I’ve been asked a few times recently if I’ll continue to blog under The Cheeky Bride.  You know.  Seeing as how I’m no longer a bride.

Sniff, sniff, tear…quiver lip.

Here’s the deal.  In the interest of remaining consistent for my massive fan base (oh…ha…ha), I’ll continue as The Cheeky Bride.  However, if you want to refer to me as The Cheeky Wifey or some other cute little moniker, I will still be your friend and possibly even buy you that pony you’ve always wanted for Christmas.

If you do, however, call me something lame like The Cheeky Spousal Unit, you will find that I have replaced Applejack the pony with coal.  If you even think about calling me The Cheeky Cougar, you will be dead to me.  Dead, I say.

In other news in the land that is Wife-dom, we took Monday and Tuesday off to start packing and moving.  You think my Bridezilla was bad, try coming ’round these parts when I’m in a moving frenzy.  It ain’t pretty.  Don’t mind the dent in Tony’s forehead.

Trying to move into a cramped apartment with no storage and gum in the carpet after living in the Taj Mahal for the last couple years has me feeling a bit stressed.  Throw in a husband whose idea of packing is just throwing things into a box, and you’ll know my pain.  Just ask me what I found when I opened the kitchen spice box after our last move.

So think of me on Saturday, when a snowstorm is moving in.  That’s when we rent the moving truck.

Thinking happy thoughts, thinking happy thoughts, thinking happy thoughts…

 

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