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You guys, I have something to tell you.
We're moving. Hurrah!!! And also, poopsicles.
I can't tell you much more than that right now. Because part of the blogging busienss model is to be cagey and dramatic and keep people guessing about what is happening in your life and why you need to be so dark and poetic and say stuff without actually saying stuff.
That and also because Mr. Chef has not officially signed anything. Nor do we have any tickets. Or visas. Or ideas about what we're going to do with our fur children. Who are not invited. Wah. Wha. Also WAHHHHA. (PS totally unsarcastic. I'm, like, legit supersad about this.)
What we know is that it's happening. Allegedly. Sometime. Maybe August? Like right around the time when I'm supposed to be on vacationn? The vacation to replace the one that had to be canceled at the behest of the company because of Important Secret Spy Chefsicle duties?
Anyway, aside from pooping in my pants, and being insanely excited about the prospect of new vistas, new firends, new foods, and possibly a drinking out of a coconut with a straw while hammocking my heart out, I'm spending my time alternating between having anxiety attacks about what needs to be done before we go and wanting to stick my head in a sandbox full of Xanax and IGNORE IGNORE IGNORE. I'm also making lists. Lists. Lists. Lists. Then ignoring my lists and complaining about just how much there is to do and how I have no idea where to start because there's so much and I need to write it all down and colour code it all and then make spreadsheets and deadlines, and then I freak out because that just seems like so much stuff and so I'd better just drink a beer and watch Breaking Bad.