She smells like waffles so I change her diaper. (I would have even if she didn't).
Earlier this week I made us staggered appointments for eye exams. While one is getting blasted with air puffs to the eyeball, the other hangs with the baby. Then, switcheroo.
"Have you ever thought about becoming a famous blogger?" the doctor asks me. We've established that my vision has changed only incrementally since the summer of 2012. I'm still bifocal optional, but I'm dangling by a thread.
"I actually do have a blog," I tell him.
"And do you have many readers?" he asks.
"Probably like 19," I say.
"An elite crowd," he says.
I wonder if he knows about the time I wrote about him telling me I have epicanthal folds.
Chuck needs new glasses, so I gesture to a wall of larger-than-life faces of fashionable men wearing glasses. Preppy glasses. Athletic glasses. Literati glasses.
"Now," I say. "Which one of these douche bags do you want to look like?"
We get lunch at 5 Guys Burgers. Two burgers, split some Cajun fries. We seem to be sharing a dining room with two kinds of people: dads with weekend custody and one-night stands. The dad at the next table looks like he's ready to cram all his daughter's favorite things into 10 hours; The couple at the soda fountain seems like maybe they forgot to exchange names.
We've got a time crunch. Chuck has work; I have dance practice. Beforehand, a baby must be fed. And we're trapped.
Since we've been in the mall, the parking lot has filled around us. People have parked against snow piles, blocking exits. In order to leave our row, we have to squeeze the Space Shuttle into a 4 foot gap between the butts of two cars. Chuck gets out, surveys the scene, says it's impossible. Eventually a car leaves and we are able to shoot through the space. I stop feeling like I'm about to hyperventate.
"I just wish the mall would let me borrow it's microphone," I tell Chuck. "I have some things to say to the people."