I’ve decided to start writing down my daily thoughts. All I could find to write on is an old birch log, so I’m going to call you a ‘blog.’ Of course, if any of the pompous old men from the agora find out I’m writing, they’ll probably lock me up and make me drink hemlock or something.
Dad yelled at me this morning. “No daughter of mine is going out dressed like that!” he said. He's SO embarrassing. All the other oracles are wearing their togas at least two inches above the ankle, but nooo, my father’s a giant prude and says I can’t go out of the house looking like a pornai. Yeah, like anyone’s going to mistake the 40 pounds of drapery I’m wearing for a cute, low-cut tunic. And if he’s so worried about what people are wearing, maybe he should talk to his old buddy Socrates about maybe putting on underwear if he’s gonna let his toga hang open while he’s talking to the masses.
Mom asked me today if I’ve given any thought to what I might like to do with my life. She mentioned several career options. I could be a housewife, or a midwife, or a slave. I’m sure she means well, but all of that sounds pretty boring to me. Why can’t I be something more exciting, like a philosopher or poet? Maybe I want to hold court at the Acropolis and have all the young scholars hang on my every word! (However, if this requires letting my netherparts hang in the wind like Socrates, maybe not. Seriously, cover up, you dirty old flasher!)
Dad would like me to marry a soldier and settle down. Mom mentioned that Achilles is still single, but he’s such a dud. Always whining about his sore heel and how he can’t stand Agamemnon. Get over it, already. Who do you think you are, some sort of demigod or something?
The guy who I can’t get enough of is that dreamy Odysseus. I know that cheap tart Penelope has been trying to catch his eye, always bringing him freshly baked moussaka and horta vrasta. Yuck. Boiled leafy greens leave me clammy. If it doesn't have honey and phyllo dough in it, count me out. Anyway, Penny has also been knitting Ody a shroud, but honestly, it’s taking her forever to finish the darn thing. He can’t possibly be interested in her. I can assemble, like, forty pairs of sandals in an hour. Surely that’s worth more, dowry-wise, than one stupid unfinished shroud!
I feel bad for my friend Homer, who really has the hots for Penelope. Sometimes Homer and I get together at the Long Wall and make up stories about Ody and Penny. Mostly we come up with tales in which they’re separated by war for, like, twenty years. Homer says our stories are so good that he’s going to write them down someday. I doubt it. Homer’s nice and all, but he’s kind of an underachiever, and I’m sure he’s destined for obscurity. Centuries from now, nobody will remember his name.
It’s getting late. I guess I should head over to the panhellenic sanctuary with the other oracles and entertain the rubes with some prophecies. Sure, Paris, that girl Helen of Troy will TOTALLY love you someday. NOT. The only way she’d ever notice you exist is if you, I don't know, maybe kidnap her and start a war. Good luck with that!
Until tomorrow, diary. I’m off to pray to Athena for better things, like voting rights for women and no taxation on grape leaves.
Sounds fun and all, but I suspect I’m better off right here.
I’ll be appearing on The Connecticut Authors Trail at the Saxton B. Little Library in Columbia, CT on Tuesday, August 5 at 6:45 PM. Come be entertained with tales of how I became a writer, and I’ll even read a little from Secret Things and offer a sneak peek of my upcoming novel, Ordinary Boy! Yowza!