Monday, December 7, 2015

The oracle, upon the last few minutes of the 7th...

My goodness.... I forgot to write a post today. I meant to clean the apartment, also, but somehow each successive chore just slipped from my mind as petals from a dying flower. There is a visitor on her way, a friend from Florida whom I haven't seen in a few years. The toilet will need to be cleaned, at the very least, probably by me. I would not expect a woman to place her privates near it in its current condition. It is hideously uncared for, neglected in every way that might improve it. It is disgusting to think that I brush my teeth within feet of it.

Perhaps I can clean it when we return here, before she sees it. I like a challenge. It keeps me on my toes. Hopefully she won't have to go right away. I'm terrible with domestic duties, and I'm also an incorrigible sexist, beyond cure, so these things combine to make me seem monstrous to the tender contemporary sensibilities of many women.

I'm trying to improve about all of it. I haven't screamed, What? Get your ass back in the kitchen and make me a ham sandwich! for a few years now. So, there appears to be some progress.

I wonder if I can convince her to help me clean the place up when we get in from the airport. Pour her a nice glass of wine and start walking around the place picking things up. Sometimes you can trick a woman into cleaning by a sort of infectious magic.

What the fuck! She reads this site. I'm too lazy to delete what I've written and write any more. I wonder if I'm helping or hurting my chances. We'll see. I'll tell her that I have a widespread herpes breakout across my ass cheeks, so she might want to hover a bit, and to try not to foul my domicile, etc. There are some Wet Wipes but they only kill 99% of germs, or say says the packaging.

Dunno, wouldn't risk it if I were you, girl...

I'm sitting here drinking a glass of Cote Du Rhone, a blend, Grenache and Syrah 75/25. It is delightful at the end of an unusually productive day at work, though it does not solve my toilet issue. In some ways it exacerbates, or soon will. I bought a wine aerator. I know, I'm a fucking plebeian. I even bought it from Target, as if to emphasize the point.

I'm am listening to Leon Bridges, so perhaps there is hope. I was way ahead of the pack on this one. I sent it to a bunch of my friends this year when it came out and they all just ignored me. One even tried to tell me that I never sent the link. Bridges was on SNL on Saturday and performed beautifully, pure class and style. Soon enough everyone will be telling me that they told me about him. It is the way of things, and precisely what happened with Raphael Saadiq also. But Jesus, this album is good. Private message me and I'll send it to you for free. It's illegal, but I won't tell if you don't.

Now, I'm listening to Jason Isbell's latest album, Something More Than Free.

If you're one of those people who likes to say that they don't like country music then this next sentence is for you: Suck the grime off of my toilet seat, because your mind has no better plan for your lips than this modest task, and you know it as well as I do.

The picture for today's post is almost unrelated. These were some of the wines that my old elementary school buddy and I drank the last time I visited in Bellingham. I've decided that visiting him and his family is among the most cost effective vacations that I can take. I force him to eat seafood, preferably raw, and he rolls out bottles of wine from his closet that would cripple me if he let me drink them at my natural rate. There are kids in the house, so I must cloak myself in manners. He teaches me things about the subtleties of taste and I encourage him to abandon his whenever possible. We have an old lifelong understandment concerning such things.

The Margaux that you see there was from the year that we would have graduated high school together had I not dropped out to pursue my other sensory interests.

It's sometimes difficult to believe that such a bright, sweet kid as myself wound up writing about the perennial problems of powder room disinfection, and only as pastime rather than pure vocation.

Please tell me, blameless Pythia, where does the wine go.