A/N: I have no idea why I decided to add another chapter to this story. Keep in mind it's pure stupidity and mindless fun.

Thanks to the lovely Crashcmb for the beta. Much appreciated, my dear.

And I forgot to mention that I've attended the "Schwartz School of Continuity." Hence the warbrobe malfuntionpointed out by Beachtree. Blame it all on Schwartz. I do.


I can't help but feel foreign -- like I'm in a new school, with new people and teachers. Already this morning, I've turned the wrong away to go to the bathroom -- somehow ending up outside --, called one teacher by the wrong name, and walked up and down the hall three times before realizing my locker was in the next corridor.

Things are so not cool right now. My stomach's inside-out, my head has moved right on past pounding and is now "drilling," and every single muscle in my body feels like it has been stretched beyond its range. All I need to top off my day is a greeting from the water polo team. However, if my memory serves me correctly -- and there is no way to be sure of that --, they're probably feeling just equally rough right now.

"I've got the worst news ever," Seth announces, leaning face-first into the locker beside mine. Oddly, I can understand his motives to participate in such a strange-looking activity. I'd be doing the same thing if I didn't have a social conscience.

"I'm pretty sure finding out about my little strip tease last night will be hard to top," I point out, searching through my locker for that fucking History text as I lethargically sort through my books for the fifth time. Even though it's just Seth, and we're both way too hungover to care about that shit right now, I can feel my face warming at the mere mention of last night's…inappropriateness.

"Mmmm," he groans in agreement, but holds up a hand, index finger extended pointedly. "Try this: we can't go home."

I halt my book-organizing for a second, lean over to look at Seth. "Why's that?" I ask nervously, and even though I know he's just trying to make a point by having me believe we're now homeless, the idea of not being able to sprawl out on that king-sized bed the second I arrive back in the pool house, almost drives me to tears.

I've spent way too much time around Marissa lately….

"Dad left a text message on my cell and said we have to stop by the butcher and pick up…meat." He spits out the last word with such disgust.

I had been surprised the first time Sandy had asked me to pick up the meat order from the butcher. Where I'm from, that shit was bought from a grocery store.

I say the words as I'm thinking them. "But we don't have a car."

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Seth nod against the locker.

"You're right," I groan, rubbing a hand over my face.

"What?" he mumbles.

"That is the worst news ever."

I feel my phone begin to vibrate against my thigh. I retrieve it and flip it open. Sandy's name is on the display. "It's your dad."

"What does Stalin want now?" Seth says into the locker's metal panel.

"He wants us to drink plenty of water…."


Before this morning, I thought I had been hungover before. But no, I've come to realize that that was just mild, post-alcohol induced discomfort. This…this is sheer hell. This feels like the all-mighty alcohol has wrapped its claws around my insides and is wringing them out like a dishrag. There's nothing left inside of me.

I spent half of first period in the bathroom with my head in the toilet. Surely, that has to be a record. Nothing's more humiliating than having the 86-year-old janitor clean around you and tell you about his talking parrot while you heave up organs you thought were down there for good.

However, seeing as how I have an innate ability to top myself, vomiting in the trash can in front of my English class might have been worse than hearing about wrinkle-man's parrot. Yep, pretty sure it was. And I'm even more sure that right now, I couldn't care less, which has me dreading tomorrow. I want to live in this fuzzy non-reality for as long as it takes for my misfortunes to fade from people's minds.

In spite of my agony, I somehow rallied all my in-born Cohen resistance and came out of four class periods and a horrid lunch break, half-alive.

More than anything, I just wish I could go home. Home, with the warm, clean sheets and the pillow-top mattress and the…private bathroom. My mouth begins to water at the mere thought -- which is strange, and slightly comforting, considering I had come to accept the fact that I no longer have a drop of liquid left in my body.

So much goodness awaits me. And yet, here I am, walking -- uh…shuffling -- to the butcher to pick up a shitload of raw meat with my equally-inebriated partner in crime. We're definitely the most pathetic of all twosomes. Put us in Lycra and we're the polar opposite of all that is heroic.

