I certainly did not mean to leave that silly political post (the one where it’s all about me, me me me — which is differentiable from my other posts only in the political bent) at the top of the page for so long, but I have been either too busy or too tired to update for what feels like forever.
It’s the season of midterm grading and essay grading and job applications, none of which I am particularly eager to complete, but all of which are pressing, pressing, pressing the fuck down on me and my schedule with the weight of a thousand cartoon anvils. In order to ease the stress, I have been procrastinating, deflecting responsibility, and generally dilly-dallying in every way possible. This method of coping with stress has the dubious side effect, however, of actually increasing the stress and urgency I experience, so I cannot say that I would recommend it.
One procrastination technique I employed with great success this weekend involved what I like to call an Awesome Day of Domesticity. Who can work in a messy home, I ask you? All of the neglected little corners of the house had to be tended to: not only was my bedroom being slowly buried beneath piles of laundry, but so was my living room. Draped on every piece of furniture was a discarded sweater or jacket; beside the front door was a pile of heels (kicked off at the first opportunity) and under the couch was a pile of sneakers (have to be unlaced while sitting); stacked on the end tables I had piles and piles of mail; stacked on my night table I had at least eight novels; stacked on every horizontal surface I had approximately forty-seven empty glasses.
Any good anthropologist would be able to reconstruct my after-work activities — step one: disrobe; step two: pour a drink; step three: read a book. Unfortunately, no one likely to enter my apartment is a detached, academic, anthropological observer who might find the mess intellectually intriguing. Instead, at the rate I was going, the next person likely to be entering my apartment would have been the coroner come to collect my body after I finally died of sloth and slovenliness. Let’s face it, no one wants to be the deceased person about whom all the crime-scene investigators have to ask in disbelief, “how could she live like this?”
Fine, fine, I may be exaggerating just a wee little bit, but the important message is this: the place was a mess. It needed to be fixed with a quickness. The only problem with an Awesome Day of Domesticity like the one I was about to embark on happens when you realize you have simultaneously run out of seventeen different types of cleaning supplies. This means you must travel far and away to the magical land of Target, which you will be allowed to leave only after amassing dozens of bags of stuff and paying them approximately $116.00. Or, you know, exactly that much.
[Sidebar: Sweet pickle relish, but shit is expensive right now! Damned “economy.” Can’t we get Krugman on this? What is that Nobel prize of his for, anyway?]
In addition to the downer of spending all of your discretionary “fun” budget on a whole bunch of distinctly non-fun items, there is the subsequent downer of arriving at home with your purchases only to realize that just buying cleaning products does not lead directly to a clean house. You must actually use the products to clean the house. Woe. And THEN, to add insult, you do not have any fun purchases to brag about: no new albums, book, or movies to review; no new shoes or dresses to debut. What are you going to do, bore your friends with tales of house cleaning and then boast about the awesomely fresh citrus scent left behind by your new Swiffer sweeper pads?
Hey, have I told you about my new Swiffer sweeper pads?