My husband and I bought an old camper. I, technically. He fixed it up real nice — the toilet flushes, the rear camera keeps its fat ass out of the shoulder. The interior is riotously red. A Russian friend clocked it as Cold War Eastern Bloc apartment décor, and that, I think, settles it.
We named it Morris. The exact opposite of Le Maurice in Paris, where we had our first weekend away. My dream is being chauffeured around the west coast of Ireland with Woody and Clyde — two maniacal French bulldogs, Clyde with the Ed-from-Madagascar eyes.
The lawn ornament, my husband calls it. The British keep asking why I need more than one vehicle. Ve-hic-el, the second syllable a small accusation. A camper, for the record, does not count.
I am very excited about Spring.
maria · 25 apr