Yes. Day three of struggling with these beautiful but dangerous and evil fruit. Once again, I had to dismantle the still and sanitize hoses and connectors and whatnot. To be fair to the Evil Bergamot, though, I might have overlooked doing that after the last bout and the clog was an unintentional leftover effect of the prior day's frustration. You'd think I'd learn after dealing with all the moving parts in perfumery that you can't rush this. Not even a little bit. So a freshly blended pot of Evil Bergamot is cooking away, releasing all of its lovely (but evil) scent into the receiving bottle.
I woke this morning to the not-so-dulcet tones of my backyard neighbor croaking on about gas lines and his 'bitchy landlady'. The kettle and pot briefly came to mind. I rarely hear the man, but when I do, it's usually in this context -- something's gone wrong with his washer and/or dryer, or his gas line, or his water line, or whatever other lines, tubes, hoses, appliances, and cables that keep him connected to the civilized world, and telling the repair person who has come to fix it that he can't call his 'bitchy landlady' to repair it because she raises the 'frickin' rent' every time he does. This all occurs, unfortunately, about 10 feet from my back door, on the other side of a sagging chain link fence. We're so close to our neighbors, and not in a touchy feely, 'you're my bestest friend' sort of way. I've never locked eyes on the man, or his wife, but I often hear them singing in the shower. Or telling their little grandson how to 'point and pee'. It's like reality TV, only no one knows there's an audience a few feet away. I can only imagine what they hear coming out of my door. Thoughts to ponder.
Even with the still running, I feel like I'm sitting her twiddling my thumbs! There's one last BIG project to complete before I can get into formulating again. The dreaded Harry Potter closet. Yep. Everything's topsy turvy and stored away in the HP closet, the storage area for the studio, and general catch-all for anything the rest of the fam doesn't feel like dragging up the stairs. It's frustrating knowing exactly where you set something in the HP closet, and then finding a torn umbrella in its place. Or a bowl of cat food. A bowl of cat food? My only response to this bs is, 'Why?' over and over and over again. The HP closet is long overdue for a complete clearing and rearranging. I have to know what's in there, what I use regularly, what I never use, store away the not-used stuff and send it off to a storage facility that isn't in the middle of the house, and organize the regularly-used stuff so I can find it. And then put a lock on the door that only I have a key for. That way when it comes time to move to the off-site studio, everything's right where I need it to be. Or so the theory goes.