A couple of weeks ago we had a large party in honor of my hubby's band. By 1 a.m. when the last guests took their leave, I found that I may have had one whiskey too many and wasn't feeling too steady. By 2 a.m. when we finally went to bed I did an excellent impression of girl-passing-out.
The next morning (which came a short 5 hours later) my mouth was glued shut, hair in disarray, and I was barely coherent, possibly still a little drunk. My daily goals were food, water, and couch. Unfortunately the last goal was not meant to be due to the fact that we had a million clean up errands to do.
So although I brushed my teeth, unglued my mouth and managed to hydrate I had failed to find the shower. So smelling a bit like left over Jamesons, hair still somewhat matted with a light dusting of the inevitable party smoke, and wearing what could only be referred to as twenty-first century sweats, my husband turns to me and says, "You know, I was going to make a run at you last night, but I was too tired and you were too drunk".
That, my friends, is what masquerades as romance these days.