This is not a still life

I bought three beautiful miniature caricatures from Australian artist Joe Scoppa back in February. I selected these particular three paintings so that I could fill a particular set of three empty frames that I had bought a couple of years earlier. And when I finally married the three paintings to the three frames, I knew instantly where they should hang.


I have asked Husband to hang my little triptych on several occasions since February, because somewhere in my head, pounding nails into a wall is man’s work. Sorry Gloria. Sorry Hillary. I shamelessly subscribe to traditional gender roles on a daily basis. I happily take care of any tasks that have to do with dishes, laundry, and cooking (unless if an open flame is involved, in which case Husband’s Inner Caveman clubs me over the head and takes over the job), and Husband valiantly takes care of anything having to do with assembling, power tools, and repairs (unless if a needle and button are involved, in which case Wife’s Inner Betsy Ross takes pity on Inner Caveman’s humble grunts).

To Husband’s credit, he has come close to taking care of the job. I recall a day when he was even preparing to head upstairs with a hammer, but because I wasn’t ready to relinquish control over the paintings’ precise placement on the wall—did I mention that there are three of them whose spacing must achieve a perfect balance?—I told him to wait. My bad.

But then this past week, something happened to shatter that glass ceiling for even this diehard traditionalist. And it had naught to do with Hillary’s recent bid for the White House and even less (yes, less than naught) to do with a related endeavor by an alarmingly presumptuous governor from Alaska who for the sake of utmost discretion shall remain nameless. Nope. Naught. Instead it had everything to do with my sister expertly holding a nail between her lips and my mom brandishing a level with ease and, dare I say, finesse. Contrary to what you may have been raised to believe all your life, that age-old adage is no longer true: Hanging artwork is not the exclusive domain of cavemen.

Feeling empowered, I took on the job last night. When I first started noisily rummaging around the junk drawer for nails and such, I was slightly concerned that Husband would hear my clatter and say, “You know, I would have done that for you.” At which point, you can bet your favorite miracle bra, I would have stopped straight away, willing to wait another seven months just to avoid the sheer torture that is leveling three paintings across two walls. But then, silly me, I realized that Monday night football was on, and I could have been doing the dance of the seven veils on top of the TV armoire without danger of breaking Husband’s trance.

The closer that I came to gathering the necessary tools of the job, I actually started to think that Husband might be proud of Wife’s newfound initiative. And I was definitely off to a good start. Hammer? Check. Sawtooth hangers? Check. Nails? Check. Pencil? Check. Tape measure? Hmmmm…. Tape measure? Husband’s manly Stanley had apparently decided to evade this latest sexual revolution by hiding under a pile of snips and snails somewhere. Yet we are undeterred in our progress. Girlie-girl sewing tape? Check.

At this point in the journey, there stood just one last hurdle between me and my winning over of Husband’s boundless pride and admiration: Mustering up the hutzbah to make that trek upstairs to the job site….preferably in one trip. What would Inner Caveman do? Of course this is why the tool belt was invented, probably by a woman come to think of it, because everyone with any sense knows that if you come down from the ladder mid-job to fetch that forgotten tool, the job will invariably be waylaid by the current season’s sporting event calling from the TV in the next room like an irresistible siren...but I digress. The point is Husband’s Inner Cavemen has not yet evolved to the Toolbelt Age. So what do I do instead? I go and irrevocably girl the whole thing up by placing Husband’s hardware on a floral gilt tray.

Despite my unforgivable transgression against these great symbols of Husband's manhood, I am nevertheless happy to report that the job went off with only sixteen hitches and seven nail holes. And when Inner Caveman passed through the room later that night, he issued a resounding grunt of approval. Gloria would be so proud.