I followed my usual process, writing the names of my entrants on ripped up pieces of paper and bringing them to my husband, Mark, to select.
I searched all over our home and finally found Mark in the garden room, dressed in his favorite frock coat, hanging slightly open, wearing a bit of slap, as he often does on a Saturday night. One of his advisers knelt at his feet, nervously updating him on his Indo-European holdings, and the boy had just brought him a cocktail on a silver tray - not his first, I could tell.
I wanted to show Mark the names I had in my trembling hands, but I was afraid the breeze from the women fanning him would blow the papers out of my hand. With an annoyed gesture he sent the women away, as well as the ones massaging his feet, the boy with the tray, and his nervous advisor and turned to the task at hand, choosing a winner.
Mark was very upset to see there were only three contestants. He berated me for the unpopularity of my blog and suggested that I write more interesting posts, perhaps to try and emulate the entry he contributed, which was a great success. I assured him that was my most fervent prayer for myself.
Finally he picked a winner. Lisabea is your winner, he muttered, casting the scrap to the floor. That's not even a real name.
It is a real name, I said, shaking with rage. It is the real name of a fine lady!
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