By an unlikely tale of inebriation. Naturally.

Saturday – a bout of poverty forces me to stay put. What does one do with an entire weekend all to oneself? Plow through that mound of chores I’ve been denying the existence of. Naturally.

As such, I crammed my mental Rolodex with things I wanted to get done.  Clean the bathroom, rearrange furniture, do the laundry, repot the ficus, that sort of thing.

In true Stepford fashion, I started with the kitchen. Donning my trusty Hazmat suit, I confronted the refrigerator first. It was inevitable. I didn’t want to wait for the thing to sprout limbs and try to stage a William Wallace insurrection for freedom. A kitchen appliance with a Scottish brogue anyone? No, thanks.

It was only about two in the afternoon. I figured if I could get this done quickly, I can move down my laundry list and end up having a highly productive weekend. Which will be a sneeze short of a miracle. Also I wouldn’t feel as cheated for not being able to afford to go anywhere.

Excellent plan, Toto! Am I or am I not a regular household Einstein?

I started by clearing the shelves of all unrecognizables. How long they’ve been sitting in the fridge is anyone’s guess. After about 30 minutes of labor, I organized all the things that were reasonably edible and had them sitting on the dining table.

I noticed I still had three bottles of wine left over from last Christmas. And how aristocratic of us to keep them refrigerated alongside the mustard. High-class! Anyhow, I wanted to dispose of them so I did a little taste test.

Two of them were a tad suspicious. They went down the drain. But the 2003 red from Melbourne? Not bad, not bad at all. I had a quarter of a bottle left and I didn’t want to put it back…

I only have this to say about what transpired next: Never chug anything down before reading the label that says 14% proof.

After I was done laughing at god-knows-what, I suddenly remembered my ironclad game plan that was to catapult me to lofty ranks of domesticity.

Abort!!! I went to bed.

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