Hey Joe

I've been told that burying a statute of St. Joseph in the yard will help sell a home. Two people have suggested that recently: one, a practical, hard-working girl who was raised Catholic and is now not; and the other, an impractical, eternally optimistic hard-working girl who is Wiccan.
Okay. What could it hurt?
The Seaside Outlet Mall has a Christian store called "The Tree of Life," where we've bought outrageously over-the-top holy googahs for our friends, primarily the ones who gave us The Last Supper in statue form. That's another story.
The store has descended from amusing to horrifying in their choice of sweetly joyous, vacuous, cartoony Christianity. I was in visual overload and couldn't focus, but walked the ailes anyway looking for St. Joseph. Not finding him, but certain that I was looking in the wrong place, I waited impatiently at the counter while a woman bought at ship that looked more like the Grey Ghost in The Pirates of the Carribean than the apostles' simple fishing boat. After countless attempts at box looking, price checking, and other blather, I finally got the attention of a cashier. The badly re-recorded version of the Crockodile Rock on their Muzak was making me more impatient and disoriented.
No, we don't have a St. Joseph, somebody else was just asking, the statues are over there, but mostly people buy.... I got out. I'm glad St. Joseph wasn't in there. It would have made him less saintly to me.
Back in Astoria for a walk along the river, it occurred to me that there was a Mexican store near the theater, and they'd surely have a candle. Hola! I took French in school, and explaining statue of St. Joseph to someone who does not speak my language exceeds both my Charades and Pictionary skills. After a very lot of time, I found Our Lady of Guadalupe and many versions of the Christ Child, but no St. Joe. Damn!
So, off to Deals Only, where there, too, were other saints, but not Joseph. Poor guy. One of the most selfless of all saints, and you can't even find him. Admitting defeat, I turned to leave, when Paul says, "Wait. Look."
On the shelf below where I was looking, was St. Joseph, holding the baby Jesus. Halle-fucking-lujah. The Atheist (agnostic?) found him and little old Vodou Catholic me didn't. A miracle!
So, off we go with our St. Joseph. Victory!
Then, the real miracle. While we were crossing at the light on Commercial, some bim runs a red light and is nearly blocking the sidewalk. I'm a rage walker, and when cars endanger me, I'm loud. And mean.
I made her stop halfway across the street, and like the man in Tien an Men Square and the tank, I stood her down. Okay, maybe not like the man in Tien an Men Square, but I did stand her down.
Bitch. Hate her.
Then, St. Joseph smiling from his saintly domain, sent me a miracle. He sent a sheriff car to witness the agnostic and I walking him across the street, and smote her down with his righteousness. She was PULLED OVER. Right in front of us!
Thank you, St. Joseph. I'm sorry I've been out of touch for so long, but I have a much more believeable excuse than that jive you got from Mary when she was pregnant. Thank you so much.
Next to Ogu, Vodou deity of iron, war and technology, you are my favorite.
Really.
I know this is asking a lot, but could you please sell our house? I promise that, if you do, I won't promise to say the Rosary every day and break my promise.