Are you there God? It's me, Jess...

I was raised Catholic. As such, I became accustomed early on to feeling guilty on a daily basis, for doing pretty much anything. Those of you who were raised within the boundaries of Catholicism can relate. I remember when I was around 13, my girlfriends and I decided to experiment with a Ouija board during a slumber party at my house. We also thought it would be fun to watch The Exorcist afterwards. Traumatized does not begin to describe what we were after this ill-conceived night. I, being a terrified adolescent who was certain I had summoned a demon into my suburban bedroom, ran directly to confession the following day and proceeded to sob uncontrollably to my priest and swear on bibles, rosaries and whatever else was available, that I would never do anything so stupid or sinful ever again if he could just please promise me I wasn't going to hell.

Fast forward to my rebellious teen years, when waking me up for mass on Sunday mornings became such an epic struggle, my mom eventually gave up. I had already begun questioning religion in all its forms and was far more intrigued by Wiccan spells and Voodoo rituals than by Hail Marys and First Holy Communion. Around this time I was dating "T", someone who to this day I refer to as my "first love". He was raised Mennonite, which was not uncommon where I grew up, and although I was vaguely aware that he attended church and was active in youth group, he rarely discussed it. Plus, he had a mohawk and a leather jacket; he listened to punk rock and wrote amazing poetry and was just all around dreamy. He and I were friends, as well as off and on boyfriend/girlfriend for years. He was the 'Ross' to my 'Rachel' and I always assumed we would graduate high school and get married.

Graduation came and went and we embarked on separate cross-country road trips. His lasted significantly longer than mine, but when he finally returned home 6 months later, we found our way back to each other and it was as though no time had passed. We spent many a late winter evening making out on my couch and talking about everything we'd seen on our respective trips. "This is it." I thought. So imagine my surprise when he arrived on my doorstep one night looking anxious and acting strangely. He came inside and proceeded to tell me that he was a sinner and had been for quite sometime and he could no longer live his life as such. He had asked God for forgiveness and was ready to walk the righteous path toward his savior Jesus Christ. At first, I thought he was joking. This was a man who:

A.) Didn't drink or do drugs.

B.) Was a virgin.

C.) Had never said a mean word about anyone the entire time I'd known him.

If he was a sinner, then I was one of Satan's minions. I was speechless, so he continued. "As for our relationship...", he began. He didn't need to finish-I wasn't dense- but I had never felt so completely blind-sided.

I haven't voluntarily attended church since I was 16 years old, yet I feel like I am finally okay with God again. I'm sure there are times when he/she is less than thrilled with my decision making, but for the most part, I'm a good person who leads an honest life. To say that particular experience wasn't pivotal and traumatic, however, would be a lie. Years later, I found myself with a massive crush on a cute boy who worked at the convenience store near my house. Every night after work, I would stop there for cigarettes so I could gaze at his beautiful face. As is my way, I had concocted quite an elaborate fantasy world involving him, even though the only words I'd ever spoken to him were "pack of Marlboro lights please". One evening, I had just finished pumping gas, when I looked up to see him leaving the store and getting in his car. I could see from where I stood, he had a bumper sticker on his back window. "We are totally soulmates" I thought, since I was quite a fan of bumper art myself. He drove past me at the pump and smiled--his brilliant, white-toothed, supple-lipped smile. I turned to read his bumper sticker as he passed:

"No Jesus, No Peace."

"Know Jesus, Know Peace."

Son of a bitch.

WWGD?

When contemplating a new beau, most people get nervous wondering if their family and friends will accept them. Meeting the parents is always a stressful time and if there are protective siblings in the mix, that too can be sketchy. I wouldn't say I don't care what my immediate family thinks, though I do find myself continually choosing guys they dislike for one reason or another. I do, however, care a great deal whether or not my dead Grandma would feel the same way. For some reason, I have it in my head that her posthumous approval is worth far more than any living person's opinion. Maybe it's because she and my Grandpa (also dead) were happily married for 60+ years when they died. I don't know anyone living that has a track record like that.

