The artist formerly known as recently got engaged to her very lucky boyfriend. As is apparently standard in Catholicism, they met with a priest to discuss their pending marriage. After sending me an eye-opening e-mail on this strangely exotic event, I asked her to write a guest post.

Though she broke many hearts when she ended her extremely popular and entertaining blog, the Bird has launched a new blog, Bridal Bird (it’s all about the branding), where she will document her proverbial tapdance toward wedded bliss:

My friend the Argentine Quarter-Jew is fascinated with the wacky trappings of my Catholic religion, so he practically clapped his hands like a giddy little schoolboy when I wryly related that I had to pass up the last blogger happy hour to meet with the priest at the church I hoped to marry in. (Got engaged a couple weekends ago.)

I say “hoped” because just a few hours before we were to meet with him, my fiance informed me that he does not believe in Jesus.

“I believe in God, of course, just not that Jesus was anything but a philosopher,” he told me while tossing the keys to the valet. “The resurrection story is a good myth, though.” A fun little curveball, that.

This is the first I had heard of this theory.

“That’s fine,” I told him. “But do me a favor. Don’t bring that up.” If he had decided to go all Nietzsche in front of the priest, I swear to Jeebus/Superman that I would have kneed him in the balls.

He later agreed as we walked into the church to adhere to a don’t ask/don’t tell policy, so as not to deliberately scuttle our chances of having a decent backdrop for our pictures.

In order to get married in a Catholic church, you have to meet with the priest to make sure neither of you have been married, convicted of murder, or excommunicated. Then at some point you have to haul yourselves off to Jesus camp for the weekend to sit around and listen to some chirpy lobotomized couple talk about how they didn’t have premarital sex and how they now use the rhythm method for contraception because the Pill is the Devil’s cough drop.

My co-worker and her fiancé actually went to Jeebus camp. At one point, they were supposed to write an emotional soul-baring letter to a family member about their experience and how they were really getting to know their future partner in Christ because of it. She and her fiance wrote a letter to their parents saying they were hating every minute of it and wondered how their dogs were doing.

In our case, the priest was very chill, as I’d hoped he would be based on his sermons, which are long on the common sense and light on the eternal damnation. However, the meeting started with him having my fiance sit in one parlor of the rectory (editorial note: she said “rectory”) while he worked through a questionnaire with me in another one.

His two paunchy black Labradors kept an eye on us in our respective rooms. The questions included, “Are you in any way being coerced into this marriage?” and “To the best of your knowledge, are you related to your fiance?”

The priest didn’t seem to mind when I giggled while answering them. He also took down some administrative details, including my address. It wasn’t until I was in the holding parlor while my fiance was answering these same questions that it occurred to me we might be in big trouble when he gave his address. On account of it being identical to mine.

When we were finally back in the same room the priest started out by shifting a little in his chair and suggesting ever-so-gently that, technically speaking, the Catholic Church frowns upon pre-marital cohabitation.

He quickly followed it with, “not that I’m telling you to move out or anything, just, you know, think about living the celibate life until the wedding.” Again, he seemed cool when I giggled.

Then he gave us a present:

Our very own copies of the Catholic catechism! That’s three inches of unmitigated fun.

I like the church of the 2000s: now with 85 percent less guilt and you leave with swag.

BBstucco, a prolific and talented writer at This Is By Us, recently experienced a hysterical encounter with some Orthodox Jews. Hilarity ensued and, in honor of Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish new year, I asked him to guest blog about his episode with the Extreme Chosen.

L’Shana Tova!:

I am not Jewish.

Actually, that statement’s not 100% accurate. My Grandfather WAS Jewish, but he left the Faith and Family to marry my un-chosen Grandmother. So by blood, I’m 1/4 Jewish. However, by culture, I’m a gentle gentile, all the way.

Back in about 1 or 2 B.C. (Before Children), Wife and I were invited over to Shabbat by good friends of ours who are Jewish and, for the purposes of this article, are named Gustav and Helga. We were both quite honored, and very excited, because 1) Helga’s a great cook, and we were interested in what sort of “Holy” food she’d be making, and 2) we wanted to see Jews in their natural habitat, as it were.

In fact, Gustav’s parents were in town as well and his father was an actual Holocaust Survivor (he was a very young boy at the time, and does NOT speak of his memories at all). So there was something very solemn and cool about the whole thing.

The Gustavs lived in a small neighborhood off Melrose near The Grove in LA. This area is HIGHLY Jewish. In fact, though Gustav and his family (including his Holocaust-surviving father) are moderate, there are a TON of very strict, Orthodox and Hasidic Jews all around.

We met one.

After dinner, Wife and I had said our goodbyes and walked out to our car. A woman comes hurrying up to us, dragging two little children behind her, panic on her face.

“Excuse me, are you Jewish?”

I was about to launch into the story of my Grandfather, and how I’m 1/4 Jewish, and so I feel their pain, and all that. But Wife, knowing where that was going, stopped me and told the woman that, no, we weren’t Jewish.

