Good Morning, Starshine!

I emerge from my glorious shower feeling famished by decidedly more human. However temporarily. Hangovers can be tenacious, opportunistic little bastards.

The gals are all awake and gabbing. We are never at a loss for interesting must-tell news. It has always surprised me how it stays on the right side of gossip. It is good for my soul.

Kate and her sister Kelly are going to spend the day in the city and start with a vigorous walk 10 blocks to the world famous market in the center of town.

Ten blocks sounds like a trans-Atlantic trek to me.

Joy and I have a different idea. We'll have breakfast in the adorable little lobby restaurant, pronto, drown our troubles in steaming hot coffee, and then head for home to get a jump start on a few projects around the house - provided our hangovers cooperate - and then be at the door to greet our kids from school for once.

We sit and order over-stuffed omelets and buckets of coffee. We also ask to have our water glasses refilled a dozen times.  Toast, jam, and fried potatoes round out the medicinal meal. We are feeling worlds better, again, however temporarily, by the time our plates have been cleared.

Over one last cup of coffee we talk about Scott. We talk about our kids. We talk about the holidays. We review pictures we took during the buffoonery of the night before. We decide which are suitable for Facebook and which need to be cropped first. We talk about Kate's party this weekend. More importantly, we talk about what we will wear to Kate's party this weekend.

When it's time to go, we schlepp to my car and continue to catch up. I am forever intrigued at how much we have to talk about. I swear I could be stranded on an island for decades with any one of these women and we'd never tire of each other.

Once home, I set about unpacking and dosing myself yet again with Tylenol.  Ad after a huge glass of iced tea and a call to Charlotte, I begin to clean my house.

I do a cursory job of dusting. I sweep and mop the kitchen floor. I get out the vacuum.

And it sucks.

To be clear, it is not sucking, so it sucks.

I could scream.

I unplug the darn thing so as to not electrocute myself on top of the hangover. (Talk about a Double Whammy).  I begin to take it apart.  Tube by tube, screw by screw. The cats are engrossed in what I am doing. Probably because of all the swearing.

I put it all back together, tube by tube, screw by screw, curse word by curse word.

And it sucks more.

That is to say, it is worse. It is not sucking even as well as before. Sucking less if you will.

Maybe it is the hangover. Maybe it is the lack of sleep. Maybe it is the vacuum. Maybe it is the winning combination of all three. But I am suddenly overcome with sadness about not being able to count on Scott's handyman-ness. And I want to cry.