I was Mormon once, and now I’m not. But for that brief time that I was, my parents forced me to attend Primary. I hated it. Everything single thing about it, but mostly I dreaded sitting in those ugly, orange plastic chairs. They didn’t match my pink dress, and at six I was very into things matching. But my OCD inspired neurosis isn’t the topic of this post. Hookers are. No really, they are.

My primary teacher was obsessed with talking about what kids wanted to be when they grew up. She liked filling our heads with silly things like a future career as an Avon lady, or better yet a mother, which I guess is an acceptable career for me with the right amount of prescription drugs and wine.

I didn’t want to be an Avon lady when I grew up. In fact, I was terrified of the woman who came to our house trying to peddle makeup to my mother. She smelled bad, like 18 kinds of perfume and peppermint gum. To this day the smell of peppermint gum makes me want to curl up into a fetal position and cry.

I sat and listened to each kid explain what they wanted to be when they grew up and why. “I want to be a doctor because I like to help people.” “I want to be a fireman because I like red trucks.”

When it was my turn I looked at the teacher, smiled and said, “I want to be a prostitute when I grow up because they get lots of presents and play with boys all day long.”

My teacher gasped. I didn’t know what I had done wrong. I was six and certainly didn’t know what a prostitute actually was. To this day my parents can’t explain where I came up with such an idea. Although one can’t help but suspect one my four uncles was somehow responsible for this knowledge. Kudus to whichever one it was.

And while I didn’t grow up to be a prostitute, I still adore receiving presents, and would much rather spend my day among a group of men than women.

That’s What She Said
Religion Rocks–Gilgal Garden gives this conference-dodging gal a way to get in touch with her roots.

by Sarah Nielson
snielson@inthisweek.com

Last weekend was the LDS church’s 178th Annual General Conference. Conference weekend always takes me back to my childhood when my parents forced my brothers and I to watch conference on TV. I absolutely hated it and still haven’t forgiven them.

Every year when conference weekend rolls around I find myself suddenly hit with a twinge of religious guilt – my mother would be oh-so-proud. Since I’m not a practicing Mormon, or a practicing member of any religion for that matter, I had to find other, more creative ways to get my Jesus on.

Clad in my favorite “Jesus Rocks” T-shirt and armed with a full flask and camera, I headed to Gilgal Garden for a little religious sightseeing. The garden is home to 12 religious sculptures and over 70 stones engraved with scriptures and philosophical texts.

I’d never heard of the garden before the woman my brother is dating mentioned it. I started asking around and found that many of my friends already knew about it, and even have fond memories of breaking onto the grounds as kids. I was able to talk one of those friends into going with me. We were going on a Sunday, and just in case it was closed I wanted someone who could scale a fence with me.

I was slightly disappointed when we arrived and found we weren’t alone. It’s more of a challenge to poke fun at the creepiness of it all when a church-clothed family is within earshot. Thank God (pun very much intended) the family left shortly and my regularly-scheduled sarcasm quickly returned.

I’ve always had a difficult time understanding religion, so viewing it in sculpture form only confused me further. We wandered around the grounds and tried to make sense of all the verses carved into the stone. A couple I recognized as Ralph Waldo Emerson’s poems, but the rest were too scriptural for me to be familiar with. All those early morning parentally-forced scripture study sessions didn’t make a lasting impression, apparently.

“The Sphinx” is the best-known sculpture, and by far the creepiest. The face was carved to replicate Joseph Smith and the similarity was uncanny. It looked far too close to the pictures my parents had hanging on their walls when I was a child, which gave me the heebie-jeebies. I quickly shrugged them off, and had my friend snap a picture of me with my finger up the statue’s nose. If I’m going to Mormon hell, I want it to be worth it.

My favorite sculpture was “The Monument to the Trade.” The sculpture is a self-portrait of Thomas Child, the man behind the garden. Child is holding a Bible under one arm and blueprints of some sort under the other, but it was the pants that won me over. Checkered pants on a man, sculpture or real, are always a treat – and by treat I mean giggle-worthy. We took some slightly lewd photos not suitable for my mother’s Christmas newsletter or print.

Once I got home and looked through all the pictures we had taken, my religious guilt doubled. I knew I should have just stayed home and watched “The Ten Commandments” to get my religious fix and also to mark Charlton Heston’s death.

I hate driving. HATE IT! However, driving behind this car yesterday made being stuck in the car worth it.

Hopefully you can see the Jesus doll in the back window. And not just any Jesus but Crucifiction Jesus. I guess it’s never too early to teach that baby on board that Jesus died for your sins, and damn it you will learn to appreciate this fact, OR ELSE!

Letting Daisy out this morning I was stopped by two sweet looking old lakes. Except they weren’t sweet, they were Jehovah’s Witnesses, which is damn near devil status. My dog is absolutely worthless. She barks when people she knows come into the house, but outside when approached by strangers she is completely well behaved. Bitch!

She walked up to them and waited to be pet, because she is a worthless traitor dog. It was too late, I couldn’t get away at this point. Daisy was sniffing their giant old lady purses hoping to find one full of bacon treats.

