Mom, cheese curds are hunks of squeaky cheese. I promise it's not as spoiled as it sounds

Dave and I love blogger Dooce more than we love our own friends and family (sorry), mainly because she's never embarrassed us in public or left us at any bars. Oops! But we get a tad jealous when she has to go and buy this house that makes ours look like we ate a bunch of paint chips before moving in, and now we have to sleep with baseball bats and use the Club in our own driveway.

Big, beautiful house, they blog for a living, they write, adorable daughter, funny dog, they take photos and design. Sigh.

And I'm just going to come right out and say this ... Right now, this is the most fruitful period of my entire 20-some years on earth -- and I have student loans, a mortgage and everything else everyone else my age has. Money's just always been an issue; but I know it's not everything. Look, we're happy.

But dang. I'd like to have a nice house like theirs. I don't even mean that I need money, per se. Well. A bit. But I don't mean a lot of money. Just 17 or 18 garbage bags full. I could keep the money in large bills and sleep on top of them with my baseball bat. Or something like that.

Of course when I thought about it, I decided with an emphatic "OH NO" when I asked myself, Wisconsin and paint chips, or Utah and that house? Wisconsin, dear God. And I've not ever been to Utah ... But who could give up cheese curds now that I've finally found out what the heck a cheese curd is?