I’ve been obsessively listening to the cast recording of the Book of Mormon musical. It’s fantastic, and I’m dying to see the show. (Powers that may or may not be: bring it to Dallas/Ft. Worth, okay? And soon!)
Anyway, a couple of things happened this week. First, on Tuesday, I had dinner with a former beehive. She is now the ripe age of 26, which just weirds me out because she was 12 just a few days ago, if you know what I mean. She’s as cute as ever. She’s also the daughter of the woman who shunned me some months back, much to my surprise, because I figured if anyone would still talk to me, she would. It was nice to meet up with my friend, and get caught up on her life. But there’s not really anything there. I’ll always love her, but it was just, well, weird, for lack of a better word.
Then my husband’s been on a royal tear. He’s having some health issues, which he’s not used to, and yet he refuses to go to the doctor. He did finally go while I was on vacation a couple of weeks ago. He needs to go again, because he may have seriously damaged his knee, but is back to refusing to go whilst simultaneously complaining nonstop about the pain. Grr. And he’s stressed about religion and stressed about his job and stressed about his home and stressed about our marriage. I made him listen to Spooky Mormon Hell Dream, because you know that part where Elder Price is fretting because–gasp–he told a lie when he was 5, and broke rule 72, and now Jesus told him he’s a dick? That’s my husband. Not breaking rule 72, believing Jesus hates him. He did finally calm down, and we had a long talk. I’d feel good about that, except that I know we’ll have the same talk every night until one of us drops dead because he is not willing to let go of the church, despite the way he feels about it, and himself. He’d rather believe God lies and Jesus thinks he’s a dick than accept that the church really isn’t The One True Church.
Grant me strength.