Beloved Readers: My friend Charles who writes this column and has done so faithfully for eight memorable years — with uplifting insights tempered with unrepentant sarcasms — is taking time off. (He’ll be unofficial Lotion Specialist for Sunshine Partners of America’s annual Great Lakes Shake It & Bake It Confab in Saugatuck.)
Frankly, at his age Charles should throw in the T towel (tanning, not tricking and/or tiny) or get Botoxing of those more visible body parts, starting from the waist, working spiritually upward to his cranial G spot. But, who am I — demure, other worldly religious of 39 years or thereabouts — to judge? Santa Maria Migrainola!
‘Tho faith based, I have my own mid-age foibles: high cutting-edge fashion standards to maintain; new ever-changing dieting regimens to sample, and the wholesome maintenance of a becoming and seductive appearance of virginity — to urge upon myself and others (including, somewhat fervently I might add, Mothers Against Derelict Dressers).
Anyhow, Charles asked me, Sr. Serena Scatterpin, Renegade Sisters of Mary (fully titled, credentialed novitiate of Recovering Catholic streetwise experience) to “holy ghost” write this space — approximately 590 words worth of ghosting — at 10 cents a tax-deductible, 501C3, Spell Checked word (none of which will go into anybody’s church basket, in case you’re wondering. I have a few Neiman St. Marcus trinkets in mind).
So said, I’ve agreed to share my ecumenical thoughts with Charles’ dozen or so regular — and reasonably celibate — readers (who, by the way, bailed me out of jail for my recent — and spunky — Lansing “mishap” when I physically and verbally doo-whopped a somewhat mentally compromised, fashion-challenged, fundygelical with crossed eyes, a puce Dayglo halo, and biblical bullyhorn).
First off the docket, I’d like to thank my PG fans who email me regularly (including two cute, polite and pert, 10-speed-riding Mormon missionaries who are earnestly praying to add me to Utah’s heavenly harem); and especially those who have sent me in care of BTL generous gifts of Godiva chocolates, money — Euros, dollars, Pounds Sterling — Channel perfumes, and Barcelona hand-embroidered undergarments (with — quel suprise! — poppet garters).
(Feel free to donate. For each and every love token you send to me as thanks I’ll include you in my daily prayers, my monthly prosperity detox fasting, and give you a complimentary membership to my Chain-Letter Novena Club. You just might find that your own life is more richly blessed with your heart’s desire — whomever, whatever he, she, or it may be. If the 700 Club can guarantee happiness, we can too. Besides I’m more attractive — and much thinner — than ‘Marion’ Pat Robertson any day!)
My thanks to you all — and please also be aware that none of these outpourings of your bottomless — and occasionally topless — largesse — especially perfume and undergarments — will be shared with my now-and-then companion in decorative exploration and metaphysical addiction, Fr. Manly Everhope.
(In strictest confidence: Father has a thing for dabbing himself behind the ears with patchouli and wearing frilly undies when debating those too-often-drab, lackluster Anglican vicars over matters concerning vicarious atonement for same-sex partner joint sins and DP benefits — if any — accruing in the afterlife).
Oh, yes. I wish to make it clear as Vatican chandelier crystal that I have nothing against His Holiness Pope Benedict XVI, though it might help if a) he got a henna rinse, b) bought a few Dolce & Gaybana leisure outfits, and c) fired his SA/SA chauffeur. As it is, Numero 16’s a godsend to us RCs.
Ciao! Hugs ’til next time. Just call me Sister Amnesia, er, Absentia . . .