Chapter 2: The move
So now Montyp2000 has a house.
It was a sad day when I had to go into the apartment managers office and tell them that I was leaving. I grew to love those nice ladies that I handed money to each and every month. But alas, I was moving on to bigger and better things… so I thought.
The move itself was fairly painless. Having moved 3 times already before, I was getting fairly good at it. Most of my belongings were still in boxes from the last move so that was nice. My friend Justin had been so kind as to lend me a hand in my moving because he is such a generous person. Ha ha ha ha ha… I know I know… he isn’t. He only did it because he knew I would be helping him move out of his house soon enough and all his kindness would be paid back to him with interest. We had just about everything moved into the house in a day and I even had my room set up. I and my faithful friend Justin moved all the big items while Anastasia and her mom moved all the little 5lb boxes. Stupid girls. They want equal rights and equal pay and to be in the military, but when it comes to lifting heavy things, that’s a mans job. That’s right ladies, we’ll get the couch while you take the cushions. That’s fair. The couch was defiantly the worst part. It was far too big to get through the back door so we went through the front. It took us 30 min and a lot of swearing to get the couch past the porch and into the living room. For some reason, only 2 of the 4 legs on the bottom of the couch would come off. Well after all the sweat and agony of getting the massive and comfy couch into the living room we decided to plop it down right in the middle of the room and take a rest. Now this was obviously not where we were going to leave it but no sooner did we sit down to relax but Anastasia came into the room and says, “Don’t you think the couch would look better over there?” Justin and I looked at each other to make sure we heard that right. Did that bitch just tell us to move the couch? She must not realize that couches and beds and dressers and TV’s and TV stands weigh a lot more than the boxes of clothes and flatware that she and her mother were hauling. After the move was finally finished it was time for relaxing. Sigh…. Sometimes I am so naïve.
Chapter 3: If it sounds too good to be true…
There are some things to know about my house before we go any further.
The house I bought was in a nice area. It was built in 1908 and has 2 stories on it with 3 bedrooms and 2 bathrooms… sort of. The house was previously owned by an old couple who lived there for most of their lives. They got too old to go up and down the stairs so they shut off the upstairs some 20 years ago and had been living in the den ever since. Well the only bathroom in the house at the time was upstairs so they took off a section of the living room and turned it into a shower room. That’s right… just a shower room. It has the old people handle in it and the big rubber flowers and everything. In the kitchen, they did away with the pantry and turned that into the bathroom. Well in the 20 years of isolation, the upstairs went to shit and required some major work before Anastasia and I could live up there. We decided to live downstairs until the renovations were done. Anastasia being the selfish person that she was decided to set up her camp in the dining room right next to the air conditioner. I set up my room in the den which offered more privacy, but was hotter than hell. I didn’t mind though because we knew it would just be temporary. Ha ha ha… what a fool I was.
My dad was going to help us with fixing up the house but unfortunately for us he was currently working on my uncles house in Chicago. It would be a few months before he would finish up over there and start on my house. In the mean time, Anastasia and I wanted to get started on little projects that we could do ourselves. Anastasia, her mother, and her friends all pitched in and tore down the ugly wallpaper in the kitchen and painted. It was great. I left in the morning to go to work and when I got home it was like a brand new kitchen had sprung up from the ashes of the old one.
I decided to be a bit more daring and attempt to remove the carpet from the stairs and upstairs rooms. The carpet that was there must have been installed in the late 60’s. It was a pea soup green and had a pattern woven into it. Hippies from the 60’s liked that kind of crap back then. Anastasia said that she kind of liked because it was retro. I am not retro. I hate hippies and I hate old carpet. Out it must go. Well upon removing the carpet from the stairs I noticed something fantastic underneath. I had a house with hardwood floors! Woo Hoo!!! I was hoping there would be little surprises like this in the house waiting for me. What I didn’t realize was how many surprises there would be and that the hard wood floors would be the only good surprise out of all of them.
