I Married a Saint.

So yesterday I hosted a little girly get-together, the Ladies Listening Lounge, basically because I want to hear some new music, but I'm too lazy to actually, you know, go seek it out, so I disguised my laziness under the guise of a girl's night with wine and cheese and little sweet potato pies and invited over the hottest girls I know and told them to bring some music. And it was great, but that has little to do with my saintly husband, since, you know, he's a he, and this was a ladies thing, but I will get to that.

Ladies Listening Lounge (maybe I should change it to Lazy Ladies Lounge; I really like the "L" thing—it makes me feel like a hip lesbian or something) was a smashing success, mainly because I heard some great new music and we managed to kill 4.5 bottles of wine in about 2.5 hours. And, as I mentioned earlier, I invited the hottest women I know, so that was good.

But the reason that my husband (I've been calling him my boyfriend lately because we have so much fun together that saying husband just sounds too stuffy; we need a new word) is a saint is because when I RUSHED through the door at 5:10, he was there, cleaning the house. AND he helped me make dinner and delicious sweet potato pie thingies, and he MOPPED THE KITCHEN FLOOR, and that my friends, is why he will now be known as The Saint.



HE MOPPED THE KITCHEN FLOOR. Willingly! And I didn't even mention it to him. AND I was going to do it before the hot ladies came over! AND DID I MENTION HE MOPPED THE KITCHEN FLOOR?! Obviously, you can sense how vile and repulsive I find this particular chore.

Then, after he helped me cook and clean, he left. The Saint is a saint. Maybe that's my new word for him, instead of husband/boyfriend. If I hadn't been exhausted and ddddrunk last night when he came home, I would have given him a "home" to "come" to, if you get my quotes.