Mr. Raisin and I are downsizing our life soon. We've decided that a dramatic decrease in the amount of kevlar in our lives would lead to a similarly dramatic increase in our happiness. I don't mean psychic kevlar; we aren't emotionally abusive or anything worthy of a Lifetime movie. I mean I've been told, "It's unclear if I can tell you where I'm going but call USAA and tell them to enable my debit card for (redacted)." I mean, "I can't tell you where I am but I can tell you our security guys are in a shit ton of trouble for not even noticing the film crew from Fox on that sand dune until they saw the building we're sitting in on TV." I mean, "Remember when I said I'd be home Friday? Well there's a one in seven chance I'll come home on a Friday but there's a zero percent chance it will be this month."
So, yeah, we're not doing that any more.
In this economy his sparkly new civilian job will probably pay peanuts but peanuts are edible. The question is how small our new home will be. As the primary cleaner of our living space I'm pushing for pretty darn cozy. Two adults and two kids could theoretically live with three bedrooms but Mr. Raisin needs an office. He doesn't demand one but he does have a passionate love of crap. Flea markets, thrift stores, dollar stores. These are his other women. Tiger Woods may have brought home crabs but my husband has brought home used taxidermy. Twice.
Yeah, even if the kids have to share a room Mr. Raisin will definitely get an office.