How perfect, how lovely, does this little house look?
We had dinner with friends last night and got to talking about Hilary Clinton. The woman across from me said she didn’t care for Hilary, didn’t believe she and Bill had a “real marriage.” My neck hairs bristled, and I argued hard against this. I respect Hilary, and I think she’s smart as hell, but it wasn’t until we got further into it that I realized this wasn’t the crux of my argument. I wasn’t arguing for Hilary, I was arguing against the assumption.
I don’t know if Bill and Hilary have a “real marriage” — whatever the hell that is — and I wonder how any of us can ever think we know what goes on in someone else’s marriage, in someone else’s house. And yet, we do.
The house in this picture looks like a fairytale, doesn’t it, what with its blue walls and pink roses and white picket fence? When I was little, there was such a house in my neighborhood and I walked by it almost every day. I thought perfection lived there. I desperately wanted to be part of that family. Twenty years later I learned I couldn’t have been more wrong.
Who lives in your fairy tale house?