Yesterday we went to a friend's son's birthday party. This family used to live next to us, down the street from ex-con and meth-dealer housing, but now they live in a shiny new neighborhood with a powerful neighborhood association that screens potential residents to make sure no convicted sex offenders move in. It's a lot like Pleasantville.
We were a little early for the party so when we saw an Open House sign we decided to take a look. I developed an elaborate story for us to tell the realtor (Ryan was new faculty at the university, I was a labor and delivery nurse, we wanted to buy our first home--Thanks Kyla for your contribution to our story). When Ryan went to get Charlie out of his carseat he found that Charlie was covered with a carrot-spinach puree pesto sort of spitup and would require a change of clothes. Ryan was about to change him on the hood of my car, but I hissed "You're a professor now, you can't have our naked baby out on the hood of our car!" so he opted for the passenger seat instead.
The house was georgous. It smelled clean and had a huge living room and the master bathroom could have housed all of Charlie's bedroom furniture as well as a small loveseat and flat-screen TV (which presumably does not require hitting when you want to watch The Office). The kitchen had a place for a table and a tile floor. I smiled like an idiot as I imagined a living room without a kitchen table in the middle of it and a place to feed Charlie that wouldn't require half an hour on hands and knees with a bottle of Resolve afterwards. I know you are supposed to play it cool around seller's agents but I couldn't help yelping a little when I saw the walk-in pantry.
Yeah, we're totally over that "let's live in a tiny apartment downtown so we can walk places" thing. We want square footage and a garden tubs and a double vanity in the master bath. Bring on the petroleum!
The party was fun. Charlie likes birthday cake. So much that after his two alloted bites he whined pitifully for more while I savored the rest of my piece. Whoops. (I gave him some pineapple after and all was forgotten)
On the way home I noticed Ryan squinting a lot while he drove. I thought he was being dramatic. I was wrong. Over dinner his eye got really red and painful. I found someone to stay at our house with Charlie then took Ryan to the Minor Care Center at the hospital. About halfway there Ryan, who was riding with both eyes closed and wearing sunglasses, said "You know, I think you're right, I'm glad I didn't try to drive myself." He has a scratched cornea. He has no idea how it happened. He got some drops and is feeling much better now.
Unfortunately, the doctor told Ryan he would not need to wear a patch. But he said I could still call him as Cyclops sometimes.