After the great job they did in the kitchen, Anastasia and her mom decided to move upstairs to the bathroom. It was really the only room up there that didn’t have anything major wrong with it. So they started painting and repairing the small holes in the plaster but soon found out that there were too many cracks in the plaster to cover up with filler. They decided to cover it up with paint instead. Well as you may have guessed, it didn’t look quite right. They then decided to paint the cracks with a grey paint in some attempt to accentuate it and make it look stylish. I can see why they thought it might look good. It worked for ripped jeans back in the 80’s; it’ll work here with plaster and paint. They were wrong. So so wrong. It looked awful. The paint accentuated the cracks and in fact made it look so bad that it looked like the rest of the upstairs. I let it go though because we were living together and you don’t want to piss off the person you depend on for half of the bills.
After the painting was done, Pam cleaned the tub and toilet. I, my mother, Anastasia and my nephew Evan were downstairs talking when I heard rain. I glanced out the window to see a cloudless sky and realized it was not coming from outside but inside. I looked into the dining room to the sight of water coming out of the ceiling and pouring into the living room! I ran upstairs and saw Pam fiddling with an overflowing toilet trying to get it to stop. I turned it off for her and she told me how she had finished scrubbing the toilet and flushed it when it started to overflow. Well my dad came to the rescue and after some inspection we found out that the drainage pipe for the bathroom upstairs was an old cast iron pipe and over the years of not having been used or flushed, the inside of the pipe started to rust and flake. The flakes would fall to the bottom of the pipe and collect. Well accelerate to 20+ years later and there was a big pile of rust blocking the water from draining and turning my living room into a scene from Singing in the Rain.
During my fathers repair of the plumbing he discovered another little hiccup with the house. I had no insulation anywhere. “Well ain’t that a bitch” I thought. Not only does my air conditioner suck because it was 20 years old, but my house won’t hold in any of the cold air that the ancient air conditioner will spit out anyway. Add that to the list of things to fix. Right in between the sinking back porch and the electrical in the upstairs that looks like it was installed by Edison himself. Ahhh the joys of owning your own home. Well after all that, things calmed down and we settled into our new house. I had a hi-def TV and a DVR for my satellite dish and Anastasia’s friends came over quite a bit to drink and hang out. Life was good again.
Then it started raining. A lot. I went down into the basement to check and see if there was any water in there. When it rained there would be a small trickle coming somewhere from the concrete steps but it wasn’t anything major. This time there was a lot more rain so I wanted to make sure things were still ok. With the increase in rain, I finally saw where the water was coming in from. There was a slight crack on the side of the stairs and the water was coming in slowly but surely. Then I noticed it. There was a piece of duct tape of the crack and it had been painted to over it up. Those old cheap bastards! The more I lived in this house, the more I noticed how half assed they did everything. “Should we go out and buy a coat hook for this coat? No way! We’ll just put in a nail in the wall.” That was the mentality they had for everything they did in this house. “Let’s not do it right, lets just do it so it looks halfway decent and doesn’t cost too much.” Well me being the fool I was, I pulled on the tape that was on the stairs to see how big the crack was. Big mistake. I opened the flood gates quite literally. Water started coming out of the crack like a garden hose. I tried feebly to put the tape back but it was too late. I was screwed and my clothes were soaked. The water went down the steps and started to pool at the bottom. It eventually made its way to the sub pump but the pool started to grow and move towards the middle of the basement. I, in a moment of brilliance, taped a garden hose to the crack where the water was coming out and hoped that it would drain the water right into the sub pump. It worked! I couldn’t believe that such a long shot of an idea of mine worked! Well after the water started to go down, I heard a whistling noise near the washing machine. I went over to the wall and saw a small hole in the cement that looked like a pipe had once been there. I put my finger near the hole and felt air coming out of it. The noise was getting higher in pitch and before I knew it, water started shooting out of the hole like a fountain. Once again I had more water to clean up. “I HATE THIS HOUSE”, I screamed. Once again I had to run outside to the garage to get the other garden hose. Well I finally stopped the water park I had in my basement and cleaned everything up. All the while Anastasia stayed upstairs and watched TV. Thanks a lot you spoiled brat.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Monday, May 30, 2011
Diary Of A House: Part 1
Sigh…. I miss my apartment.
So my name is Montyp2000 and I am an American Homeowner. You’ll notice that the word “proud” was not in that title. I, like many of you, thought that the American Dream was to move out of your parents place and to buy a house of your own and live happily ever after. How foolish I was. I now see that the American Dream is to move out and get an apartment, or condo, or townhouse you can afford and never have to worry about fixing anything for yourself ever again. EVER!!! This is the story of my house. How it came to be and all the problems I’ve had to face so far. If I can stop just one person from buying a moneypit like I did, then it will all have been worth it.
