Thank you to the busboy and the greeter at a Texas Cracker Barrel who loaned me five sets of actual silverware when the restaurant ran out of plastic to-go forks, so my kids did not have to eat macaroni and cheese with their hands.
Thank you to the busboy and the greeter at a Texas Cracker Barrel who loaned me five sets of actual silverware when the restaurant ran out of plastic to-go forks, so my kids did not have to eat macaroni and cheese with their hands.
If you really want to know whether you have found a life partner, don’t date. Don’t waste your money on dinners or movies or tickets to the latest show.
To ascertain whether he or she is THE ONE, move a house together. You don’t need to live together. It doesn’t have to be your stuff. Just pick up someone’s sofa and carry it down a flight of stairs. Turn it on its side to navigate an alcove. Hoist it into a rental truck idling at the curb.
I don’t care if you have only known a person for a couple days. If you can move furniture together, you can get married. If you can laugh when the kitchen table doesn’t fit through the front door, if you can apologize when you skin his knuckles on the entryway, if he can forgive when you scratch the hardwood floor, you can navigate a lifetime.
Ken and I recently loaded all of our worldly possessions, all of our cheap, crappy, broken, and stained garage-sale goods onto a rental truck. It sucked. It blew. Why do we have so many books? And filing cabinets? And lamps? Why do I insist on sleeping in a king-sized bed? Does he really need those shark figurines? And even though he broke my favorite serving platter, and I dropped a shelf on his toe, we laughed more than we argued. Mostly.
Every so often, it is good to be reminded that you married the right guy. Especially at the start of a 3000-mile journey.