Cold, cold, cold.

I heat up my rice sock before bed, and put it at my feet. Then I layer blankets and kitties on top. And I still wake up freezing (though relatively happy, sandwiched between two sleeping cats). But I wear my fall leather jacket outside, a scarf, and those stretchy gloves that provide absolutely no warmth whatsoever, so I guess it's not as bad as Chicago was.

I have already successfully forgotten how bad that cold was, and how I wanted to die each winter because I didn't know how I'd make it through once more.

I heard last night it will be beautiful by March, and the dogwoods and azaleas will be blooming, so there's really only one month of cold to get through. I could get used to this.

This weekend, we went out for dinner at Tomatino's (the pizza place I talked about in Moments of Grace) with some of Tim's classmates, and waited next door at Cafe Louisa (which is a coffeehouse I could spend hours in, reading and drinking tea) for a table to be ready. Two of the dressers from the costume shop joined us, so the conversation was only a little bit about theatre, and mostly about other things that interested me, too. They were fun to hang out with—both women who had grown up in the South, yet knew where the best transvestite show was around here (Prattville). So instead of going to the indie theatre across the street after dinner for "House of Flying Daggers," we went to 1048, which is the live-music club that, early evenings, is a good place to hang out with good friends, good conversation, and good beer. We left before the verging-on-hipster band started playing, because we were there for the conversation. And it reminded me of what I miss the most: evenings out with friends. I think I need them on a regular basis.

The future holds the promise of an evening of tequila shots and organic burritos. I'm discovering a hidden world here, and I like it.