Last night the fabulous Geisha came over for Sake House, Sauvignon Blanc and "Sex and the City" reruns. (The wine didn't exactly match with the sushi, but no big deal.)
Upon surveying my apartment -- the futon I've been sleeping on for the past week because I'm too lazy to put sheets on the bed, the huge piles of wine magazines littering the floor, the remote controls conveniently located within arm's reach, the entire wardrobe hung all over the dining room chairs and the smell of fresh cat poo in the air -- Geisha declared: "This is like a bachelor pad."
He then moved a huge pile of blankets and a teddy bear (not mine -- it belongs to the cats, I swear), so he could actually sit down. And he said: "So. You're going to clean up before tomorrow, right?"
Which is why I'm awake so damn early on a Saturday morning. My winemaker has the weekend off and is on his way home, and Geisha thinks I live in a pig sty. This is not a good combination.
And it's just not wise to ignore a geisha.
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