Perfect Posts and the Patriarchy

They say perfection is in the eye of beholder.

If I do say so myself, Masked Mom and Mrs. Chicken have impeccable taste. So what if I'm biased?

Each of these lovely, generous ladies has nominated a different post of mine for the November Perfect Post Awards hosted by Petroville and Suburban Turmoil. Thanks to MM and Mrs. C for the nod and to the Perfect Post hosts for carrying on this monthly tradition.

In this award show, all nominees are winners. That's the part my husband didn't get.

"But being nominated means you are put in the running for an award. Being nominated isn't the award itself."

"Ah, that's where you're wrong," said I. "This is the momosphere. It's all very Montessori. Negative competition is damaging to our inner growth."

"Well, then no one can actually be a winner," said he. "And thus, you are all losers."

I rolled my eyes. This was coming from a guy who has a fifth place trophy displayed prominently in our living room. Fifth place or--as he would say if he was referring to anyone but himself--fourth loser. He won it by driving around a bunch of cones set up on a dirt field in mid-nowhere New Hampshire.

Do you know what? I think a good husband is in the eye of the beholder as well.

If you see me squinting a lot, you'll know why.


___

Out Of Office Reply

The moon was low and elusive on my winding drive from central Connecticut to the northeast corner. Its half-buddha belly was the fattest I'd ever seen. I turned a bend near the gold dome of the capital building and the shadowed orb disappeared, only to emerge again next to the sillhouette of another insurance building.

I sat by myself in the car, except for a strange loneliness that was so thick it seemed to take on its own form. There were only indents in the place where The Boss's carseat had been secured a half hour earlier. Now her seat was latched into my parent's mini-van and she was tucked away sleepily in the room I'd called mine as a child.

When I left her for this overnight visit with my parents so I could finish painting our living room, which had been sitting in a semi-finished state for three weeks, The Boss conveyed for the first time a genuine attachment to her mama. I know because she said it--"mama!"--as the tears formed along her lids and her mouth made the slow, hysterical square that always came before the swell. She was wailing.

I stood in the doorway. For a long time I watched her watching me. In fifteen months, she had never noticed me leave.

"You just need to go," my father said from his seat in front of the big screen television, where his scratchy words floated over her screams. "You're making it harder on her."

So I pushed open the door and walked through. I got in the car and was almost five miles down the road before I noticed the gaping yellow moon.