Procrapstination

[proh-kraps-tuh-ney-shuh n, pruh‐] 

     noun

       1.

the act or habit of procrastinating and then turning around to notice that what you really need to do still hasn't been done, to the point that it is both startling and horrifying and you say out loud (again), "Oh crap!"

verb (used without object), procrapstinated,procrapstinating.

1.  to defer action; delay something craptastic that really really needs doing.

...Such was the state of my kitchen this morning:  The sink was full.  The drying rack was full.  The dishwasher was full.  The giant, obnoxiously lengthy countertops which would -- nay, should -- be a prep-chef's dream were covered (as usual) by a mess of school papers.  The only available prep space, two linear feet in front of the toaster, coffee maker and kettle, that is always, ALWAYS kept clear, was encumbered by the food processor, used measuring cups (both dry and liquid) and a splatter zone of molasses, flour, sugar, and other trappings of gingerbread.  The stove top held two trays of miniature gingerbread loaves.  

I can't breathe when I'm surrounded by clutter, which amuses/bemuses Fis, who thinks I should then just die and get it over with because he sees what our house always looks like.  BUT, the power of procrastination is strong in this one (remember the alphabet fiasco of 2010-2014?).  In my defence, I am one person against four (and a dog).  And each of these produce awe-inspiring amounts of art, notices, letters, invitations, and laundry.*

And I desperately "needed" to return two emails, send a few texts, and maybe tweet.

In times like this, I fall back on my project management training, which, if it has taught me (and Fis) nothing else, it has at least qualified me to run on the spot with my hands over my eyes, screeching, "Critical path!  What is the critical path?"

(Fis loves that.)

So, I started emptying the dishrack, then turned around to update my contacts so that I could find more people who use What'sApp.  This involved scrolling through my network, and adding +1 to about 20 phone numbers.  And then updating my profile photo.  And then turning around to see that my kitchen was somehow still a mess, despite it being 15 minutes later:  "oh crap".

I opened the dishwasher and took out three knives and a bowl, while thinking how lonely mornings are here, as none of my North American friends are up yet.**  Then I sent a tweet and responded to an email from the kids' school.  During this time, nobody finished emptying the bottom rack of the dishwasher!  Nor the top!  

Oh crap!

So, I finished the dishwasher, then went back to the dishrack, which still had to be fully emptied so that the still-wet plastics could be piled in there to dry, and started sorting through the vast expanse of possibly-but-probably-not important paper on the Ideal Prep Space section of the kitchen.  Imagine my shock and horror when I turned around to find that my counter was still a sticky mess, the sink was still full, and the cupboards had been left open.***

So, breakfast dishes went into the dishwasher, food processor components were washed and piled on top of the drying plastics, and the counter was wiped, with only 7 or 8 pauses to check email.  

Tadah!

...

...

Writing this up was absolutely necessary, because if I turn my head very slightly to the right, I see the pile of Christmas cards that are sitting there...that maybe I should have been writing instead this whole time.****

Oh, crap.

* I'm exaggerating, of course.  The dog only produces laundry from his wardrobe of festive jumpers and coats (rain and winter) and his blankets.  Very few invitations, and no art.  I'm not that crazy.  (Note:  no art of cultural or commercial value, anyway.)

** I'm fine, I promise:  this is after coming home from dog-parking (verb) or my running group.

*** Crap!

**** Let's just get this out there:  "writing" Christmas cards this year consists of "addressing the envelopes".  The printer lost the cards for over a week, so we're running a bit behind.  I normally like to include a personal note, or at least a signature, or at least at least an irritatingly-upbeat form letter, and I am so very ashamed of our cards this year.  Also, in the interests of full disclosure, Chris' Scottish heritage has rubbed off on me (see also, single-income family in X-tremely X-pensive City), so a lot of the cards will not be mailed until our arrival in Canada on the 26th,***** or even hand-delivered, thus saving a stamp or two.  

***** We will try to have some kind of "come see us!" afternoon at a restaurant or possibly even our still-for-rent house while we are back in town. (Bring your own chairs!) (And prospective tenants!)  Please reach out if you'll be around?