LONG TITLE: The Post in which I Offend Utah'ns, Exasperate Missionary Moms, and Possibly Earn a Talking-To From My Father-in-Law.
December 31, 2008
There's a set of Mormon missionaries that live a couple of blocks away from our house, so we end up seeing them a lot. Whenever they're cold, hungry, or really have to poop they always seem to find their way to the Lawson house. And conveniently enough, they usually come by when my favorite reality t.v. show is on.
I'm like, "Hey guys, wanna watch Mama's Boys with me?"
And they're like, "Sorry we're not allowed to watch t.v."
So I'm like, "Get out."
And they giggle.
So I'm all, "No. Seriously. Get out."
And they giggle some more.
These nineteen-year-old boys I tell ya, they're not very responsive to subtle hinting--or blatant insults for that matter.
Yesterday, one of the missionaries (or Elders, as we like to call them) was transferred to a different area in the mission, and consequently, a new Elder moved in--and by new, I mean really, really new.
As in this guy just got off the airplane from Salt Lake City yesterday.
This kid, bless is soul, is just about as "Utah Mormon" as it gets--spiked up hair, huge cheesy grin, and I kid you not, he offered a double thumbs-up when I was talking about a co-worker and used the word "Republican."
He was like, "Sweet. Republicans. Are you guys Republicans?"
Jared nodded in the affirmative, swung his head to meet my gaze and offered the classic "And You?" kind of look. Then we both broke out into a snorting fit of laughter, because hot dog, I am most certainly not a Republican. I'm an Independant.
But let's just say that I'm exceedingly jealous of Barack Obama's seamstress. That lucky woman gets to wrap a tape measure around the President Elect's very upper thigh region every time he buys a new suit. When she mysteriously dies from a poisoned cocktail I will absolutely apply for her job. And dodge the FBI.
The new missionary tried his very best to make it appear as though he wasn't feeling anxious. He even went so far as to say, "Nope I'm not nervous to be on my mission at all." Lucky for me, I could see right through his act--that young man wanted to sh** a brick, right there on my kitchen bar stool. Seriously folks, I could see that he was fighting the urge.
This kid's sphincter was hanging by a thread.
As the conversation awkwardly rolled on--and I returned a few emails for work--Elder NewGuy turned toward Jared, looked him in the eye, and asked, "So. What do you do for work?"
"I'm a chiropractor."
"Oh, that's good," he coolly replied. Then, while he maintained eye contact with my husband, Elder NewGuy pointed his finger in my direction and said, "So she does nothing?"
Not So Sister Lawson, what do you do? Or So Brother Lawson, does your wife work?
He assumed that SHE (me) DOES NOTHING!
Two Problems Here:
1) This kid had the nerve to refer to me as "she" while I was sitting four feet away.
2) We were gathered around a table that was topped with finger paintings--obviously not my homemade handiwork. They happened to belong to the child who was sleeping upstairs. The child who knows all of his letters, can count to thirty, and is more than happy to fart on command.
Obviously, I don't do nothing.
On top of that, I have quite a few letters after my name, and a career to boot. While I rarely discuss my work on this blog, I will mention one thing--my job title is Executive Director. And my flexible, part-time schedule? It's strictly due to my awesomeness.
The room fell completely silent as I looked up from my laptop screen and locked eyes with this greenie missionary--who, I would gather from the thoughtfulness of that comment, was far more nervous than he actually let on.
"You know Elder," I calmly said, "you should realize that you're not in Utah anymore. If I were you, I'd never talk to a New England woman like that ever again. Ever. Again."
And then, I'm pretty sure his sphincter actually did let go.
So welcome to New England, young man! Welcome to New England.
It's gonna be a good two years...