A fab party last night for our outgoing grad prog director yielded this conversation with another toward-PhD mom:
me: Well, since you’ve got a new house, you should have us over for dinner. <grin>
she: Uh, no. My house, however new, is a mess.
me: Yah, like we care. I’m certain our house is messier than yours.
she: I wouldn’t be so sure. There are days that I think, "Should I read, or clean? Read or clean?" And I always read instead of clean.
me: Ah, well normally I CLEAN instead of read, and my house is still like an earthquake came through, wore every stitch of clothing, dirtied every dish, walked around eating crackers and popcorn a la cookie monster, brushed the cats and shook the vacuum bag, and for good measure crayoned fifteen-thousand pictures and stories on notebook paper, tore them out of the spiral, and left the pages (and the spiral scraps), in various states of wrinkle and crumbled-up-ness, in every room.
OK, so I didn’t say all that, maybe. But I am getting ready to take a large trash can, put it in the middle of the house, and start a-chucking, even though my aggregator is full and I have a crap load of writing to do.
I clean instead. Or rather, I throw stuff away. Garbage in, garbage OUT!