Happy wine drinking!

It's one of the most miserable weather situations we see here in North Carolina, but there are chocolate displays at the grocery store, and the men are lining up to buy flowers. I mean, these men are running through the rain, shielding their heads from the deluge, and into the store to buy flowers. Romance. J and I are going to make dinner together tonight, which is sure to be as amusing as it is full of Valentine's Day bliss. We're going to open one of the expensive bottles of wine that my father gave us, warning "save this for a special occasion," and we've been left to wonder what, exactly, in our lives, would warrant that term. We...finally cleaned those clothes that had been piling up for, literally, months off the closet floor! Special occasion?

Of course, I already indulged in a little pre-holiday celebrating when I was finally able to exit the household last night, and, glory be to Jesus Christ, eat pizza with - get this - cheese all on it and actually got excited about having a glass of wine. Trouble is, where we were the bottles were half price and suddenly those bottles were being ordered by our little foursome of girls at a rather alarming rate. Before I knew it I was rhapsodizing to our new friend Kelly (who was born on the same day near the same time in the same region of the United States of America as me) about my philsophy regarding life in your twenties. Because, you know, all that wine - that made our minds ever so clear and ready to talk about life, heavy, heavy life.

But it did the trick, getting out and just living it, because I think had I continued to nurse myself back to health, as I could have gotten really into (TV in bed? In February? oh yeah) and thus entered into a rather dull existence well, it could have stuck for a while. Instead, as I explained last night in really, exquisitely high brow language while waving that wine glass around the table, "when else are you going to do this?" When else, indeed? Probably tonight.

And another thing

Naturally, since being struck down by the devil, I haven't been much of a pet owner. Cecilia and I had been taking pretty regular walks in the creek lately and since I've been spending the latter part of this week feeling sorry for myself in bed, all she's gotten are a few chances to rush outside and do her business before I have to shout, "Dog! Get inside! I'm SICK!" and she slinks back up the stairs like the humble, submissive creature that she is. So when she's sitting by my bed all this afternoon, crying and making these half-howling noises that, I swear, are both excruiatingly adorable and unbearable at the same time, I'm thinking that the selfish animal wants a walk. "You're crying??" I'm thinking. "YOU? Let me tell you something, I should be crying. Me. But I'm stronger than that." Soon afterwards I head out to the kitchen to take some of the dozens of glasses and mugs that have been lining up on the bedside table to the sink and notice that the water bowl is entirely empty. Cecilia starts licking it's empty inside, and giving me little shy, loving looks as though she's saying, "Ho hum, if only there were something in here." I fill it up and all three animals go rushing over as though they've been playing beach volleyball for several hours and man, do they need some refreshment. They should be able to talk by now, dogs.