Prologue: The Apartment
I was once a proud renter of an apartment. It was nice. You show up once a month, hand them a check, and go back to a wonderful apartment. It was fairly modern, 2 bedroom, 2 bathroom, decent size kitchen, big living room and on the ground floor for easy access to your car, dumpster, and laundry room. It was right in the busy part of Schererville but it was still close to my friends which was important to me. Friends came by to visit and we even filmed a movie in it. A real movie, not the dirty kind. I never had to worry about my apartment. In life you always need to be prepared should something go wrong. Well I never had to worry about that at the apartment because if anything broke, the maintenance guy was just a phone call away. Life was good to me.
My roommates changed a bit over the 2+ years that I have been away from home. Some have been slobs, some stunk up the place with smoke and cat hair, and some bought big gigantic greyhounds without asking. (yes I’m still bitter about that one BoB. That dog pee’d on my Nintendo!) I needed the room mates because my crappy job at an office supply super store did not afford me the luxury of living alone. If you can walk away from this blog with one lesson to learn it’s this; never rely on anyone to support you except yourself….. and maybe your parents if they are nice enough.
Well my 2nd room mate BoB had a girlfriend when we first moved in together. From day one I wondered in the back of my mind what was going to happen when it comes time to renew the lease. Is this girl going to still be around then? Probably not knowing BoB but what if she is? Will it be serious enough between them that they will want their own place next year? Well time flew by and 10 months later I was sorry to see that they were still together. (No offense Becka, but at the time I was concerned about where I was going to live. I couldn’t have cared less about your happiness)
So BoB and Becka moved out and to my surprise and good fortune, my friend/hairstylist Anastasia said she was looking to move out of her parents place. I thought to myself, “This is perfect! I have a room mate! She’s cute, pays rent on time, not too loud, and has good looking friends. Just my type of woman. Well the problem was that she wanted a house, not a wonderful and glorious apartment. So we went looking. Working part time at a retail job does not afford the type of house we were looking for. You know the kind I’m talking about. Good ones. Instead we had to look at fixer uppers. I didn’t really have a problem putting in a little hard work to make a so so house into our dream house. Well the only place that had these types of houses was Cedar Lake. I’m getting shivers just thinking about it. We looked all over Cedar Lake at houses for sale and I must say, there are a LOT of crappy houses out there and you wouldn’t believe the condition that these places were in. We kept coming back to the same one. It was $76,000 for a 3 bedroom house with a big basement and hardwood flooring in the living room. Not too shabby I thought. Then my dad came to look at it. I gues I was looking at the house through rose tinted glasses because to me it looked pretty good. Not to my dad though. HE's been a homeowner a long time and has had shit break and need fixing. Oh the things he found... The roof needed to be replaced, the foundation was cracked and leaking, siding would need to be redone, there were snakes, the neighbors had a live turkey that could have been a pet or dinner, and to top it all off, my dads secretary who lives in cedar lake said the neighborhood the house was in was filled with bikers and rednecks. For a Cedar Lake resident to say the area was full of hicks is really saying something. I wouldn’t have lasted a month there.
So I was back to where I was before. The chance to renew the lease at the apartment had come and gone and we only had a month and a half left on the current lease. I needed to find a house fast or risk moving back home with mom and dad. AHHHHHHH! Well wouldn’t you know, mom and dad came through after all. Dad drove past a house on the way home from work and saw a for sale sign in the yard. They took a look at it and thought it would be worth getting. Anastasia and I went to take a look at it a week later and it was in pretty good shape. My dad pointed put a few things we would need to touch up here and there but it was in livable condition and there was a lot of potential here. So I emptied out my life savings and bought a house. YAY! Montyp2000: American Homeowner.
So my name is Montyp2000 and I am an American Homeowner. You’ll notice that the word “proud” was not in that title. I, like many of you, thought that the American Dream was to move out of your parents place and to buy a house of your own and live happily ever after. How foolish I was. I now see that the American Dream is to move out and get an apartment, or condo, or townhouse you can afford and never have to worry about fixing anything for yourself ever again. EVER!!! This is the story of my house. How it came to be and all the problems I’ve had to face so far. If I can stop just one person from buying a moneypit like I did, then it will all have been worth it.