“Oh, Thank the Lord. I assumed you wouldn’t be since you were about to drive a car on the Sabbath, but..” (and here she suspiciously eyed the home of our hosts) “…some Jews aren’t as observant as others.”

Well, there we go. That was lovely. And she stood there, awkwardly waiting. Not sure what for. A friendly handshake? Some praise in uncovering my non-Jew-hood? We took another step towards our car, she followed. Still waiting. Starting to freak me out. Gustav, who was standing at his door having waved us goodbye, ran up to us and took me aside.

“She wants help with something. But she can’t actually ask you for help, not on the Sabbath. It’s a sin.”

So Wife and I looked at each other, then over to the Woman, who could certainly hear our conversation. Yet still she waited. Smiling. I stepped forward.

“Do you need some help?”

Silence. She was desperately trying to find a way to answer that wouldn’t be a sin. I hadn’t asked the question quite right. I tried again. “Can I help you with something on this fine Sabbath?”

That must have done the trick, because she finally opened up. She and her children were locked out of their house. The husband had gone to spend the night with his parents. She and her brood had walked next door for Shabbat with a neighbor, but hadn’t left the door unlocked. See, they can’t actually use a key on Sabbath. That would be a sin. It would be “work”. So they leave all their doors unlocked on the Sabbath if they go out.

Only, her doors were locked.

She couldn’t call a locksmith because she’d be asking someone to work on the Sabbath, and besides, she can’t use the telephone on the Sabbath. Something about unnaturally extending her voice or some such. She couldn’t ask any of her Jewish neighbors for help, because it was a sin to ask fellow Jews to break the Sabbath. But me and Wife, we’re already heathens doomed to an afterlife of torment and misery, so we’re cool.

Now in my day, I was, in fact, pretty good at breaking into a house. Not like a burglar or anything, I mean I’d trip the alarm if there were one. But I could get in when friends locked themselves out. Except not tonight, because every single window is covered by bars. Even the really, really small bathroom window on the second floor that a canary couldn’t even squeeze through. It’s like the entire house is the set of Oz or something.

So we’re back at square one. Except I can tell she has another idea, but can’t offer it unless I ask the right questions. Let me just say, playing 20 Questions when you’re trying to do a huge favor to total strangers is a pain in the ass. But play we did. Eventually, we figured it out. Her husband has a key with him. He’s staying with his parents. They live about 12 blocks away. It’s too far for her kids to walk, so she can’t go and get the key. (Remember, they can’t drive. It’s the Sabbath.) But here again, the non-Jews can save the day.

We get the address, hop in the car, and drive over. The place is dark. No lights anywhere. Quiet as a tomb.

We knock. No answer. We ring the doorbell. No answer. We call out to whomever may be inside. No answer. We return to the stranded family.

“He’s there. They just didn’t answer you because they don’t know who you are.”

Well, how do we get them to come to the door and give us a key so you can get in your house and we can go home and start drinking wine? They’d open the door for you, right?

Of course, but she can’t get over there. It’s a sin. So.. do the parents have a phone? Yes, but they won’t use it. Not tonight. Do they have an answering machine? Yes. Will they hear a message as it is being left on the machine? Yes. Can we call them? She can’t use the phone. Can she speak loudly when a phone happens to be being used?

There’s this long pause. She’s weighing her odds. Possible sin vs. staying outside with her kids all night. She can’t ask another Jewish family to take her in on the Sabbath, that would be.. well, you know. Of course, one of the other families could, in fact, OFFER to take her in. But I get the feeling they don’t like her, because they’re all watching us and nobody’s lifting a finger. Or maybe they were just laughing at the silly Gentiles jumping through hoops.

Eventually, we go back to Gustav’s to use the phone. Except, of course, the woman won’t let Gustav or Helga use their own phone. So she gives me the number and I make the call. The plan is, the woman will be having a loud conversation with Wife while I randomly hold the phone up. The message beeps, I hold up the phone.

“It’s so nice to meet you on this Sabbath. I have locked my family out of the house. My husband has a key, but he is staying at his parent’s house. They live at 69 Boogiedown Lane. His name is Simon.”

“That’s nice to learn. I think my husband and I will drive over to that house for you and see if we can pick up the key.”

“Oh, that is so very kind of you. I wouldn’t want to impose or ask you to do any work on the Sabbath.”

“It’s no problem. We’re not Jewish. You’re not asking us to do anything. We were going to drive in that direction anyway, so it’s no trouble at all. We’ll leave right now.”

I hung up. This had better work.

So we drive back to the parents’ house. Still dark. Still quiet. I knock. We call out. Finally, there is movement. The door opens. Simon appears. He’s a nice enough guy. Looks like your every day, average Orthodox Jew, like straight out of Witness. (They were Amish, but the look is similar.)

I smile, introduce myself, hold out my hand.

He smiles and ignores my hand, his own clasped in front of him, solemnly. Wife, growing impatient, jumps into it. “So your wife and kids are locked out of their house. Do you have the key?”

