J and I were driving a couple of days ago when we saw one of those, “Jesus is the Answer” bumper stickers.

 

This of course led to a hot debate as to the validity of that statement (I, of course, being a Jew).

 

For example, the statement is entirely false when the question is, “What’s 6 plus 6” or “What the hell is a rutabaga, anyway?”

 

Yet, when the question is “Why is 6 plus 6” or “Who got drunk and invented the rutabaga” the answer could, potentially, be Jesus.

 

Unless, of course, you’re a Jew. Like me.

 

Ever since then, of course, when one of us says, “Hey - I have a question,” the other one promptly replies, “Jesus.”

 

We’re trying to sell our house (remember that whole San Diego thing?), and since we like bold paint colors and other people suck we’ve got four rather burly men here painting everything from the trim to the closet doors.

 

They’ve been here at 8am for three days in a row. 8am, people. I’m sure some of you aren’t vampires and can, therefore, wake at such an ungodly hour without feeling like your neighbors came over and peed in your hair. Me? I’m bleary beyond comprehension. And since we’ve been night-owls for so long (J works an 11am -11pm shift in the ER), we’re incapable of going to bed early.

 

It’s been a hoot. There’s a lot of stumbling.

 

Of course, I can’t feel too bad. When I sit on my couch watching So You Think You Can Dance (shut up, you know it’s awesome) and wondering, “why me?” I know the answer.

 

Jesus, of course.