I've been spending way too much time with Summer….

"I need to sit down."

I look over at Ryan, and well, from what I can actually see of him -- beneath the sunglasses and over-sized sweater -- he's looking pretty desperate, and I fear what might happen if I say "no." I'm not opposed to sitting down -- no, that's totally cool with me -- but we've been on this journey for 15 minutes, and 12-and-a-half of them have been spent sitting down…or prone to the ground.

He falls onto a conveniently located bench, and all but curls up into a ball. Yep, the Chino has definitely left the boy. He's all Cohen now.

I drop onto the opposite side of the bench, causing it to lurch under my weight. Which, apparently, wasn't so thoughtful of me because Ryan immediately staggers over to the garbage can across the sidewalk and does some lurching of his own.

I smile and wave at Mrs. Hunter as she walks by with her two Shih-Tzus. She thinks she's disgusted now; just wait until she goes to trim her rosebushes….

"You all right there, buddy?" I call out after a minute or so, maybe too enthusiastically, drawing stares from all directions as Ryan gets a unique perspective on Newport waste.

I don't care anymore. Not today. I'm desensitized to vomit and all its forms. Vomit and I are, sadly, two peas in a pod. We're close. Buddies, even. At least, that's what I keep trying to tell it in hopes that will stop trying to kill me every 30 minutes.

Ryan removes himself from the garbage can, leans back and bows his head as he grips the edge of the painted metal barrel. "I can't believe the girls went home," he groans weakly.

I, too, had been moderately perturbed when Summer first informed me that she and Marissa were taking off early, leaving us ride-less. That is, until she told me it was to clean the house up a bit more before her dad came home from Europe and gave her up for adoption.

"Yeah, that was inconvenient," I reply mindlessly, too distracted by the sight of Ryan trying to take off his sweater. Trying is the key word here.

He gets the back over his head, but somehow, can't negotiate the arm holes, and ends up twisted in a tangled mess of limbs and black fleece.

"Dude, you suck," I inform him, standing, swaying, gripping the bench for balance, finding my equilibrium, then nodding in satisfaction, heading over to save him from the attack of the sweater.

After much grunting and groaning, pulling and yanking, a couple of "ow"s and some serious leveraging, the sweater comes loose.

I stumble backward onto the bench, sweater in hand, sweating, panting and completely -- embarrassingly -- exhausted. When I look back up at Ryan, I can't help but laugh.

"Where's your wifebeater?"

The second the words come out of my mouth, I can feel myself blush as I remember where his wifebeater spent the night. On me. In my bed. After he stripped it off in front of me.

Shit. I so don't need this right now….

He shrugs, grabs the sweater from my hands and uses it to wipe the sweat from his face.

I feel my brain racing -- trudging, actually -- to find something to say. Something that doesn't involve Ryan stripping, and me wearing his clothes. "So you're going to walk the rest of the way shirtless?"

He pushes his sunglasses up on top of his head, wipes at his forehead and then stares at me with steely eyes, daring me to convince him that this is a bad idea.

"Ooookay," I say under my breath, rising from the bench again. "Ready?"

"Hmm."

"Yeah, that's what I thought."


"I'm not going in there."

I sigh. This is not a good time for Seth to grow balls. The thought of going into a place that stinks of blood and raw meat is enough to send me bolting to the closest garbage can…or sewage drain...or rosebush. Anything. I'm not picky.

"You have to," I say sternly, leaning over and resting my hands on my knees. My body's failing me. I feel like, any minute now, I'm just going to shrivel up and die – "Game Over" flashing over my head.

I have to admit, Seth looks pretty rough too, and I know he'd probably be worse off going in there than me, but just the thought of it….

"No, Ryan…." I look up when Seth pauses, his face drawn and pale and slicked with sweat. He's swallowing hard, one hand on his stomach. Shit. This really isn't looking good for me. "You have to go pick up the order."