Silence. He completely and utterly ignores her. Smiles at me. Waiting. A growing suspicion creeps into my mind. Very weakly, I ask, “Do you have a key we can bring to your family?”

“Yes. Thank you for helping my family. Let me get the key.”

He turns and walks back into the darkness. I slowly turn to Wife, who is fuming.

“He… didn’t.. even.. look.. at… me.”

“Now Honey, I’m sure you, as a Gentile woman, are just one big temptation into sin. So he can’t acknowledge your presence. The temptation would be too great, one look and he’d start sinning you right in front of me. Nobody wants that.”

She growls. We’re going to need more than one bottle of wine when we get home.

Simon returns, hands me the key. We turn to go.

“Could I ask one more favor?”

Well, no. But at this point, I’m pretty beaten down. So I turn back.

“Could you carry the key in your shoe?”

This is LA. So at this point, I figure I’ve been set up all along and am being filmed. Perhaps I was and Synagogues across the world watch the video of the Stupid Non-Jew Who Carried The Key In His Shoe and laugh their asses off. But if so, Simon put up a good front.

“My shoe?”

“If you’re not carrying it in a normal way, then it’s not, officially, work. We’ve spent many years coming up with ways to… get around some of the more restrictive rules of our Faith.”

Yes, it’s become quite obvious this evening how well that’s working out. I take the key. I remove my shoe. I place the key in the shoe, and we leave. I put metal to the pedal and we return to woman and children. I promptly remove my shoe and withdraw the key. She looks at me quizzically.

“Why did you put the key in your shoe?”

“I.. uhm.. your husband.. said….” I give up and offer her the key.

You think I’d offered her a heaping pile of sin or something, the way she recoiled in horror. I mean, OK, it’d been in my shoe, but I don’t think it smelled or anything. But no, to return to the initial problem, she can’t use a key on the Sabbath. So I open the door for her, and the problem is resolved. She now insists on feeding us, some very scrumptious baked goods that we scarfed down as quickly as possible so that we could leave, go home, and drink.

Eventually we said our goodbyes and walked back across the street to Gustav’s. He met us at the door, electric lights on all through the house, and put his arms on my shoulders.

“On behalf of My People, I’m really sorry. We’re not all like that.”

And his Holocaust-Survivor Father, sitting in the chair reading a People magazine, looked up, shaking his head.

“Yeah. Those Jews are nuts.”

El Guapo earlier this month. He hung up his famous Guatemalan mustache and became a civilian. Some of his former blog readers are not taking it well:

UberSchatz said…
Yeah. Why?? Damn it! This always happens to me. I find a good blogger and then they quit after a short time of me having discovered them. Curse you Gods of the Bloggers.

AZ :o( said…
My heart aches, a little more laughter taken from me…

taotechuck said…
I have shaved my vastly inferior mustache in honor of your decision.

Still, EG has come out of retirement to do the one thing he has done best since becoming my virtual hermano — make fun of Argentina. Here is an e-mail he sent me that he graciously allowed me to convert to a guest blog post. At least he didn’t steal my wallet.

“So, I’m in Seattle for a couple of days. I’m walking with a colleague who is new to Seattle and showing him around. I know that he is a fan of steak and happened to be walking by an Argentinean steak house, so I figured, why not?

You know that I try to not do anything that helps the Argentine economy in any way. You know this. The only reason that I ate there was a sign that said they proudly served Nebraska beef. I figured if I stayed away from any Argentine wines, I was actually giving money to the waiter. If the owners were even from your little country, they may send some back home, but I figured that if I paid by credit card, they would at least be taxed. So, as you can see, my thought process was very much against helping your country.

Ok, I’ll get out of the way that the steak I ordered was good. I knew it would be. It is Nebraska beef, but I did enjoy the presentation. It came out on a grill thing [ed. This is called a parillada] and I ate off of wooden dishes. Very good. En serio, very good.

The reason for this e-mail was the dessert. I ordered flan. It was the worst flan I’ve ever had in my entire life. I don’t even think that it was flan. Argentina should have its flan card pulled because of this damn restaurant. It had the consistency of papaya that was left out in the sun and drenched in urine.

Credit.

Don’t get me wrong, I ate the entire thing, but only so that I could write to you prior to my food poisoning.

Tell your people to stay away from flan.”

This e-mail, naturally, spurred a few replies.

Arjewtino: “On behalf of mi gente, I apologize for this restaurant’s flan. It’s only fair as long as you apologize for the guy who stole my wallet while I was coming back from Pane to Antigua.”

El Guapo: “Look, I can say, with 100 percent certainty that I was in an Argentine restaurant, and, can therefore place the blame on your people. You, on the other hand, assume because you were in Guatemala that a Guatemalan stole your wallet. It could have just as easily been a Honduran or even an Argie… My people don’t do that… Not always.
Not usually. Not really. Actually, were you wearing your Argentina shirt?”

Arjewtino: “I was wearing my dark blue, tougher-to-recognize Argentina “road” jersey. Your specious reasoning isn’t convincing.”

El Guapo: “I found it as convincing as it gets. specious… showoff.”