Not a bad week, Obamawise, was it?  I'm not going to join the chorus of nitpickers about the logistics of closing Guantanamo.  Will some of the prisoners end up in the loving arms of Al Qaeda, as some critics claim, whether or not they were actually a part of the terrorist network before their detention?  Yeah, probably.  But what are you gonna do?  Hold them without charges or a trial until the next administration takes over?  That was the last administration's Big Idea. 

Somebody's going to have to clean up after them, obviously.  That's the kind of people they were.  Make a mess, somebody will take care of it.  We have people for that.  It's like the Onion joked after Obama won the election:

Black Man Given Nation's Worst Job

WASHINGTON—African-American man Barack Obama, 47, was given the least-desirable job in the entire country Tuesday when he was elected president of the United States of America. In his new high-stress, low-reward position, Obama will be charged with such tasks as completely overhauling the nation's broken-down economy, repairing the crumbling infrastructure, and generally having to please more than 300 million Americans and cater to their every whim on a daily basis. As part of his duties, the black man will have to spend four to eight years cleaning up the messes other people left behind. The job comes with such intense scrutiny and so certain a guarantee of failure that only one other person even bothered applying for it. Said scholar and activist Mark L. Denton, "It just goes to show you that, in this country, a black man still can't catch a break."

Apparently the Bushes were offended by Obama's "ungracious" inaugural address. Especially considering how gracious Bush had been in the transition, according to his people.  I mean, come on, he's graciously left his successor the gift of a Pandora's Box loaded with a googolplex of likely insoluble hydra-headed problems.  Oh, and a new set of china. (The Obamas were not able to see it before the Bushes vacated the premises — Mrs. Obama was not allowed into the family dining room, but, as Mrs. Bush said, "she at least knows where the china closet is.")

Out of all that 9/11 "political capital" he was so determined to blow up his nose.  Out of ideas.  Out of smirks and shrugs and smears and smack.  Out of fashion. Did Mr. Bush have any choice but to get out the way?  See, this is the problem with this type.  They just don't get it.  Unless you tar and feather them and run 'em out of town on a rail, they think you owe them a big thank you.  I mean, seriously: it's not enough to clean up after them.  You have to thank them for the privilege or they get their feelings hurt.

Cleaning up after others is something we here at the orphanage know a thing or two about, let me tell you.  I have been here two years now, and seen some comings and goings.  I had developed certain theories over the years about who was responsible for what messes in the common spaces, and now, through the process of elimination, all has been revealed.

When our bathroom got a little makeover I thought I might broach the topic of biweekly (as opposed to biannual) cleanings, and was made to understand I was being anal.  Six people, plus a parade of guests and household pets using it, and it was as if I had suggested twice-a-day total disinfectant and delousing blitzes, with samples to be scraped from all surfaces and labs to be run in the basement with results posted nightly on the fridge. 

Point was, my tricks wouldn't even touch anything.  I had to tell the postman more than once that Boo Radley does not live here.  I had to explain to people who would just wander in off the street that no, we have no crack and aren't going to be getting any anytime soon.  I assured old friends who were horrified for me: I'll be fine!  It's called "shabby chic"!  "More like 'shanty chic'," was the common comeback. 

Over the couple of years I've been here, little by little improvements have been made, and the place has taken on an almost livable aura.  It's tantalizingly close to being shabby in such a way that you could convincingly call it almost shabby chic. But I guess I took it too far.  Because the topic of bathroom cleanings, for which we had no schedule or system, sparked an actual rebellion in the living room. 

Insults were hurled, threats were made, we only very narrowly avoided headbutts (not kidding).  One of the more diplomatic housemates defused the situation by suggesting that maybe the problem was... my standards.  So I made a secret pact with a new housemate who had yet to be demoralized into thinking a quarterly cleaning was the goal to strive for to work together to wipe down the surfaces on a regular basis, with more thorough biweekly cleanings.

I am not a clean freak. Before arriving at the Seven Hills Orphanage, I had my own charming, airy little flat in Budapest, a minute's walk from Castle Hill.  I lived alone for a good ten years.  Honestly, I have no problem admitting that when I was on my own, I was as often as not a slob.  Even now, my desk is often terribly cluttered.  My bed remains unmade for days on end, and I have one of those bachelor chairs that doubles as a sophisticated twice-worn clothing filtration device...


But when you live with people, especially people who don't share your DNA already and with whom you're not willingly sharing it in liquid form, your standards of cleanliness should be higher.  Unless or until you have a partner, spouse, retired parent, illegal immigrant, or president who's going to do it for you, you need to clean up your own damn messes. 

I know it sounds like a drag, but get that swiffer out, crank up the will.i.am, and just ask yourself WWOD?  The new era of responsibility starts at home.  Don't be the George W. Bush of the house.  Don't leave your mess for someone else to clean up.