh yeah. Oops.”

Mafia man looked at my girlfriends and said, “You guys want to come too?”

I could tell my friends did not want to go. They were exhausted from the flight. Plus, they were Jewish.

Of course they wanted no part of this, but I gave them the stare of death so that they would join me in one of the most amazing invitations a mere mortal could get on Earth.

“They are Catholic too. Of course they want to come,” I blurted out.

“Yay,” my friend Alyssa responded.

Then Andrea, my even more Jewish friend, said, “Sure. I love the pope.”

What good friends I have!

Off we went, shoved into the backseat of a little town car, zipping through the streets of Rome at midnight. My tummy had butterflies with the anticipation of being in a place that was basically the Holy Grail.

First, the car pulled into the front of the Vatican to give me a peek out the window. It was the palace I saw on TV when I was a little girl! Stunning.

My mouth hung open as I looked at all the statues of saints on pillars that surrounded the Vatican. I used to pray to all of these saints with JoJo.

This was an amazing moment for me, but it was quickly ruined by my Jewish friend Alyssa, who said, “Why do they have all these gargoyles around the Vatican?”

I kicked her in the shin as hard as I could.

“Those are all the saints, you idiot. You should really have worn your glasses.”

Moments later, we pulled up to the gate. It was spooky. It reminded me of going into my scary basement with JoJo. The guards looked more like Mason cult leaders than Palace Keepers. Had this not been the Vatican, I would have gotten out of the car and run for my life.

Then our car slowly crept in and we drove to the back of the church. A man came out to greet us who resembled Igor, Frankenstein’s assistant. Except this Igor spoke in Italian.