If I were one, I would draw one that shows a pair of Ratso Rizzo bugs, dressed as thugs in dark glasses, dark clothing and fedoras, sporting beard stubble and smoking ash-heavy cigarettes dangling from their mouths, standing in front of my daughter's house and bragging that it was going to be easy to get in there. "They've even got kids, it's a cinch." Oh boy, bugs, quit while you're still alive.
Nothing is immediately obvious as you enter. There is a scent, or a hint of scent. Nothing I can identify, but it's not what my house smells like, if it smells at all. As you keep going, it occurs to you that as you enter each room there is another scent that has just been discharged from a secret location. You can faintly hear the scent, but you can't identify the odor, or the source.
It's nothing to make you grab your throat or start to gag, like what happens to the assembled bad guys in the movie Goldfinger after old Auric there decides a little old fashioned outplacement is the best policy to go along with dishonesty. But you realize that your movements into and out of rooms are setting the scent off. This is almost fun, trying to guess what garden path you're entering as you go from garage, to living room, to dining room, to kitchen, to family room. The novelty does wear off, however, and eventually you just sit still.
I tease my daughter that if she had a dog, a fire hydrant scent might have bad results. She doesn't always laugh at things I say. I do compliment her that a bug or a bad ordor doesn't stand a chance in her Petri dish. She does laugh.
Needless to say, the place is spotless. Every so often my daughter disappears from view to wipe something up from the kitchen floor. Or, more accurately, to make sure that whatever it is she's attacked is annihilated within two meters of ground zero. I think "housemaid's knees," inflamed knee bursas, might be making a comeback, but she's still young.
The American bathroom is probably the source of 70% of the advertising industry's creative revenue. Forget the medications and emollients for a moment, just think soap, smell, and of course germs. There's money in that stuff.
Anyone these days can attach a hand sanitizer to the zipper of their backpack, but how many homes are equipped with electronic germ eliminators that glow in the dark? One bathroom has what a fanciful imagination might believe is a silo-like object from outer space that has landed and attached itself to an outlet. It glows. It whirrs. It's always on. It does something. Drink enough, and you might call the Air Force's UFO number.
I confess, that due to another offspring who is still with us who takes showers that steam up the bathroom so much you'd think ConEd has cracked a steam line in the house, I might have a slight case of mildew growing on a portion of the bathroom ceiling.
I've been warned that this might be dangerous to my health. If Spielberg makes a movie about mildew overtaking us, I'll know who to ask about eliminating it.
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