I stand up straight, ready to concede…when I see it.

Six simple words.

A little sign from heaven.

"I can't," I answer matter-of-factly, pointing to the writing on the window that says "No shirt, No shoes, No service."

Apparently, the half-drunken, barely-functional state-of mind I was in when I dressed this morning, has really paid off.

"Aaaaaaaaarrgh," Seth groans quietly, placing his head in his hands and dramatically rolling his neck around, looking like he has just escaped from the insane-asylum.

He stares at the window for a second through a crack in his fingers. His face suddenly lights up and he digs into his pocket, pulling out his cell phone.

"Who are you calling?" I ask, sitting on the curb -- because I'm now 80 and can't stand for more than five consecutive minutes.

Seth points to the number on the window just above the "no shirt" sign.

"Hi, I'm here to pick up on order for Cohen. Do you deliver?"

Only Seth….

"Well, maybe you can make an exception just this once. I tip well."

Seth turns to me, gives me a thumbs up. I roll my eyes.

"Yeah, well, you see, it's not far at all. I'm actually outside."

My entire body shivers as a gusty wind blows by. But I can't put my sweater back on until this meat is in our hands. I'm not forfeiting my bargaining position. Instead, I rub my hands up and down my bare arms.

"No, like, outside your store."

Seth knocks on the glass window of the store, waves to the girl on the phone.

"Thanks." He flips his phone shut. "I'm quite proud of myself, Ryan."

"Super," I groan, shoving my arms into the appropriate holes of my sweater and slipping it over my head. I can't believe how cold I am all of a sudden.

When I stand back up, I am faced with Seth, his arms folded across his chest, looking as defiant as he can possibly muster at this point in time…considering.

"What?" I ask, knowingly, a shit-eating grin on my face.

He shakes his head disappointedly. "Yeah, sure, now you put it on…."


I set the bags down on the ground again, trying again to get a better grip -- or, at least, one that doesn't cut off all my circulation. My body's been through enough shit today as it is. Last thing I need is to have to have my hands amputated.

I open and close my fists a few times, working the blood through my fingers.

"Are you coming," Ryan asks, turning around to face me.

"My bags are heavier than yours," I whine, knowing all too well how incorrect I am, but willing to see if I can guilt him into accepting even more of the load – maybe all of it.

"No, they're not," he says coldly, tiredly…shakily. I can feel that stage coming on myself. I had no idea the shakes came in waves. One minute, I'm sure I'm on the road to recovery, the next I'm floppy and weak and my teeth are chattering together like I'm in the Goddamn Arctic or something.

"It wasn't worth it," I admit.

Ryan rubs the back of his neck with his hand before sighing and asking, "What?"

"My birthday party," I pout. At the mere verbalization of the word "party," my stomach does another somersault. My entire body has been conditioned….

Ryan sets his bags down on the side of the road, meanders over to where I'm standing. "I don't know," he says, shoving his hands into the pockets of his sweater, staring off into the ocean. "From what I remember, it was a hell of a good time."

His voice is shaking, but somehow there's a smile on his face. Surely, I can muster the same.

"Yeah, it was fun. I wish I could remember more of it…."

Ryan laughs, groans, reaches under his sunglasses to rub his eyes. "I need a smoke."

I nod, despite the fact that I, personally, have absolutely no need for a cigarette.

My nose scrunches up when I get yet another whiff of alcohol.

"Do you smell that?" I ask, fighting the urge not to gag on the fumes. "I've been getting whiffs of that all day. Maybe it's just my conscience trying to make me more miserable than I already am…."

He sniffs the air, gives up. "What?"

"Alcohol." I grimace, reaching for my shirt and smelling the fabric. Nope. Downy fresh. "Where's that coming from?"

Ryan leans toward me, forcefully pushes my head down and sticks his nose into my hair. "Oh yeah," he chokes, stepping back abruptly and clearing his throat. "There it is."

