Once a week, I call my parents in Halifax to update them on what’s new in my life and let them know I value their continued existence. These conversations often contain such gems as “nothing happened this week” and “I’m really glad neither of you ceased existing since we last spoke”.

I’ve mentioned in my profile that I’m a former Catholic. My dad is a non-practicing Anglican, my mom is Catholic and they raised me Catholic until I was about fourteen. At that point, through much chicanery, I managed to escape the oppressive regime of The Jesus. Since then, I’ve pretty much followed my own path that involves nothing in the way of religion and little in the way of spirituality.

My folks weren’t happy, but they largely respect my decision. Well, they don’t bring it up, but it amounts to the same thing. I go to church on Christmas or Easter, if I happen to be home, because it’s important to my mom. Beyond that, anything dealing with the great beyond just doesn’t exist.

This all sounds like an impressive buildup to a knock-down-drag-out telephonic fight about how I’m a giant heathen. I was half expecting it when I told them I was going to become a practicing member of twelve religions over the next year. Until I remembered that my parents are hardcore suburbanites.

If they even acknowledged that I had spoken, it would be to say ‘That’s nice.’ Sure enough, my mom said:

That sounds interesting, you can learn tolerance through exposure to different religions.

And the conversation moved on. I’m a bit disappointed.