After yesterday�s burst of academic energy where I leapt metaphorical buildings (in this case, University Gothic spires) in a single bound, I have sunk once more into that midwinter state where I find myself wanting to focus on things domestic. Things like alphabetizing the spices. Or reorganizing the closets. Or bleaching the shower grout within an inch of its life and scouring it by hand with a toothbrush and a can of Barkeeper�s Friend. In short, tasks you couldn�t pay me enough to do at most other times of year. Clearly I�m in the third stage of procrastination.

You all know the signs. In the first stage of work avoidance, you merely delay, dawdle, even lollygag. But nothing seems to stick and eventually, you sit down and get to it. In the second stage, you actively find other things to do. Pleasant things. Things like reading novels. Or baking cookies. Perhaps taking a walk on a sunny day. But sooner or later, the guilt drives you back to the tasks at hand. Then there�s stage three. Total martyrdom. In stage three you not only find other things to do, but the things you find to do are often even less pleasant than the task you are trying to avoid. Cleaning out the cat litter box. Stripping the wallpaper off the guest room wall. Dismantling the crawlspace full of crap only to return everything you�d hoped to toss to its original shelf, after much emotional deliberation, of course.

I have mastered the art of stage three. When in the grips of stage three, my house is never cleaner or more organized. My floors are waxed, the carpets are clean and the larder is stocked. Bills are paid, letters are answered and phone calls are returned. Shirts are ironed, hinges are oiled and socks are mended. Shoes are polished, windows are washed (both sides) and bathroom fixtures are gleaming. I am Martha Stewart on speed.

And if you will excuse me now, I believe I may have some silver to polish. Now where did I leave my Q-tips?

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