"My…precious jewfro?" I mutter, broken. I reach up and rub my hand in my curls, then bring my fingers to my nose. "Whoa!" I lean back as the strength of the repugnant smell of stale alcohol attacks my senses.

"How…?"

Ryan looks at the ground for a second, familiar thought-lines creasing his mouth.

"There was a bathtub," he eventually says, hugs his body as another shiver violently shakes him.

A bathtub…. A bathtub….

Oh fuck.

"Dirty," I mutter, and I hear Ryan simultaneously saying the same thing in a sharp whisper.

A quick slide-show from the night before reels through my head at an incredible speed. I was by the pool, my hands wandering all over Summer. She called me dirty. I was shouting, "Dirty? Dirty?" She laughed, fell off the lawn chair. Ryan stumbled over to see what all the commotion was about. I told him I was, apparently, "Dirty." He said I should take a bath. So I did. In Summer's father's bathroom -- in a tub full of beer.

Ryan had a sponge. Wrung out the beer onto my hair. Yeah…dirty.

I shake my head. Oh God. Was I naked? No, I don't want to remember anymore….

I want to die.

I look over at Ryan, he meets my gaze with wide, horror-filled eyes.

My stomach leaps into my throat, and I barely have time to rush over to the familiar depository of Mrs. Hunter's rose bushes before I empty whatever happens to be left in my stomach. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Ryan doing the same in the magnolias.

Whatever. The old nag deserves it.


I set my briefcase down by the doorway to the kitchen and the second I look up, my jaw drops, my eyes instantly widening at the scene in front of me.

"Sandy! What are you doing?"

Someone has kidnapped my husband and replaced him with…Mary Poppins…or Aunt Jemima, or someone who cooks… a lot. There are platters of grilled meat scattered over the counter and table, along with home fries and sausages and grilled vegetables. Everything.

My gaze drifts over to Sandy, who looks at his hands, shrugs, and wipes them on his apron before smiling mischievously. "The boys are hungover!" he exclaims loudly.

I lean back against the wall, shaking my head. "What?"

"They're hungover. It's like night of the living dead in this house. Apparently, they took partying to a whole new level last night. A level that includes Tequila and Vodka, I'm sure," he rambles before adding, "I just hope I'm not being naïve by believing that's all they had…."

"Hold on," I say, stopping him and attempting to backtrack. "Last night? When they went to Summer's? They were drinking?"

"C'mon, honey. You had to know they were going to drink. A kid's seventeenth birthday party isn't usually filled with games of pin the tail on the donkey and spin the bottle. Though…." Sandy looks up from his hamburger patties, as if pondering the idea himself.

"No," I say abruptly, not allowing him further opportunity to embarrass me. "I didn't know they'd be drinking. If I did, I would have never allowed it to happen."

Sandy laughs, which only infuriates me more. He looks me in the eye. "Honey."

"Don't honey me!" I scold, crossing my hands over my chest and pushing off the wall, taking a step forward. "They're our kids, Sandy. We're responsible for them. And I'm angry that you knew they were going to be drinking and didn't do anything about it!"

"All right, all right," Sandy concedes, holding his hands up in surrender. "But in my defense, I thought we had smarter kids."

He continues when he sees me shake my head in confusion. "I didn't think they'd take it to such an extreme."

I feel the blood draining from my face -- that instinctual, motherly worry making my stomach turn.

What the hell happened to my boys?

Sandy must notice my panic because he laughs again, wiping his hands on a dishtowel before coming up beside me. "They're fine. They're just…a little…under the weather."

I let out a tension-riddled sigh. "And, what? You're going to cure them by having a barbeque?"

"Nope," he says, beaming. "I'm going to torture them by having a barbeque."

I can't help but smile at his enthusiasm. "You're enjoying this entirely too much."

He smiles widely. "I know!"

I have to laugh. Still, part of my mind can't help but worry about the boys…and their livers.

