Enjoy the silence.

I am a good Catholic girl. I've spent enough time on my knees (it builds character), in pews (it builds character) or trapped in a confessional (it makes you claustrophobic) to describe myself so boldly. Even today, I am a more-or-less a weekly Sunday Mass goer.

But I'm sort of in a Cone of Silence right now and God is on the outside. For purely selfish and immature reasons, I assure you.

I'm pretty good at the Cone of Silence. When there wasn't a car waiting for the me in the driveway when I turned 16, I went into the Cone and left my parents on the outside. I didn't speak to them for an entire week - and that was tough since it was during a family trip to Rockport, had the most God-awful sunburn of my life and really needed some TLC from my mom. Yes, I was a selfish brat, no doubt. But in my defense, my father had promised me a car. He can deny it now, but I swear on the Holy Bible that's true.

I went into the Cone a second time a couple of years after I was first married. I was bemoaning some recent weight gain and Dr. X suggested some - ahem - motivational techniques that were less than flattering. I immediately went in the Cone, shut him out for a good 24 hours, and went to the mall to spend a lot of money on new clothes. No one said the Cone wasn't without benefits.

Right now I'm in the Cone because, much like my 16-year-old self in a deadlocked contest of wills with the thriftiest parents in America, I am stubborn enough to believe that God is wholly responsible for my recent spate of bad luck. I recently gained six pounds. Of course, I'd rather point the finger at God instead of the real culprit. Not me! Oh, no. If it's not God, then these things are totally responsible. Who knew crack came in the form of a cheddar fish?

And it's certainly God's fault that everything in my house broke within a 30-day period, right? It can't be because I live in almost 30-year-old house of which was not maintained by the previous owners. So, I can blame them - The Lie-pkas (since all they did was lie) - and all their false promises about what a great neighborhood and home we were buying into two years ago.

And I can't blame myself for knocking over my cup of herbal tea last night and staining my quickly deteriorating, but expensive Pottery Barn rug. Oh, no! And if God isn't willing to take credit for that spill, then it's totally KB-BK's fault for making me laugh so hard that I kicked the mug over. Or maybe it's Dr. X's since he won't let me get the leather ottoman I want to stack crap on, such as hot cups filled with tea.

Who else can I blame my now third head cold of the season on but the Man Upstairs? Seriously? It can't be  my fault. I mean how can I possibly get a cold when I have a child who every third night wakes me up 5,000 times screaming for a rotating selection of dolls; with a house dusty beyond belief; when I am furiously trying to catch up on half-marathon training between stints as the Queen of Sinus Infections; when work is beyond stressful; when my house is breaking down about as quickly as my health; and we celebrate not only Jesus' birthday, but that of Dr. X and Daughter X in the month of December, too. It can't be me, running myself ragged. Oh, certainly not.

It's nice and quiet here in the Cone, but I think I ought to let God back in (Catholic guilt, you know). I know he's got my back - my family is healthy and happy, we have a home and jobs, and are so fortunate in so many ways. I know what He's going to say: "God (Well, I guess he wouldn't use his own name as a slur!), get over yourself, Meg! Build a frakin' bridge!"

OK, OK. Two Hail Marys, a few Our Fathers and we'll be cool again. For today.