Yesterday I had to stay home to wait for the UPS guy to deliver a tripod, and I decided to put my time to good use by scouring our apartment. Jake’s shedding like you wouldn’t believe – our hardwood floor was starting to look like a shag rug. I started a pot of coffee, steamed some milk for my au lait, and procrastinated for about an hour.
During that hour, I wrestled with Skype and PayPal, tried (and failed) to remember my account password, tried (and failed) to correctly answer my security questions, and eventually just went ahead and set up a whole new fucking PayPal for myself, which, I think, marks at least the third one registered to my name. All this because my phone was dead and I had to make a call in to work.
The phone call went less well than I would have liked – I’m not the world’s most patient Irishwoman, and the end of my rope comes faster and easier than I’d prefer. After about 20 minutes on Skypephone, I made some vague but vehement ultimatum and shouted that I had to go wash my floors.
Vigorous scrubbing did little to dispel my angst, and, as I backed my way over to the bedroom, caught sight of the abomination that was our wine rack (aka, makeshift bar). “FUCKING CHRIST” I thought, “this is a nightmare. Something must be done.” Not only was the whole thing covered with a thin film of dust (I keep my vodka in the freezer – the liquor on the rack tends to sit idle), but the sheer volume of old, nasty, half-drunk vessels was absolutely mind-boggling. Four bottles of 12-year scotch, each with barely a shot left; two different brands of shit brandy, suitable only for cooking; three – count ’em, THREE – bottles of bailey’s, two of which, inexplicably, were of the mint variety; one sad sip of Sandeman’s, a straggler from our wedding booze; then some random tequila (including one small bottle from our honeymoon in Zihuatanejo), Jamaican rum, cherry brandy, and Pitu. What’s Pitu? I DON’T KNOW EITHER. But I bought it. For something.
You know, I think you can see where this is going. By 5pm, the front two rooms of the apartment were spotless, the wine/liquor rack was polished, sorted, and shining, and I, the cleaner of the booze, was tipsily mixing a cocktail with the last of our authentic Mexican tequila.
((Don’t get me wrong – I didn’t drink EVERYTHING. The cooking brandy and the older mint bailey’s went down the drain, and I left the scotch for someone who would appreciate it. So, you know, basically the tequila. And maybe some pitu.))