The Pony sent me a text this morning. I say "morning," though it was pretty much the middle of the night for me. I didn't retire (heh, heh, you know what I said, and you know who I'm talking to) until almost 4:30 a.m. I got up at 8:45, though. What do you think I am, some kind of sloth? There was a message (from 8:16 a.m., practically the crack of dawn) on my phone:
"I had dreams that you and Aunt Sis and Grandma came from Italy and had this gigantic freaking bottle in your...like...red Depression glassware or whatever it is. Like, fancy and not just smooth, but as tall as my shoulder. She kept it in...like...a hidden space in a ceiling tile, like it was some valuable heirloom."
"Well, Grandma DID store valuables in the ceiling tiles."
"No wine that I know of, though. And not Italian."
"You knocked over the thing and broke it when you were giving us (me and #1) a drink."
"NO!!! I bet #1 cried!"
"Haha he just drank from the broken stem."
"Heh, heh. That part is realistic."
"I hope you're not subconsciously wanting wine!"
"Did I have any? I'm getting ready to drive to town, and I don't want a DUI!"
"Well, I hope you don't have to drive over here to bail me out of jail. I just got in the car. I'd like to hear all the details, but you probably don't have time. Were we celebrating our dream Italian heritage?"
"I have no clue."
Huh. Looks like I'm off the wagon. Or back ON the wagon. I don't think Jerry and Elaine ever settled their argument over that one.