Prologue: The Apartment
I was once a proud renter of an apartment. It was nice. You show up once a month, hand them a check, and go back to a wonderful apartment. It was fairly modern, 2 bedroom, 2 bathroom, decent size kitchen, big living room and on the ground floor for easy access to your car, dumpster, and laundry room. It was right in the busy part of Schererville but it was still close to my friends which was important to me. Friends came by to visit and we even filmed a movie in it. A real movie, not the dirty kind. I never had to worry about my apartment. In life you always need to be prepared should something go wrong. Well I never had to worry about that at the apartment because if anything broke, the maintenance guy was just a phone call away. Life was good to me.
My roommates changed a bit over the 2+ years that I have been away from home. Some have been slobs, some stunk up the place with smoke and cat hair, and some bought big gigantic greyhounds without asking. (yes I’m still bitter about that one BoB. That dog pee’d on my Nintendo!) I needed the room mates because my crappy job at an office supply super store did not afford me the luxury of living alone. If you can walk away from this blog with one lesson to learn it’s this; never rely on anyone to support you except yourself….. and maybe your parents if they are nice enough.
Well my 2nd room mate BoB had a girlfriend when we first moved in together. From day one I wondered in the back of my mind what was going to happen when it comes time to renew the lease. Is this girl going to still be around then? Probably not knowing BoB but what if she is? Will it be serious enough between them that they will want their own place next year? Well time flew by and 10 months later I was sorry to see that they were still together. (No offense Becka, but at the time I was concerned about where I was going to live. I couldn’t have cared less about your happiness)
So BoB and Becka moved out and to my surprise and good fortune, my friend/hairstylist Anastasia said she was looking to move out of her parents place. I thought to myself, “This is perfect! I have a room mate! She’s cute, pays rent on time, not too loud, and has good looking friends. Just my type of woman. Well the problem was that she wanted a house, not a wonderful and glorious apartment. So we went looking. Working part time at a retail job does not afford the type of house we were looking for. You know the kind I’m talking about. Good ones. Instead we had to look at fixer uppers. I didn’t really have a problem putting in a little hard work to make a so so house into our dream house. Well the only place that had these types of houses was Cedar Lake. I’m getting shivers just thinking about it. We looked all over Cedar Lake at houses for sale and I must say, there are a LOT of crappy houses out there and you wouldn’t believe the condition that these places were in. We kept coming back to the same one. It was $76,000 for a 3 bedroom house with a big basement and hardwood flooring in the living room. Not too shabby I thought. Then my dad came to look at it. I gues I was looking at the house through rose tinted glasses because to me it looked pretty good. Not to my dad though. HE's been a homeowner a long time and has had shit break and need fixing. Oh the things he found... The roof needed to be replaced, the foundation was cracked and leaking, siding would need to be redone, there were snakes, the neighbors had a live turkey that could have been a pet or dinner, and to top it all off, my dads secretary who lives in cedar lake said the neighborhood the house was in was filled with bikers and rednecks. For a Cedar Lake resident to say the area was full of hicks is really saying something. I wouldn’t have lasted a month there.
So I was back to where I was before. The chance to renew the lease at the apartment had come and gone and we only had a month and a half left on the current lease. I needed to find a house fast or risk moving back home with mom and dad. AHHHHHHH! Well wouldn’t you know, mom and dad came through after all. Dad drove past a house on the way home from work and saw a for sale sign in the yard. They took a look at it and thought it would be worth getting. Anastasia and I went to take a look at it a week later and it was in pretty good shape. My dad pointed put a few things we would need to touch up here and there but it was in livable condition and there was a lot of potential here. So I emptied out my life savings and bought a house. YAY! Montyp2000: American Homeowner.
Sunday, May 29, 2011
God is Dead
God is dead. There… I said it. God is dead. Deal with it.
I remember from a rather young age being dragged to church every single Sunday. I was never sure why we had to go there every week. I was convinced I was being punished for something, but I couldn’t figure out what it was. Every week it was the same thing. Get up early, dress up nice, comb my hair, then go off to church and sit on a wood bench for a small eternity and listen to some guy I couldn’t actually see, due to my lack of height and bad eyesight, talk about some dude named god, or jesus, or something. And to top it off, it wasn’t just sitting. It was sit…. kneel… stand… kneel…. stand… sit. Over and over again. What’s going on? Pick one and stick with it!
