Hubs came back from an outing with his office folks almost 4 hours later, mumbling about too much Grey Goose (not his choice of poison) and leaving a trail of fumbling:
- his shirt – completely drenched in sweat on the back – at the doorway
- his mobile phone on the living room floor
- his pair of jeans on the wardrobe floor, inverted inside out, with his wallet still in the back pocket
- one smelly sock in Joshua’s laundry basket
- another smelly sock in my laundry basket
It’s kinda funny actually.
Doubly funny because Hubs had been so domesticated to come home early from work to do Joshua’s laundry and clean up after dinner. Then he tucked the boy into bed before changing and going out to party.
What’s not funny about tonight’s fiasco is how it has gently reminded me that I won’t be overdosing on Grey Goose for possibly another year. So.not.funny. And Grey Goose is, like, my favourite vodka EVER.
Diu. This babymaking business has got to stop after Keegan, before I suddenly hit the big three-oh and have no idea where my 20s went.