I think men are congenitally (is that the right word?) unable to tell time. So yes, the meeting went until 7:15 last night, and then the pitchers of Fat Tire lasted until about 9:00. When my husband arrived home around ten o'clock, my communication style had been reduced to a series of grunts and eyerolls. We had a little chat this morning in which he came to understand what happens when Mickey's little hand is on the eight and it's time to come home.
I know he was sorry. Why? Because he brought home t-bones and Ben & Jerry's Makin' Whoopee Pie for dinner. We should fight like this more often.