Soooo, Jesus Solorio, who was one of the top ten finalists on SO YOU THINK YOU CAN DANCE, came into the laundromat tonight and was helping me straighten up. He’s such a nice young man. And of course, he sensed I was rattled, because this was immediately after I had the shootout with the other, not-so-nice young hispanic man who wanted to drive my trailer away. He won.
You just can’t argue with a Smith and Wesson, you know.
I still like the percocet better than the vicodin (hey, it was Jesus Solorio vs. Joseph Smith. I’m going with Jesus).
Wow, after going back and reading what I’ve written, I realize that if you didn’t know better, you would think it was JE-SUS vs. Joseph Smith, and we could go back and rehash all that Merry Smithmas business.
Some of you may be wondering why the heck I was dreaming about Jesus Solorio, while I think the OBVIOUS question is WHY THE HECK AM I DREAMING ABOUT JOSEPH SMITH?
I’ve actually met Jesus. My Dancing Daughter is in a routine he choreographed for our studio, and he’s a real sweetheart. As opposed to Joseph Smith, who is dead. But he had more than a few sweethearts, I hear…
And personally, I understand the Joseph Smith dreams. I am temporarily living BACK with my parents, and they sorta idolize Joseph Smith, so there are more than a few pictures of him around here.
The most amusing “Saint” sighting though, as far as I am concerned, is a tiny cutout picture of JESUS on the cupboards in my mom’s laundry room. Not JAY-SUS Solorio, but THE JESUS, brought to you by the imagination of the white people of America, of course, since no one knows what he really looked like.
It’s just a picture from a magazine, and I’m not sure if he’s the patron saint of the laundry or what. My mother is NOT Catholic, so I doubt she would get that patron saint stuff anyway. So, when I started thinking about Jesus helping with laundry, I remembered all that folderoll about Jesus Toast. Remember that? You don’t? You haven’t LIVED until Jesus has showed up on your toast. So guess what? I found this VERY funny site that shows people how to make your OWN PERSONAL JESUS TOAST.
Afterward, you can try and sell it on eBay.
Here’s a few more random ramblings, because it’s 2:42 a.m., and I’m awake but a bit loopy, feeling like ca ca.
When Bishop S. showed up at my door, and we had our “discussion,” he asked me if it would be all right if they invited us to “Neighborhood parties,” and just left us alone for Church stuff. “Well, SURE,” I stupidly said.
So, now that I am residing with my parents, I have made a few discoveries. Neighborhood Parties is CODE for WARD PARTY. Really. I promise. I have no idea if this is some Churchwide thingie, but my dad had these fliers for their “ward party.” He kept talking about the “ward party.” Then he handed me the flier, and it said “NEIGHBORHOOD PARTY” right at the top.
So, of course, an entire discussion evolved, courtesy of moi, about how it is deceptive to call these Neighborhood Parties, when in fact they are WARD PARTIES. And so my parents said that they call them Neighborhood Parties, because they ARE neighborhood parties. Anyone is invited, and if they didn’t call them what they call them, the non-Mormons would not want to come. “So why don’t you just tell them the truth?”
“Well, we don’t want them to feel excluded.”
“But, this is deceptive. You are not really having a neighborhood party. You are having a WARD PARTY.”
This further evolved into a discussion about new neighbors, and about how wouldn’t it be nice if you just WALKED UP TO NEW NEIGHBORS and introduced yourself, and didn’t tell them what time the ward meetings are! When you do that, they feel as though there is an ulterior motive (there is).
So then my dad pulled out this miracle drug he is using, CoQ10, and said, “Here.” Nothing else. (This is an object lesson, by the King of Object Lessons, my dad.) So being the smart ass that I am, I picked up the bottle and told him all about it, because, well, HE HAS TOLD ME ALL ABOUT IT. He laughed. And you gotta give him credit for it, since I ruined his entire object lesson, which was, “IF YOU HAVE SOMETHING REALLY WONDERFUL, WOULDN’T YOU WANT THE WHOLE WORLD TO KNOW ABOUT IT?”
At this point, I took it further, and said, “Why don’t you just introduce yourself, and wait until you get to know them before you talk ‘religion.’ Religion is a very personal thing. It’s rude and presumptive to invite someone to your church before you even know if they kill kittens and wail at the moon when it’s full. Or what if, say, they are the descendants of Holocaust victims? Wouldn’t it be nice to share a PERSONAL relationship with a person before you tried to drive-by Baptize them?” (I’m pretty sure I didn’t say that last part. But I can’t be certain.)
Then my DAD pulled this story out of his HAT (I was going to say ass, but that would not be nice, and I like my dad) about a “FAMILY” (unnamed of course) who told the “ward leaders” that they were really upset because NO ONE EVER INVITED THEM TO CHURCH.
At that point, my mother started calling me Miss Percocet and I gave up. Bet you’ll be glad when I’m well, won’t you?