Talking. A lot of talking.
We talked about all kinds of things, and every so often the conversation would meander to a strange topic, discussed between half-hearted claps for the players.
The funniest was when I was telling her about my past experiences with religious recruiter types.
You know the ones, the door to door people who swear they can help save you. That their way is the only one to salvation. That they have some special connection with the big guy upstairs, and you've gotta join their team to get there.
They always have this gift they want to share with me, the word of the Lord. Sometimes I get free stuff, like these awesome pamphlets.
Which, really, is completely inconsistent with many of the teachings of those specific religions in the first place. Jehovah's Witnesses believe that only 144,000 specially chosen people get to go to heaven, which is all well and good, but doesn't explain the recruiting. I mean, if I was a Jehovah's Witness, I'd want my seat secure...I sure as hell wouldn't be out trying to get new believers. What if someone you recruited was more awesome than you and stole your seat???
These are the things I think about.
Mormons aren't a whole lot different when it comes to this stuff. Anyone who's been around Mormonism enough knows that even within the religion, there are degrees of faith, an institutionalized hierarchy. You have to fit the specific criteria to even step foot in a temple, and many Mormons don't. I know people who chose to be married in the temple, even though it meant their own fathers couldn't walk them down the aisle. I'll never understand that one. Just like I don't understand the recruiting. Any "new" Mormon will never be held to the highest esteem in the eyes of the church, so why bother?
But I digress. I don't get the reasoning behind the door to door solicitation, but whatever. They don't really care what I think anyway. Which is fine.
They sure can be fun to play with though.
When I was a kid, I lived across the street from the most handsome teenage boy. One afternoon, he was home alone when the Jehovah's Witnesses came to the door, asking if he wanted to talk about his faith.
Actually, I am very secure in my beliefs, and I thank you for asking. You know who would like to speak with you though??? My father. He'll be home at 6.
Charles was sure to get out of the house long before 6 o'clock rolled around, and got a good laugh every time his father told the story of how he got stuck talking to them for over an hour.
I learned by his example, and often tortured my Dad the same way. I frequently had a partner in crime. My brother.
We'd see the crisp white shirts and black ties walking down the street, we'd lure dad out to the garage, then run back inside after hitting the button, timing it perfectly so that as they walked up the driveway, Dad was stuck there standing right in front of them.
We got pretty good at it.
I'd run away and hide whenever they made it to the front door, leaving him to be the one to answer it. He'd hear me laughing from around the stairwell and know that I got him again.
He'd be the one stuck there, taking the obligatory brochure and thanking them for their time. I'd be laughing, knowing that I was about to receive another disapproving look as soon as the door closed.
He could never stay mad at me though, because it was just too damned funny.
Fair warning: Come to my house, and I'll probably mess with you.