What else is a girl to do, in the wee hours just before dawn, in a motel room somewhere between Thanksgiving and the post-stuffing, pre-Christmas detoxification.
I spoke to God.
Actually, his name was David, and according to the infomercial I could have a free conversation with God compliments of a real, live missionary from the Mormon Church (the good folks who brought us the Osmonds). So I thought, what the hell, no one else seemed to be awake and besides, I had questions. For instance, "Marie Osmond – she seems depressed – can't you help her?" Donny seems fine. And, "Why can't I shake these last 40 pounds of baby weight?".
David, my missionary, was online alot faster than other so-called Help Desks I've contacted lately, and his English was an improvement over Mrigankasekhar's – the kind, Punjab gentleman who attempted to get my printer up and running from a hut over in New Delhi – with whom I lost my patience after having to repeat every word s-l-o-w-l-y like I was talking to my great-grandmother just after a stroke left her balling up Kleenex in the funeral parlour waiting line.
Packing the knowledge that men will say just about anything to make you stop talking, or simply to avoid the truth, I started my conversation with God by asking, "Who do you have for the Superbowl?"
Much to my surprise, seconds later, a simple "Steelers and Vikings" came flashing back, followed by a "You?".
Since I really know nothing about football and didn't want God to think I was just another dumb blonde morning person, I woke up Jack, who was until that very moment sound asleep in the next bed.
"Jack... wake up!", I said with a sense of whispered urgency so as not to disturb my stepmother in the adjoining room, "I'm talking to God, and he wants to know who I have for the Superbowl".
Well, you can imagine how that went over. The little asshole just mumbled something about calling Children's Services and rolled over, so I was on my own. Just me, and God, and an empty mini bar.
So I replied to God, "49ers. Like life, it's a long shot".
God then tried to steer me over to his team by asking if I had any "church" related questions, so I asked, "What's with the air quality in all of the churches I've been in. All that incense and those moldy Bibles can't be good for anyone and maybe it's the mold and second-hand smoke making all the priests crazy for kiddie porn and slutty, wayward sheep." I followed with a quick, "Kind of makes me think there is no God and it's all a big, fat showy farce".
David, the voice of God, replied with a swift and mildly defensive, "There is a God. People make bad choices."
To which I said, "No shit, like that time I almost threw up a $50 sirloin in the back seat of a New York cab. That last shot of Sambuca was a huge mistake".
David – proving he really was a man – seemed to lose interest in me after that, so when I finally asked him, "And, why do they call it the Missionary position?", God dropped me like a filthy habit.
Christ, even Mrigankasekhar stayed on the line and I got really pissy with him.
Having someone to answer questions is vital in this messed-up world. The good news is, effective immediately the Tourism and Hospitality sector will have a direct line to answers with the launch of Doug Fawthrop's new venture Turizm Inc. Fawthrop, the often outspoken advocate for Nova Scotia Tourism and long-time Manager of White Point Beach Resort will be the person on the end of the line, when public and private sectors need help with marketing and branding, property development and other challenges facing tourism today.
Having worked closely with Doug for almost 14 years, I can attest to the fact, while he may not have the patience of God, he has a similar wisdom, and I will have him on my speed dial for all eternity.
As for my brief dalliance with missionaries – while he may have felt some relief, I was left a little unsatisfied, lying in a motel room waiting for the sun to come up, wishing I had asked, "Why, oh why, does my fucking golf drive always hook to the left?"
Doug Fawthrop, Turizm Inc. can be contacted by email at: firstname.lastname@example.org or by calling: 902.402.1441.