I pick an oily french-fry off one of the platters on the counter, nibbling on it half-heartedly. "I don't know if this is going to work," I say doubtfully, hopping up onto the counter, pointing the fry at Sandy. "Remember when we were in my dorm room, all hungover and tired, and we'd order in pizza and anything soaked in grease to make us feel better?"

The memory is oddly soothing. Such a carefree time. A time without children. A time without worry.

"Trust me, honey," he assures me confidently. "You haven't seen them. This will work."

He looks like a little kid in a candy shop. Giddy, almost.

"This is kind of sadistic," I point out with a chuckle.

He glances over his shoulder, those big innocent-looking brown eyes filled with delight. "Isn't it great?"


I knock gently on the pool house door, pressing up against the glass to get a glare-free peek inside.

Ryan's lying face-first on the bed, dressed in a ridiculously heavy sweater considering the weather. He must be boiling.

I knock again, this time harder, wincing as my knuckles protest. After a few seconds, I give up and push the door open. Somehow, the barely audible "whoosh" awakes him. He must be programmed to that noise.

"Dinner's ready," I say softly. I can't help but be gentle with him, despite Sandy's urges to be as "Hitler-esque" as possible -- strange choice of words, coming from a Jewish man. It's just that Ryan looks so…so…in need of his mother.

He rolls onto his side and tentatively locks gazes with me. He looks as guilty as a puppy that has just peed on the floor. Yep, he knows he's in trouble. Which means there's no need for me to raise my iron fist. I think the boy has suffered enough. I wish him luck getting through the grease-fest that awaits him in the kitchen.

He nods and painfully arranges his body into a sitting position.

I wince as I watch him engage in his struggle. I'd never admit it to him or Seth, but I've been there.

He pauses at the edge of the bed, buries his head into his chest and takes a few shaky breaths. Eventually, he manages to rise onto his feet.

Fighting every single one of my screaming instincts, I refrain from running over to at least hug the pathetic-looking kid. Instead, I stand back and hold open the pool house door, placing a supportive hand on his back as he walks out toward the kitchen.

Sandy's already corralled Seth from his room by the time we walk in. It would appear as though Seth was also enjoying the nap -- the telltale signs of sleep lingering in his eyes. It feels good to know him that well.

Along with that wonderful knowledge, comes the ability to recognize when he's going to be sick. And I suddenly feel like this isn't such a good idea…not that I ever really agreed to this in the first place.

Ryan sits down with an "oomph" in his chair, and I look pleadingly to Sandy.

But he's ready for me -- his jaw set, shaking his head determinedly. He's not going to let me spoil his fun. He's such a child.

"So," Sandy starts as I take my seat and start helping myself to the plethora of food on the table. "How was school today?"

Oh, yes, this is my husband the lawyer. He's got a set list of questions. He smiles broadly, looking from Seth to Ryan and then back again, his bushy eyebrows raised maybe a little too high. I should pour him a glass of wine….

I pass the plate to Ryan, who looks at it warily before accepting, muttering a very quiet, "Thank-you."

"Well?"

"Uh…good," Seth croaks, grimacing as Sandy plunks down a sausage onto each of the boys' plates.

"Yeah?" Sandy asks, ripping off a huge bite from his burger, chewing enthusiastically.

"Yeah…. It was…long," Seth says honestly, draining the glass of water I had set by his plate.

"Long? Because you guys were out so late last night?" Sandy prods.

I can barely focus on cutting my own food. This is the most painful dinner-time theater I've ever had to witness. And, unfortunately, I've seen a lot of that crap.

Ryan nods. Seth grunts. That would appear to be all they have in their repertoire tonight.

"Eat!" Sandy encourages suddenly, causing Ryan to jump in his seat. "It's my way of thanking you guys for picking this stuff up for me. I really appreciate that."

I cover my mouth with one hand, trying very hard not to smile and avoiding all eye contact with Sandy.

