That's me in the corner, that's me in the spotlight....

I just finished serving my family a dinner of salad, angel hair pasta with an extravagant vodka cream sauce, and croissants in lieu of garlic bread. Of course, the little one would have nothing but hot dogs and apple sauce, much to my dismay. I haven't cooked a lot since I returned from Belgium, and I think my husband has begun to tire of my new take-out habit. I've been dropping weight steadily. I haven't even had the patience to grocery-shop, other than the mandatory milk, eggs, bread, coffee, and cream. I surmise it's time I begin living once more. Breathing again.

I had a bad confession on Saturday. I became Catholic when I married my husband, which meant having to begin this new ritual of confessing after twenty-five years of not. The priest spoke with a thick African accent, and I had a very hard time understanding his words. But I did understand that I am "selfish," that I am "walking with the devil," and that my son's health problems are my fault because it is God's way of "waking me up" from my sinful reticence. His words hung like a cloud over me all day. He likened me to Eve, searching for "wisdom," when I should instead be looking for God's will. Maybe everything he said was true, but who knows? But certainly there was no hope, no encouragement, no reason for me to ever want to go back. Mostly, I just felt like I needed a stiff drink afterwards.