Or "Why I was convinced that Jesus donned a cape and flew into all the tabernacles in the land and turned the wafers into his actual flesh."

Sort of like Santa, only creepier.

Flesh, I might add, on which one is not supposed to chew. It's rude. Just wash it back with some intoxicating blood and let the dissolving begin. Enjoy, seven-year-olds! If the announcements didn't drag on, I could make it to the end of mass with the tiniest bit of soggy savior still on my tongue.

Thanks, Catholicism.

Stumbled upon this picture from my First Holy Communion...The chick on the far left end of the first row? Not my mother or my sister. And she still stands like that today, hips slung. Just swap praying hands for arms akimbo.

And I love her.

I'm on the far right: the buck-toothed, blonde-banged, lost soul in a lacy sailor dress. And for whatever reason, "Hips" (we really should call her Erin) loves me back.

Regarding our first eucharistic experience and its lasting impact on our lives, when I showed her the picture, she (non)lamented, "It didn't take."



Nope. It sure didn't.