Wow. Three years ago today at this VERY moment, poor Rosey was fishing a couple of drunkards out of the pool, where they had been since at least 5am, and persuading them to lay down and get some damn rest already. Fortunately, the pool washed away the stale cigarette smoke and cheap perfume stench of the strip club, but it didn't do anything for their breath. She wrangled one into the bed, strong armed the other onto the couch. Then chose the armchair to curl up and sleep herself. The alarm was set for 3 o'clock. Plenty of time to get them dressed and ready and haul them down to the boat.
3:30pm Rosey dragged them both out of their stupor and buttoned their cuffs while they smoked a joint. Handing them toothbrushes with paste already on them, she rushed them through the door and out to the dock. Standing at the slip, the two of them giggled too much and shouted "dude" at each other too many times. She found a railing to steal a quick rest, where she sat, never letting them out of sight. Rosey also herded together the rest of the boys when they arrived. Creased pleats can do so much for a punk with spiky hair.
She helped set the tables, carried the flowers, pinned a fallen curl. What I realized at the end of it all was that I probably should have married Rosey!
Instead, I got this one... and I love him even still. Happy Anniversary, Ryan.
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