Yesterday I took a break from the ever-exciting prostate research and begged Bruno to come home from school and take me far far away from the apartment. And, being the wonderful husband that he is, he did just that. We started off our adventure exploring the campus of our local art graduate school, Cranbrook, which turned out to be a creepy experience that I still feel slightly icky from. The school itself is spread out on a beautiful campus (or should I say compound?) and actually consists of an elementary school, a high school and a graduate school. No, I didn't leave out a college- they just don't seem to have an undergrad program. OK... So anyways, all three schools are apparently the bee’s knees when it comes to private school education. Don't ask me what their personal teaching philosophy is because I didn't stick around long enough to find out. My trip merely involved driving through the grounds and asking Bruno, "What's that? What's that?" You get the gist of it, right? Well, I was rather enjoying myself until Bruno explained that the beautiful homes that we were driving by were actually campus housing for the families of the children who attend school there. Huh? Yup, when little Johnny gets accepted to this prestigious school the whole family must pack up their crap and move onto the campus grounds. What?!? Can you say "stepford"? Can you say "scientology"? Can you say, "stop thinking independently before we remove your brain permanently?" So, we left.
The thing is, the graduate program at Cranbrook is exceptional and I've been trying to talk Bruno into applying to it for the past year now. Mostly because I'm selfish and don't want to move. But never fear, he's been released from the obligation of applying (really, it would have been a "pity apply" if you get what I mean) just to appease his young bride. Did I say young?!