We moved into a new house today. It’s just a few miles from the old one and just as much work as it was to move the 2,500 from Michigan to Arizona a few years back. The difference is that this time The Husband is not waiting for us at the finish line. He’s here. Moving. Packing. Finding just as many forgotten bits of myself as I am.
I like to think I’m thorough. But when it comes to my chances at a successful career as a serial killer, chances are I’d probably be pretty horrible at not getting caught. Hence the vibrator he had found smack in the middle of the bed which he shoved in his shorts pocket because (and this is adorable) he figured our friends handing it to me as they helped to pack our room would be more embarrassing than his protecting my good name and then my writing about it.
There have been Snicker’s bar wrappers in the linen closet. Hershey wrappers stuffed into pockets of clothing I haven’t worn in months. He has come across a few. He’s pointed out some.
Proof that Pauline eats stuff she shouldn’t. Tssk. Tssk. You’re allergic.
He stresses the last word. I nod and mumble something about not even remembering when I ate the item in question. Sometimes I’m telling the truth. And then I pack another box full of ice-cream flavored elephants.