It's the first of June.
This means 1) My bills are overdue 2) Holy shit, it's June! 3) It's time for May's Perfect Post awards.
In previous months I've wanted to recognize lesser-read writers. But this time, to ignore a bigger shot and one of her most impressive of all her very impressive posts would be like ignoring the pink elephant in the room. (Not that she's an elephant--elephants don't have blogs. They much prefer traditional diaries. Also, their sons aren't nearly as handsome sporting a hat.)
Rebecca? Girl? Girl's Gone Child? You amaze me with stunning regularity. It's hard to choose from your buffet of literary deliciousness that you serve up with consistent wit and craftsmanship. But if your essay, "This is Not My Home" isn't a perfect post then I don't know what is.
If you're not a regular reader of hers, you need to be. If you are, go read this one again.
I don't want to give anything away, but I swear on my [looks around hotel room for something clever to swear on...nope, nothing comes to mind] it's worth your while.
Separately Cristina (a pretty perfect poster in her own right) has gone and made me all blushy and happy by awarding one of my own posts. Thank you! Republicans with no sense of humor might want to skip this one. That means you, Condi. Yeah, you. I know you lurk here late at night.
And then, just as I'm about to publish this post, the absurdly popular and artistically incomparable Karen Rani goes and emails me that she also liked something I wrote here this month. So now I've gone from humbled to a little embarrassed, actually.
Thank you, both of you. It's been the kind of week where a couple of virtual pats on the back done me good. Really good.