Guest Blogger Michelle McAllister - The Never Ending Trip

The Never Ending Trip

I have been on a trip now for my entire life, not the joyous kind of trip, like a drug trip or a beach trip. No, I have been riding the train to the Catholic Guilt Trip. It’s the all expense paid trip to Purgatory that you qualify for just because you were born and continued to breathe.



I spent a majority of my formative years with my devoutly Catholic Grandma. Now, I’m sure she thought she was saving my soul from eternal damnation, but instead she made me develop an extreme guilt complex. I feel guilty even when I don’t do something wrong. Just the thought of possibly, accidentally breaking a law sends me into a tailspin that conjures up images of orange jumpsuits and ugly rubber flip flops in a contrasting color.



I believe it all started one Saturday morning while I innocently ate a bowl of Lucky Charms while enjoying the only cartoon show on for the entire week – Bugs Bunny. I guess the thought of all those pink hearts and yellow moons sent me over the edge and I poured much more cereal into the plastic bowl that used to hold a pound of margarine than I could eat for the entire day. Just as I quietly returned the bowl, half full, to the kitchen, my Grandma walked in. “Look at all that cereal you are wasting!” she scolded. “Don’t you know there are children starving in China?”



I sulked back to the TV room. I couldn’t even enjoy the antics of Bugs and Daffy anymore. Here I was, at the tender age of 8, and I was responsible for thousands of children starving in China. I had no idea there was a Lucky Charms shortage or I would have been more sparing with it.



And it didn’t end with the cereal. I had to be a good girl and go to school every day and finish all of my assignments or the police would come and cart me to jail. They could also come and get me for saying curse words, lying, or stealing. I developed a fear of police so severe, that just the sight of a cop car will to this day stop me dead in my tracks trying to decide if I am currently breaking any sort of law. And even though I never speed, I will slam on my brakes at the site of a black and white. Matter of fact, I won’t even accept collect calls from my jailed relatives. And since one of them had to learn the hard way, I put the rest of them on notice – don’t waste your one call on me! First of all, I don’t willingly visit jails and secondly, I’m cheap, so I don’t offer up bail money.



So, you can imagine the state of my underwear when one day, a police officer came knocking on my door. I was just sitting in my living room minding my own business, taking care of my toddler and being very pregnant. I looked up and saw the officer through the screen door and panic immediately set in. What did I do? Did I accidentally run someone over and not know it? Did I write a bad check? Did I unknowingly embezzle thousands of dollars?



I waddled over to the door. “Yes, may I help you?” I meekly asked. “Yeah, I’m looking for a Michelle McAllister.” Oh no! I did do something wrong! I broke the law and I’m going to jail! “I am she,” I replied, remembering proper grammar hoping it would buy me some time off for good behavior. He intently stared down at his notebook and shook his head. Here it comes, I thought, he’s going to tell me the horrible thing I’ve unknowingly done, handcuff me, and cart me to jail. Who will take care of my little boy? Will I have to have my second child in the clinker? Will my husband bail me out? “Nope, I don’t think you are the right Michelle McAllister. The one I am looking for is African American. Sorry for bothering you Ma’am.” And that was that – he left and I didn’t have to go to jail. I had to change my underwear, but I wouldn’t have to wear the ugly orange jumpsuit or forgo bubble baths for the next twenty years. And of course, I said a prayer of thanks that the offending Michelle McAllister was a different ethnicity than me. Then I worried what other crimes she had committed and if she had stolen my identity, and how long it would be until the police came back for me and lacked the pertinent information that differentiated us. So, I talked my husband into finding another job and we moved to Indiana.



I still have nightmares from that one year I spent in Catholic school under the tutelage of Sr. Francis. During our daily lessons, she would periodically remind us that our souls would no doubt linger in Purgatory for not finishing our homework in a timely and neat manner. Our only hope for salvation lay in the hands of people not even born yet (our own children and grandchildren) who would have to pay money for the Priest to pray for our lying, cheating, messy handwriting souls in hopes that one day St. Peter would allow us to cross the Pearly Gates. That and weekly confession, where each Wednesday, we would walk over to the church next door and sit quietly in the hard, wooden pews while we awaited our turn with Father Bob, who would listen to our wretched sins and order us to say 10 Our Fathers and 10 Hail Marys, and then we were good until next Wednesday. I remember sitting in that pew and trying to remember all the horrible things I had done that week – calling Barb a stinky doo-doo head, kissing John behind the dumpster, wasting a half pound of Lucky Charms, and talking in the lunch room. Surely, I would forget something and that would make my absolution null and void. I then prayed that my children and grandchildren would be extremely wealthy.



Rx: Red Wine – The good thing about being Catholic is there is no guilt for imbibing. They even do it right there during Mass! I suggest the kind they actually serve at Mass, it’s pretty tasty, as I found out one Christmas when I was twelve and drank the bottle that was a gift from the Priest to my Grandma. If you are cheap and have an hour and a half with nothing planned, you could always go to Mass and drink it there. Or if you can’t go to Mass and partake in Communion because you haven’t been to confession in twenty years, like me, you can pick some up at Kroger. But, if you do go to Mass, would you put some money in the prayer box for my soul – because I will certainly be going to Hell for even suggesting this.

- Michelle

"Red Wine With Grapes"

Be sure to check out Michelle's Blog "Straight From Helle" [LINK]