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Just Don’t Bury MY Head in the Sand

courtesy of Aggie Catholics website

My brief mention of St. Francis of Assisi the other day reminded me of a funny story regarding saints, real estate, and MILlie.

A few years ago, we were trying to sell our house, and MILlie, an elderly friend of ours, mentioned to us that there was a saint who could help us with this.  She claimed that, if we buried the saint upside down in our yard, we would quickly get an offer on our house.

Even after it was clarified that we should probably bury a STATUE of the saint, instead of the actual saint, I was still skeptical.  I had grown up in the Catholic Church, and had never heard of this practice.  I can be a little irreverent sometimes, but this sounded downright sacrilegious.  Weren’t the saints treated badly enough when they were alive?

I consulted a few other upstanding Catholics, and some members of the real estate field, and they all confirmed MILlie’s claims.

A couple of weeks later, MILlie presented us with a statue of our very own to bury in the yard.  As luck would have it, we did not even have the chance to bury the statue before we got a bid on the house.

A couple of weeks later, a good friend of mine was desperate to sell her house.  Her husband had been transferred unexpectedly, and they had a short turnaround time before they needed to move.  I gave her the statue, and told her the story.

The next weekend, MILlie visited.  In her hand was a new statue, different saint.

“I gave you the wrong saint,” she said.  “You’re supposed to bury St. Joseph.”

“What saint did you give us?” I asked.

“Saint Anthony.”

“Well, what does he do?”

“I don’t know, but it’s St. Joseph you’re supposed to bury in the yard for an offer on your house.”

After we explained to MILlie that we already had a good offer on the house, she still convinced us to keep St. Joseph – “just in case.”

As soon as she left, I did a little research on the internet about Saint Anthony.  Then I called my friend.

“Uh, remember that statue I gave you to bury in the front yard?  Did you, uh, do that?”

“Yeah, why?  I figured we could use all the help we can get.”

“Hmm.  Well, uh, it’s the wrong saint.  Apparently, you’re supposed to bury St. Joseph, not St. Anthony.”

“O.K.  So, you gave me St. Anthony?  What does he do?”

I mumbled my response.

“What?  I don’t think I heard you right.”

“Well, it’s an honest mistake.  People also bury him in the front yard.  But you probably don’t need to do that.  He’s the ‘matchmaking saint’.”

“Huh?”

“O.K.  Well.  You bury him in the front yard if you’re trying to find a husband.”

Silence.  Did I mention my friend wasn’t exactly thrilled about this sudden transfer her husband had gotten?

“I think I might just leave St. Anthony there for awhile,” she finally said.

I hung up, hoping that I wasn’t going to be held responsible for any unintended consequences of a case of mistaken saint identity.

I’m pretty sure that’s not at the top of my List of Transgressions, though.

That Dog Don’t Hunt – And He’s Not the Only One

I have lost my faith in humanity.  Maybe not all of it, but pretty much everyone connected to the entertainment portion.

I didn’t lose it overnight. It’s been slowly eroded over the years.  It started when I was a teenager.  My sister, Crash (before she had done any crashing), and I were attending a show by a world-famous magician.  Before the show, as we chatted in our seats, we were approached by one of the people who apparently worked backstage.  She handed a purse to my sister, and told her to raise her hand when the magician asked for a purse from a volunteer from the audience.  Not knowing what to say, my sister nodded.

Now, if this had happened to me recently, I think you know what I would have done.  When that magician asked for a volunteer, I would have sat on my sister’s face and raised my own hand, offering my lovely untricked-out purse to the magician.

Instead, my unassertive teenage self sat miserably in the audience through the entire show completely disenchanted as my sister enthusiastically gave up the purse that wasn’t hers to begin with for some stupid trick I don’t even remember that amazed everyone in the audience except for the two of us.

It wasn’t as though I didn’t know beforehand that there was actually no magic involved.  I just didn’t want the whole nuts and bolts of the trick to be pushed into my face right before the show.

So, anyway, fast forward to today.  The little faith hadn’t been worn down over the years by tales of celebrity shenanigans and political hooligans (yes, I consider politicians to be part of the entertainment group) tumbled in a giant landslide to the bottom of the canyon due to some information I received at lunch.

One of my friends, whose house is on the market, mentioned that his realtor had contacted him to see if he would be interested in allowing his house to be shown on a television show. A television show about hunting for houses.  The one where they show three houses to a couple and you are supposed to guess which one they picked.  During their hunt.  For houses.  I LOVE that show.

Here’s the kicker.  Apparently, the couple for this particular episode has already chosen the house!  That is so WRONG!  It’s like a canned hunt!  You can’t “shoot” a television show in which you are purporting that a life-changing decision is hanging in the balance when the life-changing decision was made before you even started shooting!

My friend stated that I looked like he had just told me there is no Santa Claus.

What?!!!!!!  Are you friggin’ kidding me?  I suppose the Elf on the Shelf is just a story, too…

O.K.  I might have slightly overreacted.  You would think I would have been jaded long before now by all of the junk that’s been on T.V.  the past thirty years.  I’m some kind of twisted Anne Frank, though, who keeps insisting that people are really good at heart.  I keep forgetting that most decisions these days are made by A. Financial Corporations (who, despite recent court decisions really aren’t people) who B.  have no hearts.

So, now that my friend has ruined the only “reality” show I ever watch, I should have plenty of time for blogging.  There’s an up side to everything.

See, I just can’t stop channelling poor sweet Anne.

And now, if you will excuse me, I must go find my stuffed Wonderbutt so I can pose him by the remote control I deliberately shattered he destroyed for the sake of art and comedy for my next post.

This Dog Don't Hunt, Either.

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