Ryan's the first to test the food. He cuts off the end of his sausage and quickly puts it in his mouth, chewing very slowly, staring hard at his glass of water.

Seth looks up at me with helpless eyes.

I want to help you, sweetie, I really do, but you dug your own grave.

He eventually obeys and takes a bite of his food; his facial expression makes it look like we're forcing him to eat his beloved childhood pet.

I don't even want to think about how much they would have had to drink in order to still be this hungover the night after.

"Here, try one of these half-pound burgers!" Sandy says loudly, placing a juicy, steaming hamburger on each of their plates.

Yep. That's my husband -- 12-years-old at heart.

When I see Ryan swallow three times in rapid succession, I know I've got to put an end to this. Fast.

"Okay! I think the boys have had enough."

Sandy looks at me with the most horrified of all expression, frozen in place, holding the burger platter in the air.

"Leave, Ryan!" I urge suddenly.

He doesn't need to be told twice, bolting to the pool house. I just pray he makes it….

"Honey?" Sandy whines.

"Sandy, we don't need a mess on our hands!" I shoot back, placing my fork down on my plate.

"Seth, you can leave, too. Take a bottle of water with you."

He looks at me like I'm Jesus -- or Moses -- sweeping down from heaven to rescue him, and slowly gets up to leave.

When it's just Sandy and I left sitting at opposite ends of the table, I prop my chin up with my palm and began to laugh.

"It's not funny," Sandy protests, but even though I can't see him clearly because my eyes are filling with tears, I can hear the laughter in his voice.

"I was trying to teach them a lesson!" he adds as he begins to chuckle along with me.

I run a finger under my eyes to clean up any mascara that might have bled with my tears. "Did you ever think of grounding them?" I ask matter-of-factly.

Sandy sighs, leans back in his chair and appraises the large quantities of food that still occupy the table. "That might have been easier…."

I laugh again at my husband's unique ability to make everything more complicated than it has to be, and help myself to one of his famous, half-pound hamburgers. "At least I know where Seth gets it from…."


"Should we be worried?"

I look down onto the mop of blond hair resting on my chest, rubbing my hand up and down over the soft skin of her bare shoulder. "Nah."

"I haven't heard any movement upstairs." Kirsten pushes herself away from me, brushing her hair out of her face before gazing into my eyes -- that sexy and strangely appealing motherly worry causing creases to form around her eyes and mouth.

I let my hand wander up her shoulder, neck and then settle behind her head, closing my eyes and guiding her lips toward mine. She leans in.

"I'll check on Ryan; you check on Seth," she says, jerking back suddenly, patting my leg like I'm her pet Labrador.

That's just great. We finally have some quiet around here, and she wants to disrupt the peace.

"But, honey," I whine, raising my voice and turning around on the couch as she walks away, "we've had meat…and we've watched TV; there's only one thing left to make this the perfect night…."

"Go check on Seth," she says again without turning around, shutting the door behind her and making her way to the pool house.

I groan and push myself off the couch, mumbling obscenities as I wander up to Seth's bedroom and knock lightly on the closed door. When there's no response, I turn the knob and let myself into the completely black room.

When I reach the end of the short hallway, I run my hand up the wall and flick the light switch.

The sudden brightness is met with a deep, and surprisingly genuine, groan. Seth pulls the covers up over his head and rolls over.

I walk over and grab the corner of his duvet, flipping it back suddenly. His forearm immediately rises to cover his eyes and he grimaces in pain.

"What are you trying to do, kill me?" he croaks.

It's sad that he thinks this is all my doing. But I realize that there's no way he's awake enough to manufacture and display sarcasm.

"Trust me, son; this is all your own doing."

He swallows, lowering his hand from his face but keeping his eyes unnaturally clenched shut. I sit on the edge of the bed, grab the half-empty bottle of water off his nightstand and hand it to him. I'm thirsty just looking at him.

