In all fairness, he did ask me to. It's not as if I just announced one day that he was about to be the proud co-owner of a sheitload of lamps and throwpillows. Moving in with Mr Choochoo also means moving out of the country. To Denmark, to be spesific. I'm going to tell everyone that Pooch is a great Dane. And we'll eat pastries. Or I'll eat pastries and Pooch'll watch. Or...well, the way it usually goes is that Pooch stares me down until I throw food. I'm like a food dispencer operated by telekinesis. It's magical. If you're Pooch, at least.
This momentous occasion is taking place in the middle of August. The moving. Not the pastries and the staring. Although that too. I'm digressing.
Hey, you wanna know what else will happen in the middle of August should I not be able to find a job over there before I move? I become a bonafide housewife. At least for a while. Those of you who know me, and/or have been hanging around here for a while, will appreciate just how hysterically funny that really is.
I'll have to make pies.
I'll have to make pies.
We'll see.
