Here's the story behind the story:
Let me start out by saying that serving a mission* for the LDS Church was on my list of things to do right after "be mauled to death by a rabid animal". I DID NOT want to serve a mission. I grew up thinking that only ugly girls with no hope in life served missions and that if I did serve a mission I would seal my fate as an unwedible LDS female (ha!). But alas, the inspiration struck (literally) and I knew with every fiber of my being* that I was suppose to serve a mission. I'm pretty sure I know exactly how Jonah felt, because I honestly would have taken "swallowed by a whale" over "serving a mission" any day.
After a year of trying to convince God that I WAS NOT missionary material (I do a lot of unproductive convincing in this church), I buckled and sent in my papers*...with two stipulations. I DID NOT want to serve in Texas or California and I DID NOT want to learn Spanish. Considering I was about to give up 1.5 years of my life to do something I really did not want to do, I figured God could at least grant me those two wishes.
For all of you non-LDS readers this is how the mission thing works: you fill out an application and the church tells you where to go. They have neatly divided the world into roughly 350 different areas where one could potentially serve. Considering I did not want to serve in Texas or California and I did not want to speak Spanish, that meant they could have sent me to at least 150 different locations. 150. That's a lot of options. So the only thing I can think of is that God enjoys making me do things I absolutely detest...thus I was sent to the Dallas Texas Mission...Spanish speaking.
So there I was in Texas, speaking Spanish and learning first hand about chiggers and roaches and enjoying yummy homemade Mexican food (the one redeeming quality about the Big D). Now, back in the old days when I was a missionary, we taught those who were interested in learning about the LDS church several lessons, or discussions as they were called. Discussion #4 was my least favorite because that is where we had to address the issue of chastity. Being the manipulative little sneak that I am, I always worked it so I never had to teach the chastity section. I always made my mission companion* do it.
Well, one day the missionary I was with had had enough of me and my refusal to teach about chastity. So before we met with the couple we were teaching, she looked me straight in the eye and pretty much threatened my life, saying that it was my turn to teach about chastity and she wasn't going to argue about it. We had a slightly contentious relationship to begin with because I was the one female missionary who insisted on riding bikes everywhere we went, and she HATED bikes...like complete bike-throwing-meltdown-in-the-middle-of-a-busy-intersection-where-she-screamed-at-me-for-being-the-meanest-missionary-on-the-planet hated. Had our relationship not been hanging by a thread I would have staged a serious "Carrie is NOT teaching about chastity" protest, but as things stood, I just nodded in agreement.
During the entire first 1/2 of the lesson I started sweating cold, icy, bullets. The thought of having to talk about chastity freaked me out so bad that my stomach was knotted and I felt like I was going to pass out. Well, right as we were moving the lesson on into the chastity section, the wife of the couple we were teaching got up and left the room to care for her son. That left me, my non-empathic mission companion, Raul or Julio, or whoever it was we were teaching, and my ever increasing anxiety. My sweating doubled.
So, this is how it was suppose to go down"
me: "Raul, will you please read verse something-something found in chapter something-something of the *Book of Mormon?"
After he read the scripture I was suppose to launch into a memorized script about unpermitted premarital sex and masturbation.
But it wasn't that easy. I had to do it in Spanish.
Now ideally I would have said this:
me: "Raul, puedes leer versiculo something-something...."
instead I said this:
me: gulping for air, "Raul," another air gulp and sweat running down my forehead, "puedes leer TESTICULO something-something..."
Yes, I asked him to read a testicle.
Thank you bilingual Freudian Slip for totally destroying that spiritual moment.
It was one of the more awesomest moments of my life.
And the ugly sister missionary curse lives on!