This is my life.
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Merlot
I realized today that I’m white trash.
Alright, so maybe “white trash” is a little harsh, but certainly “different”. “Different” is a good word, very PC. We’ll go with that.
Today, we had the carpets cleaned. Now what that means is that for the first time in years, I’m going to find out just how white my carpets used to be, but are no longer. This is perfectly fine of course, because I don’t think it’s going to be too much of a difference. It is, and I’m ashamed as I stand my bed up against the wall so that the carpet cleaner man can do his cleaner thing under my boxspring.
He ignores the unintentional innuendo, and instead just stares at the rectangular white shape that was (apparently), the original color of carpet. It’s bright like the sun or the light at the end of the tunnel and I clear my throat, attempting to distract him.
“So, uh. That’s totally not the color I was expecting.”
Damnit.
Having been unsuccessful in my attempt to save face, I leave and let him do his thing. He eventually makes his way into the living room, and I tiptoe around all the shampooed areas because they’re wet. I take off my socks because they’re gross, and hang out by the kitchen counter. I swear, I haven’t leaned this much since high school.
Eventually, the man gets his money and leaves and I busy myself throwing open all the windows and setting up fans in strategic locations in order to dry the carpet out faster.
It’s about 11:30 when I realize I’m hungry.
What I have in the fridge is this: Cheese, mayo, mustard, milk, juice, and Diet Pepsi. I also have whole grain bread, but no deli meat. I’m pretty much screwed when I remember that there’s a pizza in the freezer.
Aha! I say to myself. This will save me from having to go to a fast food joint and ruining all those workouts I meant to do this week. It will also save me about $7.
I preheat the oven, busying myself with tasks around the house such as laundry. Why? Because I hate laundry. And with all the furniture moved out of the way for the carpet to dry, it’s not like I can sit down and watch tv. I’d have to stand. And who the hell stands to watch tv?
The oven finishes it’s torturously long preheating and I remove the pizza from the freezer. I’m putting it on a tray when I have another thought. I should get wine! I’m home all day, it’s my day off, I should pamper myself.
But wait, I think. I’ve already preheated the oven. If I leave now, I’ll have to wait who knows how long for it to heat back up and then another twenty minutes for the pizza to cook.
This is unacceptable.
I check the cooking time on the back of the pizza. 17 minutes.
That’s doable.
For the uninitiated, there’s a supermarket not three minutes from my house. By car, if I hit all the lights green. Realizing that this is potentially not a good idea, I push those thoughts to the side and shove the pizza in the oven. I set the timer, grab my socks, throw on some shoes, and head out the door.
I make it a point to procure one of their finest $10 merlots (on sale). I return to my home in record time, having three minutes and change to spare before the pizza finishes cooking. Tossing my socks and my shoes to the wayside, I head into the kitchen to pour myself a nice, celebratory glass of wine.
You deserve it, I tell me.
This is where the trouble hits. I can’t find the corkscrew. Over the next ten minutes, I’ve torn the kitchen inside out looking for the thing, stopping only to remove the pizza from it’s 400 degree womb. But the corkscrew is no where to be found.
Swearing loudly, I look forlornly towards my culinary child sitting on the counter. It’s getting cold, and I don’t have time to run back to the store. I could skip the wine, but that would mean I spent $10 on something I’m not going to use and be disappointed, verses the alternative I considered earlier, (spending $7 on fast food and feeling guilty). I glare at the wine, and I swear to you, I could tell it was laughing.
With this simple math swirling around in my head, I rush out into the garage on the hunt for tools.
I’m no handy man. I’ve cracked open a toolbox maybe twice voluntarily. However, Rummaging through a collection of screws, I find a screw eye (promising) and run back inside to thwart the malevolent bottle of merlot. I jam the screw eye into the cork, and just as I’m about to pull, I take a look around the living room.
The newly shampooed, bright white carpeting is drying nicely, warming itself in the sun and enjoying the cool, artificial breeze from the fans. I realize right about then that going out and buying a bottle of red wine was probably not the best thing to do.
I hustle the bottle outside and stand on the patio. This seems as good a place as any, so I start to pull.
Nothing happens.
The wine laughs at me again and starts saying terrible things about my mother. I squint my eyes at that devil, Merlot, and realize that opening this bottle now is no longer just to prove my manhood. It’s to defend the honor of the woman that birthed me.
I walk back into the house, past my quickly cooling meal, and reenter the garage. I emerge with a large screw driver and a grin. Ignoring, again, the unintentional sexual innuendo, I return to the patio and hook the screw driver through the eye of my makeshift opener. Just as I’m about to pull, I remember the carpet inside.
I didn’t want to ruin it because it was clean. Looking down, I’m wearing my favorite band shirt, acquired a number of years ago, from some indie band who no one’s ever heard of.
Well, I can’t be bothered to ruin that either, so I strip the shirt off.
Standing there, bare chested in my backyard, Merlot held out in front of me and a warrior’s fire in my eyes, it hits me that this is quite possibly one of the most important moments of my life.
I pull!
…and nothing happens.
I pull again, expending every last ounce of my strength (but not really, because I don’t want to tear the cork and ruin any chance I may have of coming out of this victorious). Finally, it happens. The cork explodes out of the bottle of merlot sending red wine spraying all over the patio and dripping down the sides of the bottle, coating my hand.
The blood of mine enemy has been spilled.
I laugh on the inside and smile, sad that there is no one around to witness my triumph. I pick up my shirt.
Back inside, I cut the pizza and place a tv tray in the middle of my empty room. With the furniture cleared out, it doesn’t even look like mine. I pull my chair in and sit at my “table”, pouring a glass of my hard earned wine.
It tastes like victory, I think.
And today, my friends. I ate well.
I would have spilled the wine all over the place.
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