I made my peace with my Grandma's death long ago, since I felt like we were able to say our goodbyes before she passed, yet I've always regretted not being older and more mature while she was alive so I could have tapped into her wisdom a bit more. She was an amazing woman. She and my Grandpa were both retired school teachers who lived simply and traveled whenever and wherever possible. She was an intelligent, funny and mild-mannered yet feisty old gal who wore pastel-colored pantsuits and fabulous jewelry, which she collected during her travels. I would not say she was judgmental, but she definitely had strong opinions about certain things. Nothing pissed her off more than seeing a professional sports player (particularly a baseball player) with long hair or a scruffy beard. "Oh! He's such a handsome young man, why in heaven's name is he hiding behind that silly beard and ponytail?" she would say. She only ever met one of my serious boyfriends, Robert, and liked him well enough, though she didn't care for his goatee or 8-inch long ponytail. I didn't care for his alcoholism and emotional abuse, so I dumped him shortly after, making it a moot point. I think she would have liked my most recent ex, if for no other reason than he was intelligent, caring and genuinely interested in people and their stories. My Grandma and Grandpa had a LOT of stories. More than anything, I think she would just want me to be happy. That's why I wish I could sit down with her just one more time and ask her the important questions:

What made you fall in love with Grandpa?

What qualities did he have that drew you to him?

Did he ever drive you crazy? If so, how did you deal with it?

How did you know he was "the one"?

There is a chance my hopes would be dashed by her answers since things were very different back in the 1930's when they got married. People wed for more practical reasons and weren't so self-important and spoiled as they are now, to demand "perfection" from a partner when they themselves are flawed. I wonder if finding "the one" was even a consideration back then, or if you just got to a certain age and married the first "good man" you came across.

I miss her a great deal, but I like to think I am keeping her spirit alive to some extent, by wearing her jewelry every day and quoting her "Kitty-isms" as my mom so reverently calls them. I also like being compared to her for various reasons, like when I cry at television commercials. It makes me feel that much closer to her and who knows, maybe someday she'll get a wild hair and decide to haunt me or come to me in a dream and I'll have the answers to my questions once and for all.

Thank God for chocolate...

One of my least favorite words in our current lexicon is "horny". It just sounds so crass and juvenile. However, there aren't many other words that can accurately convey the feeling I so often find myself overwhelmed by. Suffice it to say, it's been awhile and the more time that passes, the more wanton I become. There are days when a scent, an accidental glimpse of someone's mid-section as they reach for something on a high shelf, or the brief touch of someone's hand on my back as they pass by, practically incapacitates me with longing. 

Then there is music...I have some very specific memories attached to certain songs. Memories so vivid, that I have essentially become a sexual Pavlov's Dog. If I hear 'Machinehead' by Bush, I am suddenly 17-years old, dry-humping my high school boyfriend in the back of my Honda Civic after curfew. I had some of the best sex of my life while Kings of Leon played in the background and as a result, almost drove my car off the road the other day when one of their songs came on the radio. 

Now although I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself, as a human being that craves physical contact with other human beings, the feeling is not always easily or thoroughly satiated. The problem with seeking outside assistance, is that it too can be unfulfilling. 

So, what's a gal to do? Pursue a relationship -however temporary- with someone I know, in order to gain the intimacy I crave? That's bad news because the intent isn't pure and people tend to get attached for the wrong reasons and end up hurt. 
Hire a male escort? Sure, they know their way around a G-spot, but EWW. Besides, who has that kind of money? 
Pick up a stranger at a bar? This is scary on many levels, plus then you need to think up a fake name and figure out how to sneak out of their house the next morning without waking them up. That's a lot of work. 

Since I am trying to make better decisions these days, I am less than thrilled with these options. On the upside, my dreams have been trying their damnedest to make up for the void in my reality and I've had ample free time to focus on learning Spanish, perfecting my banana bread recipe and performing charity work. (Note: I have done none of these things because the only thing I'm capable of focusing on is my unrelenting libidinousness. Yes, it's a word.) 

All I know is the next guy I date better have a strong back, a high tolerance for dehydration and be comfortable dating a virgin, because I'm pretty sure I am one again.