I don’t like being told what to do.
The mop and the cleaner sat in the living room all day Saturday while I stayed upstairs and napped. When I woke to find the early dark, I showered and met friends for an insanely funny send-up of The Match Game in a small theater in Hollywood. We ate at Roscoe’s Chicken and Waffles afterward then I drove home with Stephen and Eddie licking the stubble of my shaved head.
The mop and cleaner mocked me from the spot where I left them on Friday night. I gave them a nod good night, almost, when I walked upstairs to watch TV. I fell asleep on the couch with Eddie tucked into the crook of my knees.
I woke up on Sunday with mopping on my mind, and even made a half-assed attempt in the late morning. I sloshed the rag mop around a few times, the water and wood soap making it shine for a moment before it returned to the same dulled oak of a hundred years of careless pets and neglect.
I gave up, put the mop in the laundry room so I wouldn’t have to look at it anymore, and went back upstairs to nap while pundits predicted the upcoming election results on the television.
Last night my friends and I surrounded the TV with three laptops fired up on constant Refresh, and we applauded and ate and celebrated the fact that Arizona doesn’t hate homos as much as Tennessee.
In the darkness of the Valley with a hot desert wind blowing through, we rejoiced in the Democrats' victory, but today, with the glaring sun and insistent blue sky, I fear that our winners have an enormous mess to clean up, yet if they need a hand, I have just the mop for them.