One time she ate a large portion of a vodka infused watermelon

One of the things J and I like to muse about as we're cuddling on the couch, not watching cable, is parties our large, lovable dog Cecilia would potentially throw on occasion. Like for New Year's, we decided, she probably called her buds Hayden and Raj, boyfriends of hers, and told them to come on over after the owners had left. They'd wear party hats and play with soft chew toys, it would be fun! They'd greet our elderly cat, Teddy, a suave gentleman who'd, no doubt, be sitting in the corner on a pillow or cashmere sweater, slowly sipping on a 12-year-old single malt with his belly hanging out, thinking about the good old days when he used to prowl the town gettin' it on with the ladies while Barry White played in the background. Cecilia, she'd have the noisemakers out, and would be laughing and proud of herself...that is, until Mina, her roommate, her sister, her best friend for Christ's sake, would show up just after midnight, drunk. Mina, small and precious, but full of spit and vinegar as well as smart as the devil, had been invited to, and attended, 8 or 9 parties previous to Cecilia's. Even after the darling had pleaded with her - begged her - just to stay home and drink good, cold water from the tap and have some old-fashioned fun. No, no, Mina was out on the town and stumbled into Cecilia's party late, breath stinking of whiskey, pranced over to the rug, peed, and said in a slurred voice, "Take that, bitches." J and I then reason that Cecilia would slink into the back room and proceed to cry her little heart out.

We imagine too, with all this warm weather hitting us on the east coast, that Cecilia probably recently planned a barbecue for her friends. Mina would listen to the conversations for a while ("Well, I like chasing the squirrels, but not eating them") before sneaking inside to polish off 3 Coronas. She'd then return to the back yard, tip over the grill and eat all the food. Whole hot dogs in a single bite. She'd laugh maniacally and Cecilia, wearing a flowered apron, would dig a hole, get in, and cry and the afternoon would be ruined. I know this sounds mean-spirited - for us to imagine such disastrously sad outcomes for our dog, but, I mean, let's say it really happened, which it wouldn't by the way, because come on, dogs don't throw parties, they'd all be over it in a heartbeat. I know, because when I try to give these animals sweet memories, like, "Look! There's our old house. Remember?" or "Look, it's a photograph of you as a puppy," they cock their heads and give me blank stares, like, "Listen, what do you think we are? Humans? With feelings? How 'bout you put your dinner plate on the floor and then we'll talk about reacting to real things that matter."

Williamsburg, VA 4-ever

When my phone rang last night during a particularly gripping episode of "Six Feet Under" and I noticed it was my father calling for the fourth time that day I didn't pause the disk but instead decided to call him back at a more opportune time - i.e. when I wasn't on the sofa in sweatpants, wondering how many more episodes we could get in that night before officially becoming lazy. And obese. In his message he said he had an "idea to run past" me and I called him back, excited, and then very excited because lo and behold, this idea? We should all go to Colonial Williamsburg for a weekend.

When I didn't say anything right away and heard my mother laughing in the background I think my father got the picture that I'd had enough of that town growing up. It was the Rotondaro family tradition, for years, to go - me, Mom, Dad, Vinnie and Grandmom, of course - down to Williamsburg for the New Year's holiday because what way better to celebrate the coming of a new year than to don white cotton bonnets and pretend it's 1786.

Vin and I used to happily walk those worn dirt roads, musket balls heavy in our pockets, just cheerful as hell because the wooden prisoner's stocks were just ahead, and damnit! We were gonna get our pictures taken! Then maybe we'd score some rock candy at the general store or, better yet, warm up by a bonfire right there on the cobbled street. Then it was off to dinner and back to the cozy hotel before things got, you know, too crazy downtown.

My father wrote me some emails today, explaining that Vinnie would be up for it if I was, and although I'm not sure J is prepared for a weekend of colonial fun like only our family can have, eating pheasant at Chowning's Tavern and all, I guess I'll take on the challenge. I guess despite the fact that my father's grown fond of the finer things in life lately - good wines, nice hotels - the charm of that Virginian hideaway just never lets up. Hey, I might even feel generous and spring for tin whistles. For all of us. At least now, out of the realm of deep adolescent embarrassment and insecurity, we can be proud of our purchases, rather than hide them deep in our pockets, thinking, "Wait a second. It's not cool to be pumped about a feather pen, dried ink and parchment, is it?"