He blindly accepts the bottle and takes a few desperate gulps, sighing deeply afterward. If his ailment was caused by anything other than his own stupidity, I'd be by his side, nursing him back to health. But I know that's not what he needs right now. What he really needs is a kick in the ass, but with the sensitivity toward child-abuse these days, I'm going to have to dole out a more subtle and less-direct form of punishment.

"You know, Seth, I was hoping I'd raised you to use that brain of yours, but after last night's…events, and seeing just how…affected you guys were, I'm seriously considering hiring a detective to follow you guys around everywhere. That or fitting you and Ryan with tracking devices."

"Well, if you're at all curious about where we were today, I'm sure that you can track our every step by following the trail of vomit," he says, his voice cracking several times during his short, displeased rant.

I frown at the thought of it, and wonder just what kind of mess -- and what scenes -- they've caused today in their extremely hungover states.

"I'll pass on that, thanks, but we need to talk about this." Seth groans, tries to roll over. I grab his shoulder and roll him back onto his back. "Now, Seth."

"Father, please…I'm suffering from a hellacious hangover."

He sounds so pathetic. So defeated. But it's his own fault, and there's no way in hell I'm going to take pity on him now.

"Yeah well, this hellacious hangover of yours is going to last for another two weeks."

He opens his eyes, squints at me. "Two weeks?"

"No video games. No TV. Come home straight from school every day."

Finally his face softens. Either he's truly exhausted and can't even formulate a rebuttal, or he realizes he's just facing the inevitable. He nods, and waves a hand in the air -- a very Seth Cohen way of nonchalantly accepting something he disapproves of.

That was easy. I realize that tomorrow, when he can function like a normal human being, he might raise a few unique arguments defending his stupidity, but I'll deal with that then.

Right now, I've won.

That's good enough for me.

I get up off the bed and Seth immediately rolls over, pulling the covers back over his head.

I turn the light off, but before I leave the room, I turn around. "Oh, and, son?"

I hear a faint grunt. This hangover has turned him into a Neanderthal.

"Happy Birthday," I say, closing the door quietly behind me.


"How was Ryan?" I ask Kirsten from my spot on the couch when I hear the door open.

"Well," she says, walking over and taking up the spot beside me, "he apologized a million times and offered to do laundry." She frowns, shakes her head. "I don't want to know why." She turns, looks me in the eye. "How's Seth?"

"He whined and complained because I grounded him from TV, video games and a social life of any kind for two weeks."

She laughs and snuggles up close to me, wrapping her arms around my stomach and resting her cheek on my chest.

"Well, I'd say that things are starting to return to normal," she says with a sigh.

I run my fingers through her silky hair, pulling it back and off her forehead so I can see her bright blue eyes.

She glances up at me. "My birthday's coming up in a couple of weeks. You're not going to ban me from the TV if I'm hungover the next day, are you?" she asks innocently.

I smile back at her. "Nah. You're a big girl. Plus, when you get to be your age --"

She slaps my stomach hard with a flat palm. "Don't you dare finish that sentence if you plan on seeing any action tonight."

At least now I know it's an option….

"Well, we're grown adults…I don't see why we have to wait for your birthday to get good and loaded."

She leans back, stares at me seriously. "I've got a couple bottles of pinot I've been saving for a while…."

I can feel my heart begin to race, and I can't help but get excited at the idea of getting hammered with this hot woman, who just happens to be my wife, and having wild, passionate sex all night long.

I can feel lust suddenly altering the situation. She looks different. Younger. Like the girl I fell in love with in college. "What do you say we crack them open…have a little fun of our own?"

She grins seductively, licking her lips. "I'd like that." She pauses, distracted for a moment. "But the boys can't know about this. Not after…today."

I laugh abruptly. "Honey, after tonight, I might even forget about today."

She gets onto her knees on the couch and straddles my legs, pushing me up against the back cushions, kissing my neck tenderly then nipping at my ear. "Mr. Cohen," she whispers, "you're going to have one hellacious hangover."

"I'm okay with that…."