There's a girl in my son's class at school whose mother is perfect. Absolutely perfect.
She's the one that brings fabulous, delicious dishes to each potluck that look magazine cover ready even after driving 20 minutes to get there. Her daughter is always impeccably clean and dressed, not to mention well-behaved. She is always willing to volunteer. She is funny and kind and makes people feel better when she's around.
Perfect.
So there are times where her inherent goodness reflects on me and makes me feel like being a better person. And sadly, yes, there are those other times when her perfection makes me feel woefully inadequate. But it's a tribute to her perfection that it's usually more the former than the latter. It's only after she leaves that I realize just how goofy and unorganized I must seem to her.
Last weekend, we had back-to-back activities with the kids. We had a gymnastics thing in the morning followed by an FRG event in the afternoon. The afternoon event was by my house so I offered to make lunch for her and her daughter.
Because of the craziness of the day, and the finicky natures of most toddlers, I made an old standby that is usually eaten by even the pickiest of eaters -- macaroni and cheese with hot dogs. I know, I know -- total gourmet. As I got it started, I thought about just how ridiculous it was that I was serving Mrs. Perfect and her daughter such a mess. What the hell was I thinking?
This was only compounded when they showed up for lunch, with a perfect homemade vanilla bundt cake for dessert and a bottle of wine as a gift for me. I felt like such a hoser.
So later, after the day was finished, Munchkin was put to bed and I was dwelling a bit on my total inability to channel Martha Stewart, like, ever, I opened that bottle of wine. Of course, it was wrapped up with perfectly coiled ribbon in a velvet bag.
Once I got the bottle out, I noticed something. There were three empty Halloween candy wrappers in the bottom of the bag. She hadn't noticed.
Those wrappers meant that, one, she regifted the bag (and hey, not that there's anything wrong with it -- I'm all about regifting those bags but she's so perfect I could see her going out to buy a new gift bag for each and every token gift) and, two, they were hidden in that bag for a reason. Either she, her husband or her daughter were sneaking candy.
I know it's total schadenfreude but I felt instantly better. I guess we're all faking it to make it here and there.
(And you know, her daughter did eat every single bite of her serving of that macaroni and cheese. It's the hot dogs. They make it irresistible).
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4 comments:
That's a great story! (sounds like an essay.) But you know, it's possible that, as perfect as she is, she actually planted those candy wrappers so that she would seem less perfect so that you would feel better about yourself.
okay. . . . . I, too, regift gift bags. . . .
Somehow I can't see spending the money on new ones, when I have all these other [perfectly good] ones right there doing nothing! I mean: what else are they good for, once you've taken the gift out?!
Right! RE-gifting!
grin. We're all such frauds, aren't we? I enjoyed that story. Even the most 'perfect'-appearing one of us has her foibles. And you too - while showing us the underbelly of your domestic "short-comings" - dazzle with the perfection of your prose. . . . (and I'm giggling thinking of requests to come for mac/cheese/franks like "Mrs. Nee makes, please?!"
Ah - the gap between appearance and reality. So endlessly fascinating.
Jody, she is so perfect, I would not doubt that it was all a plant.
Now you've got me paranoid. =)
And prophet, there is nothing wrong with regifting bags. But with this woman, I could totally see her telling me that she found some charity that takes gently used gift bags to bring holiday joy to dying children and so she always buys new ones so that she can continue to send the used ones there.
yer killin' me! [laughing out loud here. . . .]
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