What was really confusing was that my mom would drag me and my sisters to church every week but my dad was spared this punishment. Why did I have to go but dad didn’t? I DO remember asking my mom once why dad never went with. She replied, “Your father works very hard during the week and he needs his rest.” Surely she was joking. I mean yeah… my dad works hard. Harder than anyone I knew in my 7 or 8 years of existence. But seriously…. I was tired too dammit. I worked hard in school. Those dodge balls weren’t going to get thrown themselves you know. Hell…. I went to a catholic school for the first few years. We went to mass once a week already. Why was I made to go twice?
I remember sitting in the pew….. hee hee…. pew… that’s funny… anyway, I remember sitting in the pew thinking, “what am I supposed to be doing here? Who is he talking about now? I’ve never heard that name before. What does ‘smote’ mean? Why are we standing again? Ooooo time to sing. I hope we sing the wheels on the bus song. I know that one. Oh… another song I don’t know the words to. Why is everyone going up front? Are they eating? I’m starving… when’s it my turn? Why is everyone holding their hands and looking at the ground? Is everyone sleeping? Better have a look around. Uh oh…. Mom looks mad. Better sit back down. I wonder what we’re having for dinner….
Needless to say I was never really moved by church and Christianity. I could never understand what the priest was talking about. I remember him telling stories about some group of guys called the apostles going off and doing heroic things and saving the day. Or was that Batman? I know that each week it was a different adventure for these guys and that I could never remember what happened last week or if it was even important to remember. Can I get a recap here? Last week on Jerusalem 90210… Maybe next week will be more interesting. Same god time, same god channel.
Like I said before, I was sent to Catholic school for the first few years of elementary school. We even had a nun for 1st grade. Apparently nuns and priests worked for this god person which was good because I had questions about god. Surely they would know. Anytime I asked a question, I either never got a straight answer or was told to go stand in the corner for disrupting the class. I had come to the conclusion that she was not the one to ask.
One day back in 1st or 2nd grade our teacher told us we would be going to confession. For those of you who aren’t Catholics let me tell you about it. It’s just like they show it on the TV. You walk into a booth and kneel down and tell some guy in another booth right next to you all the bad things you’ve done. There’s a little screen that is supposed to block the priests view of seeing you, even though you can see right through it. So you tell him all the bad stuff you’ve done and he gives you a homework assignment of prayers you have to say and all is well. I remember thinking several things when the teacher told me this.
1. I have to tell him all the bad stuff I’ve done? Why? I wouldn’t tell my parents what I did wrong, why would I tell this guy?
2. We have to say prayers afterwards to be forgiven? Why do we say prayers throughout the day then? Did I do something wrong in class and not know it?
3. If god knows all and sees all, why do I have to say it out loud? Shouldn’t god already know the bad stuff I’ve done?
Well I asked the teacher the last one and she told me to go stand in the corner. She obviously didn’t know. I’ll ask the priest when I do this confession thingy. If anyone would know the answer, it would be gods helper elf.
So I went to confession and I made up some bad things I probably did. (Hitting my sister, not eating my vegetables etc…) The priest then asked if there was anything else I had done wrong. I told him that was all. He assigned me some prayers and told me I was forgiven. I told him I had some questions for him about god and he told me to go ahead and ask. I asked him all sorts of questions about god. Why do people die? How did Noah get all the animals on the ark and why did he leave off the dinosaurs? Why doesn’t god answer my prayers for a million dollars? If Jesus was put on the cross, why didn’t his brother Hercules come save him? If god loves us, why would he send us to hell? Why would he make hell in the first place? If god only created Adam and Eve, how did we get all these people on the planet and where did black people come from? (Yeah I know that last one was racist, but I was 7 and didn’t know it was racist. It was a legitimate question) The priest then gave me extra prayers to do for all my questions. Not one of my questions went answered.
These kinds of questions popped into my head off and on throughout the years but after confession, I learned that it was just easier to keep my mouth shut. I knew that nobody there could answer my questions and that it would only get me into trouble. I wondered to myself how is it that nobody else is asking these kinds of questions? Is there something wrong with me? Am I going to hell for questioning the bible and what my teachers tell me?
