the smell of my desperation has become a stench

Even their Dog is Mormon

Now wait a minute, people.

I knew about the cold weather and the liquor laws and the dry air, so dry that by 3am every morning the pointy boogers in my nose form a barricade so impenetrable the airflow through my body is involuntarily re-routed through my mouth in one harrowingly gigantic gasp for life. I’m so okay with all those things, and although you may not believe me, I’m even okay with the Mormons.

And I guess I should clarify something here, right here and now. It’s public record that I used to be a member of the Mormon church and that I paid money willingly for a degree from BYU. I’ve read the Book of Mormon, and both my brother and my husband have served Mormon missions (to Montreal, Quebec, and Manchester, England, respectively). I can give you a detailed description of the history of the Mormon church, of its founders, its years of formative persecution, and the names of the men who serve on its “board of directors” today. I really used to believe that being a Mormon was the right thing to do.

So I want to let you know that I’m not here to participate in any form of Mormon bashing, although that might seem like the logical thing for me to do. Too many of my closest friends, not to mention my mother, my father, my siblings, and all of my nieces and nephews are all devout members of the Mormon church. I’m not willing to publicly slander a belief system they all eat, breathe and sleep. I’ve invested hundreds, possibly thousands of dollars on therapy working out things that shouldn’t be worked out publicly.

So I know that the Mormon church will find out within the next week (if not already) that I have mysteriously fled California, and they will shortly contact my mother here in Utah and demand to know of my whereabouts. And I’m okay with that. I’m okay knowing that they will pinpoint my exact latitude/longitude coordinates and send the Lord’s representatives to my rescue. That is what they do.

I’m okay with the Mormon thing, and I’m slowly getting used to wearing closed-toe shoes and socks. Socks! for Christ’s sake. I’m totally aware that there’s no such thing as a spontaneous buzz in this state, unless your liver is the size of a pistachio. I’m so okay with my dog growing his own fleece comforter from his hind legs to his forehead, and the fact that snow doesn’t melt until mid-June.

But people, if I find out that any of you knew about the Taco Bell tostada thing, the thing where they don’t serve fucking tostadas in Utah thing, and didn’t tell me about it, I’m seriously going to cut someone. I mean, no tostadas? Are you fucking kidding?

Heather B. Armstrong

Hi. I’m Heather B. Armstrong, and this used to be called mommy blogging. But then they started calling it Influencer Marketing: hashtag ad, hashtag sponsored, hashtag you know you want me to slap your product on my kid and exploit her for millions and millions of dollars. That’s how this shit works. Now? Well… sit back, buckle up, and enjoy the ride.

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