This morning, as I was attempting to slap suncreen on the little angel for Sprinkler Day at the Emerald City, my beloved asked me which part of the city I wanted to live in for the next thirty years.

Mind you, this was before caffeine.

Then he sort of got upset when I was flabbergasted by the question.  He's working on some side projects that would require him to pick a location from which to headquarter.  That's all fine and good, but I'm one of those people who likes to go absorb a place a little prior to moving.  Now, we're in NO position to move right now - after the Big Wreck, we have had to purchase another Ridiculously Large Vehicle to be on deck for when our original, 1998 Ford Explorer with 101,000 miles eventually goes to the oilfield in the sky.  Said second RLV should be shored up by this weekend, when we have to return the rental car, according to State Farm, God bless their stingy souls.  So really, this was sort of an academic question, but still one which I feel should not be popped after being woken at 6 a.m. by Somebody Little.

How am I supposed to know this?  And isn't that sort of discussion one better had over a nice, candlelit dinner?  Shouldn't he have primed the pump a little if he wanted an answer in his favor?  Because really, there were only two answers according to his market research.  So those had to be mine. Even if I really don't know if I like them, or whether they have my favorite grocery store, or if the Treat-or-Treating is good. 

How do Serious Conversations get broached in YOUR family, I ask of the Internet.  Go on, Great Abyss.  Comment.