One summer, I moved four times. No kidding. In three months. Four times. It was one of the worst - and most expensive - summers of my life. My second-to-last stop was a few weeks at the Targo's parents' house. (Backtrack - the first few years of grad school, the Targo lived at home. With his parents. HAH. In my mind, he still hasn't lived it down. I mean, really, can there be too many jokes about living in your mom's basement?) The future-in-laws were kind enough to take my homeless self into their large home while I was waiting for my sinful student loan check. The one I used to move into my studio apartment in a really sketchy neighborhood. Inevitably, I left a couple of things there. I didn't think much about it because even then, I knew I was going to marry the kid. And now, the Targo and I take a load of crap out there every weekend. So, eh... whatever.
Anyhoo, my mother-in-law called last night.
MIL: I don't know how to ask you this, but is it possible you left a pair of shoes in the very back of [the Targo's] closet? They're size 9 black pumps. They're cute and I'd take them if they weren't way too big.
Me (scouring my brain for any reason I'd have black pumps, cuz eww, they're not sneakers): Um, sure. I guess so.
MIL: I didn't want to ask you in case, you know, they belonged to someone else.
Me (scouring my brain for who else they could belong to, being that the Targo and I are working on seven years, here.): No, they're probably mine from that summer.
MIL: I just hoped they weren't his last girlfriend's. That would be awkward.
Um... not as awkward as you saying that.