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There is something to be said for not knowing yourself. The lesser-touted quality of self-unawareness has its benefits. For example, if I was less hyper-aware (and less a product of parents with Too Many Degrees), I’d probably be a bit happier. I won’t say ‘ignorance is bliss’ for fear of throwing too many cliches at you too early into this post, but as long as I know you’re thinking it…..

Which brings me to say, I’ve noticed a pattern in my New York life. I can tell when I’m upset about something or too rundown or too hyped up because it manifests in my kitchen. The place of so much joy for me and others becomes a direct representation of what’s happening in my heart. The word I’m looking for is fester.

I am a tidy person. My house is clean and things have their place. I don’t ordinarily let dishes sit in the sink overnight, with the exception of a pan or two that I can justify soaking. But when I’m having a hard go, cereal bowls and water glasses are allowed to percolate in that aluminum rectangle for days on end. Once I realized this pattern, it began to be a reason in itself to be upset or put-upon. I imagined the scum covering my forks and spoons sliming over my head as well. My brain sponge smelled like mildew. My spinal drain was clogged. (This, I discovered, is how cycles begin. And I don’t mean wash cycles.)

I won’t bore you with tales of recent life difficulties — mainly because they’re the same ones as before — but I will tell you my dishes aren’t getting washed. One pan lately reached a full six days in my sink. I relay this information not to disgust you or embarrass my parents, but to express the full amount of stress inflicted by last week. Just so you know what I’m dealing with.

There’s something almost flagrant about a pile of dirty dishes sitting there, staring saucily at me as I drag around the house, getting ready for the next draining day. It’s offensive. The nerve those knives have! It feels like a jeering crowd reminding me of all the things I didn’t finish.

One great side effect of having a direct dish-to-emotion metaphor is that I’ve noticed it goes both ways. If I’m having a bad day and I do my dishes before I fall asleep, I feel better. It perks me up. And so, a year and a half into our journey, I’ve learned not to blame the forks and spoons but to view them as an impartial barometer for my mood.

After all, it’s not the flatware’s fault.

There are many things I have in common with Martha Stewart, the most legitimate of which is that both our names start with the letter M. One other thing, however, is our affection for spring cleaning.

When I spend a whole dusty day crawling under tables and dusting behind books (only Martha and I think to do that, you know), there’s nothing better than ordering dinner in and throwing open my windows to the Astoria sunset for a big breath of fragrant air and a satisfied smirk.

It’s taken me a little longer this year to get around to cleaning. My tally so far shows that my junk has outperformed me. I did manage to donate three pairs of shoes and to drop some old sneakers off at Niketown to be shredded and made into rubber tracks. Those two acts have kept myself self-satisfied for weeks now. But other tasks remain… I plan to create a full budget for my expenses, and wallpaper and paint a bookcase, and throw out the half-scribbled notebooks I’ve been keeping since graduate school. I’ll recycle the notebooks of course, to be shredded and made into that new material that goes around the lead on pencils. Those pencils will inevitably write on notebooks and voila, we’ve arrived at the most meta circumstance my brain can handle. I am a woman comforted that the world is round.

Anyone who’s watching this season of The Real Housewives of New York will know that one of the characters/women/fembots, Ramona, has been shoving the phrase “renew” down our throats since Episode One. (Her recently-revealed skincare line, funny enough, incorporates the word. Saucy minx.) I’m not sure if it’s all the dust motes settling or too much Bravo television, but I’ve been inspired to renew too.

But then last week I read a terrible thing, in a terrible magazine (it was either Self or Selfless or Shape or Shapeless. Cosmopolitan or Gin ‘n Tonic or Maxim or Minum, strange I can’t remember the name…). It was an article that advised women to choose one thing to improve and forget the rest. And to paraphrase the most insidious part — “Your brain is only wired for so much self-control. You’ll be more successful if you focus on one thing, such as saving money or losing weight or staying in better touch with friends, than if you spread your brain’s energy among all those things.”

The moment I read that, all my willpower went downhill. (It landed at the base of the hill and staggered into a nearby bar where it feasted on unattainable men and nachos.) The months I’ve spent using only half of each facial cleansing cloth per night to be less wasteful led to purchasing too-expensive eye cream that smells like plastic. My microwave soup made way for street-cart tacos. I didn’t call or email any of the four people I’d scheduled to be in touch with last week.

But, luckily, I spent most of today watching Martha and painting flowerpots. (Not the most pressing need, but it was on the list, ok?) And it’s Sunday. Which means there’s a whole new week to come, and I can start redoing my renewing.