Our wives have just had too much vodka and we're starting a blog

Greg just asked: "Where's Nora?"

She's downstairs, I think. And has been for at least 5 minutes. I would worry, but we're starting this blog.

"Dude, I'm serious. I have never not been able to pick up my wife. If I got married now, I fucking wouldn't be able to carry her over the threshold." He said more. But I can't write that now. It would be really not nice.

We're here. Wilberville, USA. Drinking. Our kids - 4 of them, 3 and 7 each (figure it out, ok) - are doing whatever. We don't really care.

My wife reappears. She's alive. Good. She makes more money.

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So, my wife is in bed, pleading that I apologize on her behalf for drinking six-too-many 'tinis. Sinead blares through the old time wrestling of two generations of Marouli and one of my own. Nora, poor Nora, is trying to figure out the most acceptable way to say "Get me the fuck out of here" and I have two children that think that vodka, Green Day and phrases like "What the hell is wrong with your mother?" are acceptable. I fear that our grand scheme of a night of unbridled partying is about to come to a crashing halt. Stay tuned to learn the sad details of how two thirty-something couples spent the remainder of their first Saturday evening together in eons.