A few years later my sister and I had been transferred to public school because catholic school was getting too expensive. I met all sorts of kids there and we didn’t have to wear uniforms. I liked that part because the loafers my mom always made me wear were slippery on the tile floor and I had a tendency to want to run and slide on the floor, but usually ended up falling down in the process. It was during my 6th grade year that I met a kid named Mike. We were in art or band class together. I don’t remember which. I do however remember asking him one day what his religion was. I knew there were different types of Christians, and knew about Judaism too. He told me he didn’t have a religion. I was really confused. “How can you not have a religion?”, I asked.
“I don’t know… I just don’t”
“Well what religion are your parents?”
“We don’t have one. My parents didn’t raise me to believe in god.”
“You can do that?”
“Yeah I guess.”
My mind was blown away. I had no idea that you could NOT believe in god. I mean come on… if you don’t believe in god, how does he expect to get into heaven? That one was a brain scratcher.
One day in 8th grade I was in line for lunch. I wasn’t sure what to have that day and when it was my turn I just ordered a hot dog. What I had forgotten was that it was Lent and also happened to be a Friday. I was informed of this by a little fat kid name Nate. I really didn’t like this kid. He was short, fat, pushy, and loved telling people when they screwed up. I walked past him in the lunch room.
“Hey Montyp2000, it’s Friday.”
“Yeah I know… so what?”
“It’s lent… you can’t eat meat stupid.”
He was right…. Oh I can see his smile start to form. He had won and was acting all high and mighty. I’ll show him.
“I don’t believe in god fat boy!”
Then it hit me…. Wow…. I don’t believe in god. Did I really just say that? Did I really MEAN it? I looked up. I don’t know what I was expecting. Was the mighty hand of god going to strike me down? Hmmm nothing happened. Wow… I don’t believe in god.
Better not let mom find out…
I remember from a rather young age being dragged to church every single Sunday. I was never sure why we had to go there every week. I was convinced I was being punished for something, but I couldn’t figure out what it was. Every week it was the same thing. Get up early, dress up nice, comb my hair, then go off to church and sit on a wood bench for a small eternity and listen to some guy I couldn’t actually see, due to my lack of height and bad eyesight, talk about some dude named god, or jesus, or something. And to top it off, it wasn’t just sitting. It was sit…. kneel… stand… kneel…. stand… sit. Over and over again. What’s going on? Pick one and stick with it!
What was really confusing was that my mom would drag me and my sisters to church every week but my dad was spared this punishment. Why did I have to go but dad didn’t? I DO remember asking my mom once why dad never went with. She replied, “Your father works very hard during the week and he needs his rest.” Surely she was joking. I mean yeah… my dad works hard. Harder than anyone I knew in my 7 or 8 years of existence. But seriously…. I was tired too dammit. I worked hard in school. Those dodge balls weren’t going to get thrown themselves you know. Hell…. I went to a catholic school for the first few years. We went to mass once a week already. Why was I made to go twice?
I remember sitting in the pew….. hee hee…. pew… that’s funny… anyway, I remember sitting in the pew thinking, “what am I supposed to be doing here? Who is he talking about now? I’ve never heard that name before. What does ‘smote’ mean? Why are we standing again? Ooooo time to sing. I hope we sing the wheels on the bus song. I know that one. Oh… another song I don’t know the words to. Why is everyone going up front? Are they eating? I’m starving… when’s it my turn? Why is everyone holding their hands and looking at the ground? Is everyone sleeping? Better have a look around. Uh oh…. Mom looks mad. Better sit back down. I wonder what we’re having for dinner….
Needless to say I was never really moved by church and Christianity. I could never understand what the priest was talking about. I remember him telling stories about some group of guys called the apostles going off and doing heroic things and saving the day. Or was that Batman? I know that each week it was a different adventure for these guys and that I could never remember what happened last week or if it was even important to remember. Can I get a recap here? Last week on Jerusalem 90210… Maybe next week will be more interesting. Same god time, same god channel.
