Bad Habits

For Mom and Dad

Not sure if God chose you to be my parents or I chose you, but I will be eternally grateful for the gift of love and faith you instilled in my sisters and me. Well … JoJo could use a little more help, but for the most part I think you both did an amazing job.

Title Page

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Twitter page

About the Author

About the Book

Praise

Other Works

Copyright

Lord, You are holy indeed, the fountain of all holiness …”

Father Colin conducted the service in his usual monotone delivery. He was middle-aged and portly with jiggly jowls. He always wore humongous glasses and bore a strong resemblance to Peter Griffin from
Family Guy
.

“Let Your spirit come upon these gifts to make them holy so that they may become …”

Squeak, squeak
.

Father Colin stopped mid-prayer as the parishioners looked around. He needn’t look at the three altar boys who always stood behind him like the three amigos (except they weren’t friends), because they were ass-kissers and not at all mischievous. They were in their early teens, and didn’t even let out an occasional snicker at deaf Mrs. Connors and her loud farts that managed to slip out at the quietest of times.

Squeak, squeak
.

Father Colin started to look agitated. He took one more scan of the room before continuing.

“… so that they may become for us the body and blood of our Lord Jesus …”

Squeak, squeak
.

Father Colin’s head snapped up, trying to catch the little pissant making the disturbing noise that kept interrupting his 157,000th Mass service.

Squeak, squeak
.

“What
is
that noise?” Father Colin shouted.

Once again, all the parishioners looked around at each other as if to say, “It’s not coming from me.”

I was six years old and sitting with my mom and dad, older sister Lynette, and younger sisters JoJo and Amy. My mother was a hairdresser, so she made sure all of her daughters were coiffed perfectly. We were always dressed beautifully, even though we were poor as shit. We looked liked the kids from the show
Toddlers & Tiaras
.

Squeak, squeak
.

The parishioners began looking at our section. My mother turned around to stare at the pew behind us, trying to deflect some of the stares we were getting.

My mother’s expression changed as she spotted her worst enemy. Almost like when Jerry Seinfeld would see Newman.

My mom’s enemy was named Janet Baruch.

The Baruch family lived on the same street as us, but they had six children. Janet would always try to outdo my mother in everything—having the most plastic fake-animal decorations on her lawn; donating more time to charities; even having two more children than my mom.

My mom and Janet stared at each other with an intense gaze that you usually see only at the beginning of a UFC fight. It was the look my mom had the time she went over to Janet’s and kicked over her fake-duck family, the newest addition to her creepy lawn.

Janet said, “I think the noise is coming from one of your children, Linda.”

Now, let me tell you something about my mother. She is one of the most wonderful, loving, caring, sweet people you will ever meet—unless you cross her family.

My mother used her infamous fake smile while talking through clenched teeth to reply. “No, Janet. I’m pretty sure it’s coming from your pew. And speaking of pew, I think your baby could use a diaper change.”

My mom sat back with pursed lips, pleased with her response.

Squeak, squeak
.

Father Colin threw his hands up in the air and shouted, “Okay, I’m sure most of you don’t want to be here all day, so whoever is making that noise, please stop.”

My dad did a once-over at all of us. He always had that Irish, blue-collar, exhausted look and liked to turn a blind eye to controversy. I smiled sweetly to reassure him of my innocence, as did Lynette. My two other sisters, Amy and JoJo, were too young to possibly create this bizarre sound, so my dad leaned back and his eyes began to flutter and close as he fell back asleep. This was Dad’s usual nap time. A few other people were dozing off too, so it appeared that they were also safe from being labeled as the holy squeaker.

Lynette leaned over to me and said, “I think it’s coming from Greg.”

Our neighbors, the Baruchs, were sitting right behind us. Greg Baruch, the son, was the same age as I was and was an evil little prick.

One time, Greg peed inside my Baby Alive doll after I left it in our backyard. He told me about it two days later—after I had already resumed playing with her. Imagine my horror when real pee came out of my doll’s vagina hole! I thought she was possessed. I screamed and ran inside the house to tell my mom, who then stormed over to the Baruchs.

Janet came out and accused my mother of lying about her precious Greg. A screaming match followed as she adamantly defended that Greg “would do no such thing.” I looked upstairs to his bedroom window and saw the asshole laughing. Later that month when I heard my parents talking after I was “asleep,” they made reference to my dad getting revenge.

I can only imagine where my dad might have unloaded his bladder.

Meanwhile, in church, I whispered back to Lynette, “Yeah, I think it’s Greg too.”

Then Lynette leaned over to my mother and said, “Ma, the sound is coming from Greg.”

My mother quickly turned around and proudly whispered, “Janet, my daughter just told me that the squeak is coming from Greg, not my kids, so don’t be so quick to judge. Remember Matthew 7:1: ‘Do not judge, or you too will be judged.’”

Janet leaned in ready to counterattack. “First of all, it’s ‘Judge not, lest ye be judged.’ Don’t butcher the Bible—and Greg is not making that noise.”

Squeak, squeak
.

My mom and Janet both whipped their heads in their kids’ direction. I immediately looked at Greg and pointed to him. Janet violently tugged Greg’s ear and loudly whispered into it, “I will beat your ass raw if that sound is coming from you.” I heard him whimper, and for a moment I felt redemption for the doll urination act.

The Mass continued.

It was like the scene from
Ferris Bueller’s Day Off
when the dull teacher keeps saying, “Bueller … Bueller … Bueller … Bueller,” in his flat voice while the class is half asleep. I think some parishioners were actually drooling.

Squeak, squeaaaaaak!

Not anymore. Everyone inside the church jolted and suddenly became alert with this last squeak.

Then came another
sque—
, which was abruptly stopped by a church usher grabbing me.

“It’s coming from her,” he pointed dramatically, as if he had caught a thief stealing a precious jewel.

The entire church gasped: How could such an adorable, innocent-looking blond girl in a fluffy pink dress be the squeaker? I looked over at my mom. She turned pale and mumbled softly, “What in the heck?”

Even at this young age, I remembered that honesty is always the best policy, so I said, “I like the noise my butt makes on the pew when I don’t wear underwear.” Then I proceeded to illustrate to everyone that I was telling the truth by lifting up my dress as I stood up on the bench and did a spin, just like a pageant girl would do, except only mine flashed my bum cheeks.

Mom couldn’t pull me back down fast enough as I fell on my tush with a thud.

As my mother dragged us out of church that day, a little piece of her died. This was the beginning of Jenny testing her faith and patience. It was also the beginning of my love of not wearing underwear.

As a little girl, I spent a lot of time staring up at the sky. I felt an amazing connection to it. It felt like home to me. I can still remember the warm breeze that would glide across my face as my eyes wondrously gazed up to the heavens.