Who’s Fault Is It? Don’t Ask

The murky resolution of the presidential election makes many Americans feel as if the the country is a house bitterly divided against itself. This does not strike me as a national crisis. My own house is bitterly divided. We rarely, if ever, agree on how to fix our problems or even what, exactly, our problems are.

As with politics, both sides make impassioned speeches about their concerns, speeches that fall on deaf or unsympathetic ears. When crises erupt, we each await the other side’s admission of guilt.

For example:

The orange stain. I claim it was an accident. They say it was spite.

Phone machine failure. I say power surge. They say willful incompetence.

Misplaced wedding invitation. I say disorganized house. They say disguised hostility.

Flat tire. Law of averages, I say. Abdication of mechanical responsibility, they say.

Canceled life insurance. Mail overload, I say. Inability to confront mortality, they say.

Purple top, red pants on kid. I say morning schedule chaos. They say gender-based fashion defect.

Luggage in Saskatchewan. Cost-slashing airlines, I say. Inexcusable, simian handwriting, they say.

Lack of romance. Stress and exhaustion, I say. Cleverly disguised selfishness, they say.

Frozen pipes in basement. Endemic to an old house, I say. Income deficit due to writer as head of household, they say.

Sometimes I will admit defeat and support the other side. The eerie calm that results soon drives them to distraction. Maybe they don’t really want me on their side, or maybe dividedness is underrated.