Today a baby put a dried blueberry in my mouth.
I decided to leave my standard Sunday comfort zone and go out in public with some of my co-workers and their romantic partner people. On the way there, I turned to my wife and said “hey, look, we’re using Sunday time to see people I see all week.” Sunday is generally the only day of the week neither of us work, and we don’t often make plans so we can spend the day together. Especially on Sundays when it is raining and hideous and emotionally difficult to go out, as was the case. Her reply of “I know, what’s with that?” shared my strange feelings about the situation, but nonetheless we continued our journey to the Pittsburgh Hofbräuhaus to play at being social creatures. I wasn’t hungry, but had a very strong interest in consuming a small glass keg of beer in the middle of a Sunday afternoon. I very reluctantly ordered a small dish called “hot brown” to accompany my beer*, as did two others, mainly because it was inexpensive and seemed like a decent plate. Wrong. I ended up spitting my final few gnawed-up bites of cheesy German death into a napkin to avoid vomiting, right before we all received a lovely peep show from the bent-over waitress after the baby present with the group accidentally spilled water all over the floor.
Oh, right, the baby. That was my first subject. She fed me a blueberry.
Not just any blueberry, mind you, but a dehydrated blueberry that reconstitutes into an unpleasant paste in the mouth while chewing and taste way less awesome than a normal blueberry with moisture and juice and without little boogery baby fingers. As a practicing member of the germophobe community, I tried to keep my composure while her first, then second sets of tiny little knuckles went into my mouth, followed by what I swear was at least 3 inches of wrist. It was obviously necessary to throatfist me like a bulemic supermodel in order to insert a single blueberry. As disgusting as it was cute, I retorted by retracting the baby’s arm and asked her if she knows where her boobies are. She did indeed know, and moments later was standing on the table lifting her shirt up to her face to show everyone what sort of growth she’d accomplished so far. I can’t say I was impressed.
Some time went by as the baby and I discussed the color orange, the location of her nose, how much she likes her aunt who isn’t really her aunt, and whether or not she’d be interested in going on a covert mission with me to uncover an international conspiracy among multinational biotechnology corporations and the Illuminati to gain power through the practice of highly controversial mechanical body augmentations that alter the course of human evolution (Deus Ex), to which she showed great interest. This pleased me, so I poked her in the butt cheek. She giggled and almost stepped into another diner’s food, prompting said diner to tell the baby she would be “covered in cream” if she wasn’t careful, to which I assured her “not yet, she’s only two.”
Kids are so sweet. A regular “little dickens” as my grandma would have said, whatever the hell that means.
*This was a big step. I have a hard time ordering things with horrible names. For instance, I’ve always wanted a Moons Over My Hammy at Denny’s, but just can’t bring myself to say it out loud to the waitress. It’s a personal problem. I’m working on it. But first I have to learn how to order pizza on the phone.