Next week I’ll be visiting my dear friend Anne, who is hilarious and wonderful, and has apparently passed that down to her adorable children (sidenote: I do not usually think children are adorable and wonderful, but these kids really are. Seriously. Look.)
Anne called me last night to discuss all the important things we’d be doing during my visit to Dallas (see the Muppet Movie, go to the zoo, eat Pioneer Woman’s olive cheese bread then die from cholesterol clogging our blood tubes), and she relayed to me a conversation that she had earlier with her 3 year old, Andrew. Apparently, they were discussing pie — as Anne is wont to do — and Andrew was confused about when exactly he could eat pumpkin pie.
Andrew: But WHEN can I eat pumpkin pie?
Anne: You get to eat pumpkin pie next week.
Andrew: So next week I get pumpkin pie AND Bre comes over!?!?!
I nearly died when she told me that. I have been WAITING for somebody to be as enthusiastic for my visits as they are for pie. Too bad the man of my dreams lives in Dallas… oh yeah, and is not yet in elementary school — that’s the main problem. We’ll always have pumpkin pie, I guess.