Devil Woman: “We’d like to invite you to a event we’re holding tonight in honor of Jesus.”

Me: “No thanks, I’m not a big fan of Jesus.”

DW: “That’s OK. Come tonight and I guarantee you you’ll leave with a better understanding of our Lord, Jesus.”

Me: “No really, Jesus and I broke up years ago when I prayed for a sister and got a brother instead. Me and Jesus are soooo over.”

Silence.

Me: “And then there was the time I prayed to Jesus for a pony. Instead I got a stupid kitten, that I was allergic to.”

DW: “Here’s the flier, we hope to see you tonight.”

As the women walked away I couldn’t help but wonder what kind of Jesus expects single women to give up Saturday nights. I like the Mormon Jesus better; he only asks you give him Sunday afternoons.

Dear Chady-bear,

You haven’t written me a letter in ages. You’re fired!. And so is your church. What’s the story? No letter certainly feels like no love. Did your mission president ban me?

So things here are absolutely insane. I’ve decided missions are bad luck for our family. When Ben went Jeff lost his mind, now that you are gone Jeff lost his mind again. I’m blaming the mission, not Jeff. It really should be the other way around, but Matt is going through some really hard stuff right now, too. This supports my theory that missions are bad luck. In fact, I think you should come home immediately. This is the only way to prevent anything else horrible from happening to our family. I’m not going to write about Matt’s stuff because I’m sure Mom has, and it makes me cry every time I think about it. Sometimes life is so unfair you wonder why you bother. This is one of those times.

On a happier note, it’s getting warmer here. Summer is just around the corner. I wish you were around so we could go on a camping trip. Ben is always too busy, and by busy I mean lazy. Another bit of good news: Carmen is moving home.

Uncle Bry is having a family dinner tonight, I’m excited because I get to see Jenny’s kids and because Bry will feed me. Ben and I used to go over there for Sunday dinner a couple times a month but not so much lately. I think we’ve been fired.

I’m not writing you anything about me (too bad for you, because I have lots to say) until you get your lazy ass in gear and send your sister a letter. Shame on you, Chady! Now you’ll never get to hear about my snowboarding experience. Yup, I finally went. You’re dying to know if I liked it or hated it, aren’t you? Too bad.

Love,
Sissy

PS. I was kidding about you coming home. Stay put. I need as much Hello Kitty paraphernalia as I can get.

I am considering renewing my faith in Jesus. When Arlo decided to ruin my Friday night plans by getting a date, I did what I do best: I used guilt. When that didn’t work I went home and prayed. I prayed to every type of Jesus I could think of: hot Mormon Jesus, dead Jesus, baby Jesus, cross Jesus, resurrected Jesus, carpenter Jesus and every other Jesus imaginable.

And guess what?!

It worked; Arlo’s date canceled. Either I’m magic, or there is a Jesus after all. I’m going to investigate further by praying for a skinnier ass, new shoes and a boyfriend. I’ll keep you posted.

They send my brothers on missions. Chady-bear turns 20 tomorrow and I can’t see him because he’s in a foreign country serving God or something. And to make matters worse it’s against the rules to phone him.

“Aunt Sarah, Baby Jesus is incredible.”

“What makes his so incredible?”

“Because he lives in outerspace and flies here to grow up.”

“Hannah I’m not good on this whole religion thing, but that sounds a lot more like Superman to me.”

“Who?”

Dear Chadybear,

Thanks for your guilt-ridden letter. Is Mom there with you? I thought writing a lot of letters was a good thing. Little did I know you actually want them in a timely manner. For the record I’m not trying to save stamp money, I’m just lazy about going to the post office. I’ll be better. Maybe.

The new job is great. One of the guys (read: kid) I work with reminds me of you. Because of that I give him as much shit as often as possible. I’m pretty sure he hates it just like you always did, which only encourages me. He’ll get used to it eventually.

I read the part of your letter to Ben where you said you were sad you didn’t spend more time with us because and that we shouldn’t grow up before you get home. Ummm, we agreed and you have nothing to worry about. I’m glad you’re finally accepting our weird humor. Was it the Jesus Band-Aids that paved the way?

I’m sorry you got stuck on the same mission with that Plumb kid from home. He seems like an uptight little prick so it makes sense the holy toast kit we sent you offended him. Tell him to get over it. I know he sucks but try and get along with him. Oh my god, that was way too tender sister for me. How about this advice: just don’t punch him.

So your prophet died. It’s only been a day and I’m already tired of hearing people say it’s sad. It’s really, really not. He was 97. It’s taken over the news completely, as you might imagine. Totally annoying!

Oh and Chady… when you ask for contraband items you need to specify, otherwise you’re going to get porn and fireworks.

Love,
Sissy

I use Google Reader for my RSS feeds, so rarely use the live bookmarks I set up ages ago. Last night, however, I wanted to check my email quickly while reading CNN, so I clicked it. In Google Reader I tend to focus on who sent the email, not the subject line. After seeing these, I realize, that is totally unacceptable. I miss out on Lamanite drinking and naughty Santa games.