A message today on my answering machine:

"This is the (fill in the blank) library. We are calling to ask you very nicely to return the video of Giselle. It was due on September 29th and it is now November 15th. We would appreciate it if you could bring this back, so our other patrons can use it."

Of course, the reason I haven't returned the video was because I couldn't find the video. This didn't make me feel like any less of a worm, however, because the reason I can't find the video is mostly because a)I am a highly disorganized creature; b)my house routinely looks as if a bomb exploded in it; and c)I cannot remember my name if I am thinking of something else, which I usually am, making it highly unlikely that I recall I need to look for anything until about two seconds before we leave for the library. Knowing that most normal people do not have to clear a path to their kitchen table, or share it with a light fixture and a pile of mail and books, or hurt their feet because they stepped on a piece of rose quartz in the middle of the night, or hunt for their CDs under the entertainment center because none of them are in their cases... I decided I felt less like a worm than an, I don't know, a kind of small, slimy larvae.

Of course, most people do not have a thousand books in their house, books which actually get taken out and read. They also do not have book manuscripts and five drafts of the same short story lying around, or probably wire dinosaur armatures on their kitchen island, or guitars and mandolins in their living rooms, or the boxes of rocks which seem to be taking over. Some of it is just the way we live, and some of it, I'm afraid, is me. Because, frankly, I'd rather be writing books than scrubbing the toilet. And since when was a scrubbed toilet more of a measure of the worth of an individual than completeing a 250,000 word novel?

Oh yeah. Since I was born a girl.

Anyway, I decided that the guilt should be passed around a little here, since I am not the one who piled all the toy dinosaurs up in the middle of the Greek temple blocks as a sacrifice the ancient Hebrews were making to God. I am also not the one who threw all the Duplos over the kitchen floor, or the one who leaves her rocks strewn all over my bedroom because she's examining them for dinosaur scratches.

Equal guilt, that's what we want.

I used to think that it would be good (and maybe a challenge) to raise Catholic kids without the guilt I got as a kid. But now I'm thinking, maybe passing this guilt along is a good thing. I mean, a little more of it on the part of my family would be a good thing, wouldn't it? Then maybe there wouldn't be quite as much toothpaste smeared in the sink (or as many spitmarks on the mirror), or as many socks left strewn about the front hallway, and maybe I could get out of my bed at night without killing myself. And yeah, my kids do chores. Just apparently, not enough. Maybe it's a whip I should be asking for for Christmas...