So the missionaries stopped by yesterday. Their objective was "to get to know you." I'm a nice guy sometimes, probably too nice. I let them in.

The senior guy was so blatant about it...I'm surprised he didn't open my refrigerator and look for beer. He kept looking around, probably desperate for anything he could report about me. That way, he gets credit as a promising leader; he knows how to work around apostates. And it livens up their dreary, horrible correlation meetings for another few weeks.

No, no floozies back there in the bedroom. No, no ashtrays, no beer bottles. no coffee maker. A totally wasted visit, Elder _______ (insert name of famous prophet.)

Elder De Prick Asshole (?).

Where I live in South America, it's hard to find baking soda (the government doesn't allow it to be sold in boxes like the Arm & Hammer stuff in the U.S., for fear that folks will use it to manufacture drugs.) But it's still possible to buy it in small quantities--pharmacies and corner stores sell it in little individual packets containing a couple of teaspoons or so. I buy it accordingly when I need to do some baking and the recipe calls for such a quantity.

Here's the thing: those little baggies of baking soda that I buy at the corner store look EXACTLY like the little baggies of cocaine that [cough] some people I know used to buy back in the day. So, I'm sorely tempted to keep one or two in stock at all times--in case I get in the mood to bake something, or in case the mishies drop by and before opening the door I can set one of these out on the open countertop that runs between the kitchen and the dining table where they usually sit as they're looking around...