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laying the groundwork to become a well-rounded, appearance-aware but antiestablishment woman. A future Susan Sontag, no doubt. Unfortunately, a few life hiccups threw the whole “growing-up-around-other-kids” plan into the emotional meat grinder.
    [  Jesus Loved Me!  ]
    For second grade, I transferred to a conservative Lutheran elementary school. We weren’t religious, but Mom had gone to public school as a child, and the only stories she told us about her education were about kids not wearing shoes to class and the time where she had to shave her head because of lice. Oh, and something about “knocking up” people too early, which I didn’t understand, but she was very specific: it ruined women’s lives.
    Saints Academy was the best school in the cosmopolitan town of Huntsville, Alabama (Home of Space Camp, repreSENT!), and I loved it, except that we had to attend chapel every day . I considered this hour a threat to my intellect, because Mom always said, “I don’twant you or your brother becoming a Deep South Bible Thumper.” I took her warning literally. A woman named Ms. Rosemary led religion class, and whenever she’d touch the Bible with the SLIGHTEST velocity, I would fold my arms and scowl. “No way , lady! You’re not turning me into a ‘Thumper!’ ”
    The only thing that got me through the daily service was a big Jesus statue hung behind the church pulpit. I thought his face, although a little depressed about being up on the cross like that, was kinda hunky. So I sat there every day, tuning Ms. Rosemary out like the trombones from the Peanuts cartoons, imagining me and J.C. cuddling in front of the television while we watched Family Ties or Scooby-Doo together. Sometimes we’d even go to Disneyland on our imaginary honeymoon. J.C. hated Goofy and loved the teacup ride the best, just like I did. We were the perfect pair in my dreams!
    But after a few months, my crush on Mr. Christ transferred to a Mr. Hasselhoff from Knight Rider , and after that I prayed to my ex-boyfriend’s dad for anything to get me out of the daily religious misery. Ms. Rosemary was not a good communicator, and whoever these “John,” “Matthew,” and “Judas” people were, they were NOT HAVING A GOOD TIME. How could I escape?!
    And one day, it happened. Ms. Rosemary and a guy named “Timothy One” gave me the key. After school, I ran into the kitchen. I couldn’t wait to throw my match into the parental tinderbox.
    “Mom! Mom! Guess what? They burned money in church today!”
    My mother stopped making her hemp yogurt or whatever other disgusting health food she used to force-feed us. “What?!”
    “Yeah, they set fire to money . Ms. Rosemary said it’s the devil’s paper!”
    “Are you kidding? How much?”
    “ Hundreds of dollars! More than any money I’ve seen in my life!” It was actually a handful of fives, but the dramatic inflation seemed appropriate. And they did burn American currency in front of a bunch of seven-year-olds. That part was true. The flames reflected in Ms. Rosemary’s eyes. Even my ex-boyfriend Christ looked creeped out, and he was a statue.
    My mom went through the roof, just like I knew she would. She’s a lovely woman, but cross her about something she cares about, like politics or discontinuing a face cream she loves, and her attitude is, “I will fight you. Right in this department store, throw it down NOW, Clinique associate bitch!”
    Her temper could be intimidating, but in this instance, channeling it was in my best interest. And therefore, the BEST!
    “Do I have to go to chapel again, Mom?”
    “Absolutely not! Don’t worry, baby. I’ll take care of it.” Ooh! The Thumpers were gonna get in TROUBLE!
    The next morning, my mom went in to talk with the principal. She put on her special dress, the Liz Claiborne with the sleeves puffed up like the Hindenburg, so I knew she was serious about saving me. While I waited for her to come home, I fantasized about how I’d