In the last month I've come to gain a reputation, at least in our house, as someone who has the answers. Answers to questions like:
Can I do my laundry today?
Does this look cute?
How do you turn on the stove?
What does this button do?
Is that door locked?
Where do all the paper towels go?
What's a predicate?
Do you have some Advil?
Are you making some more coffee?
You're sick? Is it amoebic dysentery?
The trouble is, most of the time I have the answer. So the questions keep coming.
But sometimes I'm stumped.
One of my roommates just asked me, with much frankness and innocence, why she's fat.
And then waited for an answer.