Like I said before, I was sent to Catholic school for the first few years of elementary school. We even had a nun for 1st grade. Apparently nuns and priests worked for this god person which was good because I had questions about god. Surely they would know. Anytime I asked a question, I either never got a straight answer or was told to go stand in the corner for disrupting the class. I had come to the conclusion that she was not the one to ask.
One day back in 1st or 2nd grade our teacher told us we would be going to confession. For those of you who aren’t Catholics let me tell you about it. It’s just like they show it on the TV. You walk into a booth and kneel down and tell some guy in another booth right next to you all the bad things you’ve done. There’s a little screen that is supposed to block the priests view of seeing you, even though you can see right through it. So you tell him all the bad stuff you’ve done and he gives you a homework assignment of prayers you have to say and all is well. I remember thinking several things when the teacher told me this.
1. I have to tell him all the bad stuff I’ve done? Why? I wouldn’t tell my parents what I did wrong, why would I tell this guy?
2. We have to say prayers afterwards to be forgiven? Why do we say prayers throughout the day then? Did I do something wrong in class and not know it?
3. If god knows all and sees all, why do I have to say it out loud? Shouldn’t god already know the bad stuff I’ve done?
Well I asked the teacher the last one and she told me to go stand in the corner. She obviously didn’t know. I’ll ask the priest when I do this confession thingy. If anyone would know the answer, it would be gods helper elf.
So I went to confession and I made up some bad things I probably did. (Hitting my sister, not eating my vegetables etc…) The priest then asked if there was anything else I had done wrong. I told him that was all. He assigned me some prayers and told me I was forgiven. I told him I had some questions for him about god and he told me to go ahead and ask. I asked him all sorts of questions about god. Why do people die? How did Noah get all the animals on the ark and why did he leave off the dinosaurs? Why doesn’t god answer my prayers for a million dollars? If Jesus was put on the cross, why didn’t his brother Hercules come save him? If god loves us, why would he send us to hell? Why would he make hell in the first place? If god only created Adam and Eve, how did we get all these people on the planet and where did black people come from? (Yeah I know that last one was racist, but I was 7 and didn’t know it was racist. It was a legitimate question) The priest then gave me extra prayers to do for all my questions. Not one of my questions went answered.
These kinds of questions popped into my head off and on throughout the years but after confession, I learned that it was just easier to keep my mouth shut. I knew that nobody there could answer my questions and that it would only get me into trouble. I wondered to myself how is it that nobody else is asking these kinds of questions? Is there something wrong with me? Am I going to hell for questioning the bible and what my teachers tell me?
A few years later my sister and I had been transferred to public school because catholic school was getting too expensive. I met all sorts of kids there and we didn’t have to wear uniforms. I liked that part because the loafers my mom always made me wear were slippery on the tile floor and I had a tendency to want to run and slide on the floor, but usually ended up falling down in the process. It was during my 6th grade year that I met a kid named Mike. We were in art or band class together. I don’t remember which. I do however remember asking him one day what his religion was. I knew there were different types of Christians, and knew about Judaism too. He told me he didn’t have a religion. I was really confused. “How can you not have a religion?”, I asked.
“I don’t know… I just don’t”
“Well what religion are your parents?”
“We don’t have one. My parents didn’t raise me to believe in god.”
“You can do that?”
“Yeah I guess.”
My mind was blown away. I had no idea that you could NOT believe in god. I mean come on… if you don’t believe in god, how does he expect to get into heaven? That one was a brain scratcher.
One day in 8th grade I was in line for lunch. I wasn’t sure what to have that day and when it was my turn I just ordered a hot dog. What I had forgotten was that it was Lent and also happened to be a Friday. I was informed of this by a little fat kid name Nate. I really didn’t like this kid. He was short, fat, pushy, and loved telling people when they screwed up. I walked past him in the lunch room.
“Hey Montyp2000, it’s Friday.”
“Yeah I know… so what?”
“It’s lent… you can’t eat meat stupid.”
He was right…. Oh I can see his smile start to form. He had won and was acting all high and mighty. I’ll show him.
“I don’t believe in god fat boy!”
Then it hit me…. Wow…. I don’t believe in god. Did I really just say that? Did I really MEAN it? I looked up. I don’t know what I was expecting. Was the mighty hand of god going to strike me down? Hmmm nothing happened. Wow… I don’t believe in god.
Better not let mom find out…
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