Attention Deficit Housecleaning[*]

I woke up restless at an ungodly early hour this morning. I did the dishes. For someone who doesn’t cook much, I generate mountains of them. The alarming number of ants scurrying to the compost bucket under the sink prompted hours of attention deficit housecleaning. I accept ants, but do not embrace them.

Attention deficit housecleaning is self-explanatory. In the middle of one mess, you notice another and proceed from hither to yon, kitchen gel with bleach in one hand, vacuum at the ready, potentially creating a greater mess in the process. I think it results from a scattered mind. Mine has been more than characteristically untidy lately.

It seems as if I’m always in search of a job. I’ve had the same one for two years now, but can no longer tolerate it. Maybe there’s something wrong with me, maybe I’m too idealistic in that I care about education over appearances, maybe, as a therapist once said, I have difficulty being an adult, maybe I need to accept that those in positions of power over me are, more often than not, idiots. Maybe. Maybe the problem lies with me, not others. Oh…. wait a minute. I’m only part of the mini-exodus of native English speakers from school. Whew. Still, there’s the matter of a job. And without a clear picture of what will happen in the fall, I can’t solidify plans for the summer. I do have options, I probably will sign a contract with another school if they would just send it to me already.

And another thing. I just finished proofreading a survey on architecture. It was like visiting old friends: why yes, I remember giving that lecture on San Vitale in Ravenna and haven’t thought about Peter Behrens in ages. Then I remember how much I really miss teaching art history, how good I was at it, especially in front of a classroom of reluctant artists taking their obligatory survey courses. I then think of the pile of notes and photocopied articles from various London libraries stashed in the storage space under my bed. Not knowing what to do with them, reluctant to recycle the papers yet knowing I’m never going to write that dissertation (well, I wrote about 30 pages of it), I shift them from one space to another during the winter-summer, summer-winter clothing switch. No, the world didn’t stop turning when I officially opted for ABD (All But Dissertation or All But Dead, take your pick) instead of PhD. And yet, I think of those less intelligent and even less enamored of art history than I with their completed dissertations…

But wait, there’s more. I regret the time wasted playing Spider Solitaire, yet I can’t seem to stop myself. I drink too much coffee, can’t seem to quit smoking despite the acupuncture treatments that oh so many years ago were highly effective.

I won’t bore you with all the “what ifs?”, the rehashing of long-dead but damaging relationships, the woulda-coulda-shoulda’s, the “why can’t I just get myself together and be more productives?” especially since I know full well that the weird little paths that I’ve either followed or made in the past years have gotten me here, here where I’m generally quite happy and at home.

The kitchen is nearly spotless, and the grout in the shower a different color. I’d like to say that my thoughts too are in order, but that would be a lie. I think a little ironing is in order.

[*] I wish I could take credit for the title; however, I stole it from a friend.