No One Wins The Price is Right

Internet readers--yes, all four of you--I have a confession to make. I'm Mormon. Dyed-in-the-wool, true blue, card-carrying member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. My parents are from Utah, my ancestors did the pioneer thing, and I am a Mormon. MOR-MON. I was baptized when I was eight years old. I served a mission when I was 19--in Idaho, of course. I go to church every Sunday, I pray, and I love it. My faith is everything to me.

The temple in beautiful, hipster sepia

So im'a wax religious a bit and let you in on a habit of mine. I try to attend the temple in Mesa regularly--usually once every week or two weeks or so. Now, for those of you who may not be familiar, temples are different than our normal meetinghouses where we hold Sunday services. In temples we remember God by making covenant promises with him. One of the covenants we make in temples is marriage.  We also go to the temple to perform vicarious ordinances for those who have passed away. It's a peaceful place--going there helps me reconnect with God and myself. What can I say? Mormons gotta morm.

Since my disposable income is, well, limited, I decided to take the bus for my regular trip to the Mesa Temple. My typical temple attire of shirt and tie this time came accompanied by a sweater, beanie cap, gloves, and a scarf to keep me company for the walk to and from the bus stop--perfect attire for a friday night ride on the city bus. I blended in well with gentleman sitting opposite me chomping on a three-foot slim jim who was wearing a black T-shirt bearing a bold, red "SWAG" on the front and KanYe shutter shades dangling from the neck.

Burying myself in Chinese flashcards, I ching-chong-ding-donged the rest of the 30 minute bus ride toward the temple, trying to switch buses midway but quickly abandoning that plan and trying to reenter the bus and being questioned by the bus driver whether or not I had a pass. I at last arrived, debussed, realized I overshot, doubled back, jaywalked, realized I left both my beanie cap and my gloves on the bus, and after a stroll through a neighborhood, now an hour after starting my journey, I reached the doors of the temple which of course were

locked.

An acceptable plan B

The temple was closed for cleaning--and has been for a couple weeks. Last week when I tried to go to the temple my car ran out of battery and saved me the trip. I received no such divine providence today.  But not to be defeated, I turned my temple trip into a self-guided tour of the Christmas lights on display, and also popped in on the nightly christmas concert on the pop-up stage by the temple visitors' center. The group performing just happened to include an old friend from high school.

Still hatless and gloveless, (but not scarfless -  ha!) I said hi to my friend and made my way solito back through the lights and toward the bus stop. As I passed the temple doors I noticed a familiar face reach for the door. It was Jacob, a friend who goes to my church. In the creepiest way possible I gave him an over-the-shoulder hello. He laughed at our surprise encounter but quickly asked where to go to help out with the temple cleaning. It was then I remembered that a couple of guys from my ward (not me) were scheduled to help out cleaning the temple. I offered to help Jacob find where he needed to go and decided to crash the cleaning party. I didn't take that bus for nothing.

Before I knew it I was on my knees coating a tiled floor with mild acid and scritch-scratching away grout dirt with a temple toothbrush. It wasn't the temple-going meditative experience I had expected, but then again, I hadn't expected a lot of things to happen on the night of December 9th.

After getting an insider tour on the not often seen corners of the house of the Lord, Ben, another guy in my church, and Jacob and I went back out into the cold and into Jacob's parked Malibu. He had offered me a ride home (what a sweetheart!) and offered Ben a ride to his car (lazy bum!). Our 2 minute car-to-car transfer chat was all about cars, so when we finally caught sight of Ben's ride, a shiny red beauty that may as well have been a Bentley, I coyly asked "How much' that set you back Ben?"

My ha-has and other feigned chuckles muffled Ben's smiling response: "nothing- I won the price is right."

My ha-has suddenly ha-halted. "What?"

"I won it on the price is right!" Ben continued. "I WON the Price is Right!"

a TV game show theoretically
impossible to win

Jacob and I found our laughter again. Ben wasn't finished. "Yeah, I won it on The Price is Right.  I also won a surfboard, a cell phone, a dining set from China, and four gold bars."

Jacob exploded--"GOLD BARS? Ben, I know you're an honest man, but gold bars??"

I was equally incredulous. There was no way this night was happening. It had to be the acid we were using to exorcize the grout. Nobody actually wins the Price is Right. I don't care who you know, nobody actually wins that show. The contestants are all actors, the prizes are fake, and the games are rigged. It's that simple. Don't cry, just accept it. Ben, you play quidditch for ASU. You did not win the price is right. We was straight trippin.

And then, like magic, the youtube proof was in front of me via Ben's iPhone. Halloween 2008, our friend Ben made it from contestants row, to under the arm of Drew Carey, to under the arm of the closing-credit models. Ben won the price is right. All of it.

That was my night. I expected a typical temple trip. Instead, I tripped on cleaning acid and found out my friend, sans-italian job, won four gold bars.  The moral of the story? If you want to live magical, take the city bus.