signing autographs.

Last night, my husband and I sifted through and signed 24 pieces of paper, which means... we have a mortgage. Oh yeah. One of those things. So grown-up.

Our future house! Complete with mortgage, kitchen and basement!

Three really great things about this:
  One, obviously:  we are homeowners (buhh?).
  Two: I would be lying if I said I didn't pretend that I was autpgraphing books and/or playbills the entire time. It satisfied my daydream-impulse and made me unreasonably happy.
  Three: the word "mortgage" still makes me think of Senor Cardgage. There are certain things I will never outgrow. Homestar = love.

Of course, the most fun/least productive thing about moving is the inevitable furniture daydream. And, even though we won't really have room for one, behold:  the courting chair.

ODE TO A COURTING CHAIR.

Oh, gorgeous, glamorous courting chair.

How do I love (love!) thee?

Certainly not how I love human beings, but look! This one seats three!

(Disclaimer: the poem really goes downhill from here.)

I love thee in public in South America.
I love thee wrought from iron.

I love how your purpose stays the same, through all the different style-ron(s).

(*groan*)

(No more rhyming.)

Oh, to talk with you, love.

To hold your hand, here where the S bends.

To hold your hand and tell you-- in the parlor,

or the backyard...

I'll act like I'm not staring straight into your ocean blues, or pearly grays

(I'm not picky).

(I am, however, drooling.)

You, darling, belong on my back deck.

Even the Elves are doing it.

Okay, that got a little creepy in the end. Note to self: no more love poems about chairs.

Pardon me while I collect myself. 

Anyway, it's true. Courting chairs make me want to write about love. This is huge, people. Huge. (They might even kiss.)

*puddle*