I was raised Roman Catholic. Like most kids, I wasn’t given a choice in the matter, I was born into it, a walking talking stereotype. Despite not attending parochial school, I was fond of wearing plaid skirts to class, complete with little girl lace trimmed socks, a teenage boy’s fantasy come to life. (Although I never imagined anyone had such thoughts about me, many years later several former classmates confessed to me that indeed they did. That kind of makes an ugly duckling feel better, but I’m digressing.) I attended CCD (basically Bible or religious instruction, for those not in the know) every year from second grade until seventh, sacrificing Saturday morning cartoons, and missing Muppet Babies . In seventh the instruction got more serious, and took place Monday nights, forcing me to miss Perfect Strangers . Serious my ass. Although run by priests, they just showed afterschool specials, stories about teenagers faced with choices about shoplifting,