the limbo of temporary domesticity
I am sitting at Hoot and Andree's yellow formica kitchen table eating Trader Joe's frozen cannelloni tre formaggio which they bought and left for me in the freezer among other things to eat while housesitting. My last exam, yesterday, has so quickly receded into my distant past it's like it never happened, like studying was never a concern, like I've never even been in school at all. I woke today with the new problem of what to do with myself in a house all alone and that is the truth of life: that there will always be a new problem.
What to do with myself in a house all alone: check for dispatches. There were some, but it seems there are never enough or of the right quality to be satisfying. I'm in a gluttonous state right now and I have to recognize that until I jump tracks, nothing will really satisfy me.
What else to do: bathe. But first I put on yellow cleaning gloves and scrubbed the huge, claw-footed tub in the bathroom with the harsh, stinky, abrasive cleanser I found behind the toilet. It wasn't dirty, the pre-bath scrubbing was simply a formality. I've noticed an urge to clean everything -- the whole bathroom, the inside of the microwave, the smeared pizza that is still on the inside of the oven door from that night over a week ago when they cooked me pizza and drunkenly dropped a slice off the pizza stone. I want to clean. I want to be occupied in that simple, busy way. I want my body to be occupied, moving, purposeful. I want my mind to tackle simpler problems: scraping off the crust of baked-on cheese in the oven, sweeping up the dust-bunnies, organizing. I am excited to start a load of laundry soon. My first load of laundry in three weeks. Ah, domestic bliss.
This is the foreshadowing of my new life in a new space all my own. It is bittersweet.
What to do with myself in a house all alone: check for dispatches. There were some, but it seems there are never enough or of the right quality to be satisfying. I'm in a gluttonous state right now and I have to recognize that until I jump tracks, nothing will really satisfy me.
What else to do: bathe. But first I put on yellow cleaning gloves and scrubbed the huge, claw-footed tub in the bathroom with the harsh, stinky, abrasive cleanser I found behind the toilet. It wasn't dirty, the pre-bath scrubbing was simply a formality. I've noticed an urge to clean everything -- the whole bathroom, the inside of the microwave, the smeared pizza that is still on the inside of the oven door from that night over a week ago when they cooked me pizza and drunkenly dropped a slice off the pizza stone. I want to clean. I want to be occupied in that simple, busy way. I want my body to be occupied, moving, purposeful. I want my mind to tackle simpler problems: scraping off the crust of baked-on cheese in the oven, sweeping up the dust-bunnies, organizing. I am excited to start a load of laundry soon. My first load of laundry in three weeks. Ah, domestic bliss.
This is the foreshadowing of my new life in a new space all my own. It is bittersweet.
posted by reasonably prudent poet at 12:53 PM
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