My husband and I spent this afternoon running around, doing errands. As we were driving down the road, sun shining, breezes blowing, he began to speak.
“I saw,” he began thoughtfully, “as tastefully as something like this could be done, someone playing the kazoo with their vagina.”
Me: …………
Me: ———
Me: “WHAT?! WHERE IN THE WORLD DID YOU SEE SOMETHING LIKE THAT?!”
“Hey!” he protested, “I saw it on a talent show. It’s not like this was some dark, hidden corner of the Internet. This was on TV!”
“I have no idea what to say to that,” I told him, as I watched all the pieces of my brain float out the window and land on the side of the road.
“And it’s not like it was some kind of trashy, trailer-park woman, either,” he continued. “You know, it was a nice, well-dressed woman-someone you might see in church.”
And then I thought for a few minutes, about how long it’s been since we’ve been to any church, about how even the idea of church makes me feel as though I’m breaking out in hives, and about my problems with the whole concept of organized religion in general.
“You know,” I said thoughtfully, “that would be a church I might actually attend.”
