So picture this:
I wake up this morning completely exhausted. My mouth is dry. I am broke. My feet hurt. I am vaguely nauseous from eating too much crap. There's a hand on my breast and there's a small furry animal running around that wasn't here yesterday morning.
Have I stepped into a time machine and traveled back to college?? Did I dance the night away with hot fraternity boys? Have I done anything I’ll regret?
No. (Dare I say “unfortunately?”)
It was just Caroline’s birthday.
The day started off as birthdays often do in our house, with balloons, singing, gifts and a decadent birthday treat (chocolate croissants). (Okay, unvarnished truth be told, here we can insert one tiny birthday diva tantrum because I hadn't done the laundry and her beloved black pants weren't ready.)
Then we move to dozens of doughnuts delivered to school with the specified lunch (a diva lunch: it came from a gourmet shop and cost $20). After school, we met Whit at the pet store, because for THREE YEARS Caroline has said she wants a guinea pig for her ninth birthday. I prayed she'd forget about it but the kid has a memory that is either indicative of higher intelligence or some undiagnosed syndrome.
It took three stores to find the pet she wanted. She chose a little runt (very cute except for weird red eyes) and named her Lilly. Purple plastic purse not included.
THEN all my brothers and sister and sisters-in-law and nieces and nephews and Marie and Maddie (and, briefly, the neighbors) came over for a huge birthday cookout. I was slinging burgers, filling chip bowls and finding bowls for condiments like I was in some sort of bizarre cook-off competition against...well, myself.
I was cleaning up and doing the post-mortem with Whit until midnight.
The day was nonstop. I can't remember having the time to go to the bathroom.
Serious birthday hangover.
(Oh, the hand on my breast? I don't even have a good raunchy story. I just got barnacled.)