Went to dinner at the neighbors’ tonight. They seem nice. Jim is a pastor or something and he and his wife are retired. They’re going on a sabbatical to Moscow, where there are communal vodka drinking glasses and no one has any black socks. They are going to be staying with their missionary friends and going to a conference where Jim will be teaching other pastors. Tory is collecting shampoo because they don’t have that there either, apparently. Also the sidewalks aren’t even. I find myself wondering what could be so important that they couldn’t teach it somewhere with personal glasses and evenly paved roads.
I felt bad about this, but as they talked about religion I couldn’t help wondering if they hate homosexuals. I mean they’re so religious, and here I am, the living embodiment of sin, sitting at their table admiring their décor and eating their cake. And they seem like such nice people—they had a dog that I used to like, and Jim helped my dad landscape our yard.
And Carrie, my old nanny, is also religious. We’ve kept in touch and I’m her kids’ “Aunt Maddie.”
Then there’s my grandparents, devoted Roman Catholics. They live a few hours’ drive from my house, in my dad’s childhood home. They met when my grandma was a nurse in the army. My grandpa is a retired engineer. My grandma and I often use her embroidery machine together, and Grandpa lets me make pendants in his kiln.
Such good, normal people who want me dead. There is something inherently wrong with the human race.
A bottle of shampoo fell on my foot in the shower this morning. It still hurts like hell.