After at least four whiskeys (wait, maybe it was six) that are totally not on my diet, I think I can only manage stream-of-consciousness this morning.
The biker woke up at six in a panic; he had to be at work by eight, and needed to go home to Harlem first to change. I washed all the smeared eyeliner off, grabbed a spare blanket (it was freezing; when will the heat come on?), set the alarm for 8:00 and went back to sleep . . . until 9:00.
The alarm had gone off, I'd just slept through it for an hour. My hair was a matted snarled mess and had to be washed, but at least it didn't wreak of smoke (thanks, Bloomburg!).
Where was my bra? Oh, right, in my purse. (but my cell phone wasn't, I discovered later. Still AWOL, egads.)
My boots? One was in the kitchen, the other in the bed.
My raincoat? Covered with pigeon droppings from the fire escape. I'd have to wear something else.
I barely managed to water the cat before I dragged my sorry ass out of the house. Late again. Those resolutions are dropping like flies. But at least I was wearing eyeliner while drinking more and not driving!