Our favorite time of the day is the one we call “Wine Time!”
The hour is as fluid as the wine. While 6 PM is the general target hour, it adjusts, according to our whims. Well, our whims and Dearly Beloved’s sense of propriety. There have been days I’d have started at 3.
Now that it is just the two of us, the House Rules have been mislaid, no doubt under a pile of dust and papers, since the cleaning regimen has been…um…relaxed, too. For instance, we have Wine Time (and dinner) in the den. Red Wine Time, to give you an idea of where I’m going with this.
Now that I am of Medicare age (holy crap!) I metaphorically walk and chew gum at the same time occasionally, just to make sure I can still manage. Two days ago, I did so in the form of having my glass of wine and playing with some photographs on my computer.
I knocked the glass over and the contents spilled onto the end table, sisal rug, and arm of the sofa. (That link is there in case you want to see our sofas and read how we came to have a den that looks like a motel lobby.)
I wasn’t worried about the sofa fabric being ruined. I’m not that lucky. This fabric may look like gold damask with Christmas napkin print, but I’m pretty sure it’s Kevlar and horsehair because sure enough, the wine sat patiently without penetration, waiting to be mopped up.
To his credit, Dearly Beloved did not say, “I KNEW that was going to happen!” even though he has probably said, “You make me nervous doing that” about 100 times as I’ve reached for the glass of wine or set it down on a coaster without looking. He simply helped me clean it, poured another glass for me, and we lived happily ever after.
Until last night.
I was in the den listening to a book on CD and knitting, so DB was reading in the living room when the urge to begin Wine Time struck. He said something about it being so nice to sit in the living room (read room with the white rug) for a change, I suggested he take his wine and continue reading there.
“You’re an adult! You can handle it.” I actually said that.
Two minutes later there was a strangled cry. “MARRRRRRR-EEEEEEEE!!!!”
I didn’t have to ask what happened.
How it happened is the amusing part.
Miss Piggy, who has nightmares that someone is going to steal her bones, often sneaks them into the living room because it’s rarely occupied. She also claims the never-used fireplace in there as her doghouse. That’s allowed, but she can’t lie on the white rug. It sounds confusing, but she knows the rules. If we walk past the living room, she reluctantly gets up and moves from rug to fireplace without our saying a word. Last night, she took her bone and waddled in to keep company with DB while he was reading.
He was in the process of chiding her for being on the carpet and telling her not to knock the table and spill his wine when HE knocked the table and spilled the red wine all over the white rug.
Although it took some work on our part, there is not a trace of wine stain on the rug this morning. Like the time I burned up the tea kettle one day and he melted the coffee pot the next, we wax, we wane. (If you need proof, the melted globs are pictured here.) Our harmonious, if clumsy, co-existence continues as if aligned by the stars. What goes around, comes around.. or spills, burns, breaks…
No recriminations or accusations, with one exception:
DB swears that Miss Piggy is smirking at him.