A central theme of Homer’s Odyssey is the message that, until one gets one’s house in order, nothing else will work out right. That’s an oversimplification, but whatever, it’s Friday and I’m
in love, whoa, flashback to 1990 tired. Telemachus, don’t you know, isn’t capable of getting his house in order, and Odysseus has essentially abandoned his household responsibilities (ok, some people would say it was all out of his control, but I don’t want to go there now because it’s Friday and I’m not caring about the debate so much tired.) Penelope, as a woman, isn’t supposed to be able to do much about keeping her house in order, but she tries. Sort of. She’s surrounded by testosterone and slutty maids, and there’s all that olive oil to make and all those shrouds to weave, and it’s Friday and she’s mad at Odysseus tired, so she gets to be let off the hook.
It was with much dismay then, yesterday, when I realized that something very bad must have happened in my house while I was away at work. Everything was in DISorder.
named me murdered the plants on the front step:
Worse, the bathroom was a crime scene
and not only because that sink is so awful that it’s a crime:
The other bathroom had been taken over by the Philadelphia Parking Authority, and god knows they make a mess of everything:
Know what else is a criminal mess? The fact that the heinous yellow tile in the kids’ bathroom looks even more heinous in photographs. This is blurry because my eye was twitching so badly…or something
like I can’t take photographs to save my life.
Whoever broke in, killed my plants, assaulted then drowned Barbie, and trashed the other bathroom left their rodents. Here’s something I didn’t know that everyone else in the universe did, mice are nocturnal. I suppose if I’d given it much thought yeah right I’d have realized it, but it hadn’t occurred to me that agreeing to allow the rodentia to live in my house for a while would mean that I would be spending my nights listening to the squeak of their wheel and the gnawing of cardboard. But it does. And because
my our the mice are exercise-bulimic, they run on that damn wheel all night long.
My house is not in order. I didn’t know this until close to dinner time yesterday, however, because I locked myself out yesterday. I am not making this up. I didn’t break a window. I retreated to my mom’s house and holed up under a blanket in the fetal position for a while. Her house is in order. It wouldn’t dare NOT be. So help me, though, the second she returns from her trip, those mice are going back.
I have two choices now for the weekend.
I could attempt to get my house in order.
Or I could go out to dinner with friends and maybe see a movie.
Totally unrelated, but actually reminds me a bit of rodents and chaos:
Why do I have to keep hearing about Sarah Palin? Did we not do our Palin time? Holy Alaskan Halibut, woman, get over yourself. Today she released some big dramatic news about how she contemplated abortion when she found out her (?) baby was going to be born with Down’s syndrome. For one thing, how about contemplating not procreating at all, since you’re never home and you’re completely self-involved and seem to have the IQ of a gnat, plus your husband spends all his time trashing the wilderness on his “snow machine,” drinking beer with his oil rig buddies, and making you look like a rocket scientist. For another thing, how about not using your infant son as the political equivalent of a short skirt and six inch lucite heels on a street corner at night? If you want to engage in meaningful discussion about choice, fine, if you want to whore out your own experiences in place of intelligent thought and discourse, not fine. In an effort to be somewhat fair and balanced, not really but whatever, Meghan McCain wrote an editorial for the Daily Beast explaining why homophobia is a lose-lose scenario for the Republican Party. First she told Laura Ingraham to kiss her fat ass and now this. She’s growing on me.