An afternoon spent eating our way through the Ballard Sunday Market. Kyle stops me to dust what would probably amount to a full cup of powdered sugar off my fleece as I finish my last powdered donut. A little while later he eyes a drop of grease that has fallen out of my taco and onto my crossed ankles as I continue to chow down. “Have you always been such a slob?” he asks. “Yeah, probably” I say and then mime that he has cilantro in his beard. We go back to watching the parade of dogs passing by.
I come down with the flu. Like, so sick I feel like I can’t even keep my eyes open because my head is so congested. My teeth even ache. Kyle comes home from work, day two of my flu, sniffling. “Are you getting sick also?” “Yeah, I don’t feel too hot.” “Can you wait another day? This is my time to be sick and grumpy and miserable!” I throw a tantrum but then rub his head later when he clearly feels worse than I do. Nyquil saves us both.
I scan the side-walk in a continual sweeping motion as I walk. Back and forth, back and forth, very very focused. So focused I miss two potential bus stops. But I am looking for change, and looking for change is a very consuming task. Kyle and I have a change jar and it is getting close to full, turning me into a change finding machine, my eyes honed for the glint of a copper penny or the gleam of a silver nickel. I dive off sidewalks and reach under parked cars, pleased as punch when I come away, a coin clutched in my fist. Today I find two pennies, and board the bus, grinning from ear to ear.
Kyle and I have started frequenting a bar down the street from us called Babirusa; chasing that ever elusive “regular” status. It is a fabulous bar that makes incredible cocktails and nummy food. It is small but there is always room at the bar. We are bad at limiting ourself so we always end up spending too much money until the other night when we went in with a plan. As we settled in on our tall chairs at the bar the bartender asked what we would like. “Two german style lagers and two orders of potatoes,” I say as I sling my coat across the back of my chair. “Two orders of potatoes,” the bartender asks in surprise. “Yeah, she doesn’t want to share her potatoes with me,” Kyle says, smiling. The bartender laughs, “Now that’s the kind of relationship I like.” “Can I get mine with tartar sauce?” Turns out they don’t have tartar sauce but the chef whips up a tiny batch, just for me. Now that is how regulars get treated.