Nice beers don't explode
It is hard to live with other people, even one other person. It is hard to live with another person's dishes and laundry and stubble in the sink. It's not enough just to clean up after yourself - there are a thousand little chores and errands that keep a household moving. It ain't easy keeping entropy at bay, especially in the concrete bunker, which aquires dust and tumbleweeds of cat fur at a truly astonishing rate.
Sometimes it takes a while for a the dishes to get done. Sometimes the garbage piles up a few days after it should have been taken out. But if you're me, then the problem is the bathroom. I do not like cleaning the bathroom. It is a truly inexplicable phobia. Perhaps I was attacked by cleaning lady weilding a mop and a can of Comet in my formative years. Maybe I'm allergic to Tilex. I will do everything that I can to avoid cleaning the bathroom. Just last week, I spent an hour with a tiny little rag and a can of polish, cleaning the grease off of the stainless steel kettle in order to appear busy and productive while J went on a cleaning binge.
It didn't work. It never works. It was only a matter of time before J said, "Hey, while I'm engrossed in this nameless and unpleasant chore, could you (cue ominous music)...clean the bathroom?"
"Sure." Death first. "But I'm kind of in the middle of something." This kettle is so greasy! And I still need to darn all of the stripey socks!
The day ends with the bathroom uncleaned. I have dodged another bullet. I sleep the sleep of the mildly guilty. Little do I wait what lies in store.
I wake up to the smell of beer. This smell is not unfamiliar to me. The bunker smells this way the morning (okay, afternoon) after any big party. This smell usually means that I need to find someone to help me move the chaise lounge down the stairs and that I will be finding little dessicated wedges of lime in obscure corners of my house for many days to come. I'm fairly certain that I didn't throw a party last night.
The beer smell is coming from the downstairs bathroom, which I stumble into, bleary eyed and barefoot. This is a mistake. This is a mistake because my foot immediately comes into contact with a pool of sticky hops. The beer that J was brewing for our Folsom Street Fair party has fermented so vigorously that it's exploded all over the bathroom and now there is brown goop all over the floor. And the walls. And the ceiling. Every surface of the bathroom (and my foot) is covered in a mix of sugar, yeast, and alcohol that smells like the floor of the Cat Club.
Well, I said I'd clean the bathroom.
I'm just going to need a bigger mop.
Sometimes it takes a while for a the dishes to get done. Sometimes the garbage piles up a few days after it should have been taken out. But if you're me, then the problem is the bathroom. I do not like cleaning the bathroom. It is a truly inexplicable phobia. Perhaps I was attacked by cleaning lady weilding a mop and a can of Comet in my formative years. Maybe I'm allergic to Tilex. I will do everything that I can to avoid cleaning the bathroom. Just last week, I spent an hour with a tiny little rag and a can of polish, cleaning the grease off of the stainless steel kettle in order to appear busy and productive while J went on a cleaning binge.
It didn't work. It never works. It was only a matter of time before J said, "Hey, while I'm engrossed in this nameless and unpleasant chore, could you (cue ominous music)...clean the bathroom?"
"Sure." Death first. "But I'm kind of in the middle of something." This kettle is so greasy! And I still need to darn all of the stripey socks!
The day ends with the bathroom uncleaned. I have dodged another bullet. I sleep the sleep of the mildly guilty. Little do I wait what lies in store.
I wake up to the smell of beer. This smell is not unfamiliar to me. The bunker smells this way the morning (okay, afternoon) after any big party. This smell usually means that I need to find someone to help me move the chaise lounge down the stairs and that I will be finding little dessicated wedges of lime in obscure corners of my house for many days to come. I'm fairly certain that I didn't throw a party last night.
The beer smell is coming from the downstairs bathroom, which I stumble into, bleary eyed and barefoot. This is a mistake. This is a mistake because my foot immediately comes into contact with a pool of sticky hops. The beer that J was brewing for our Folsom Street Fair party has fermented so vigorously that it's exploded all over the bathroom and now there is brown goop all over the floor. And the walls. And the ceiling. Every surface of the bathroom (and my foot) is covered in a mix of sugar, yeast, and alcohol that smells like the floor of the Cat Club.
Well, I said I'd clean the bathroom.
I'm just going to need a bigger mop.