The Look

One of my grandchildren has this particular expression that arranges itself on her face when I ask her to do something she really doesn't want to do. She is doing her best to be polite, while at the same time refusing my request. I see it most often in food related situations. Like when I prepare a snack or meal that includes, say, cheese. Then I get The Look.

Now she loves mac-n-cheese, if it comes from a box and not

from a casserole dish. And she loves Cheetos. She

insists they contain NO cheese whatsoever, in spite of their name.

Anyway, she gets this look that I have finally learned to read. And today I discovered that there must be a genetic component to such looks. Because today I recognized it on the larger, older, male version of a face. I've seen it on said face before, but not until today did the link occur in my mind. My grandchild inherited The Look from none other than National Asset himself.

The Asset has been incredibly busy for about as long as I can remember, but especially the last year or so. He spends most of his waking hours in his newly repaired office on the second floor of Sanctuary. He plans to build out various work stations for stuff like ham radio and genealogy and his other interests. And for his work work, of course. But since he has been personifying Busyness itself, he is making do with the wooden desk he used while we inhabited the Little House, a white folding table, and two ancient 2-drawer file cabinets that were rescued from a thrift store. I did force him to go to an office supply store one day to pick out a decent desk chair so he can at least sit comfortably. Oh, and he has a lawyer style bookcase, also a thrift store find.

Now, picture him in his man-cave/office. To ensure he has adequate fuel for his national treasure type brain, I bring him food at regular intervals. Somehow, in the rebuilding of Sanctuary we ended up with this unusual closet that doubles as a secret passage way. At least that is how I refer to it. It sounds so much more, well, interesting than 'telco closet', as he calls it. I open this average looking closet door in our bedroom, step into the 'telco' part that has about 300 wires hanging down from the attic above, open another door (which did not exist prior to the flood) and voila! I hand him his food laden tray. 

There is another door, a very normal type of door, into his office, of course. But I prefer to use this method so I will not be seen by all of his co-workers on the video teleconference. They have their backs to me, so to speak, when I use the secret passageway, aka telco closet.

So today I'm catching up on general paperwork.  I work down my pile and get to the renewal form for vehicle insurance. It says SECOND REQUEST on the top. I need to get the odometer readings for the two vehicles that have been living at Sanctuary since the flood. One is easy. The other is not.

Our camping van is happily housed in an over-sized garage that fits it like a glove. This garage was one of the amazing features that helped convince us that this unique, on-the-market-for-a-very-long-time property was meant for us. But today, as tends to happen when the van has been idle for some time, the battery is dead.

I go upstairs, quietly enter the secret passageway, and wait to be acknowledged by the Asset, who is (as always) in a conference. He presses the mute button, indicating that I may now speak. I quietly say that I am working on the SECOND REQUEST for odometer readings and we have a dead battery. 

That's when it comes. The Look. 

And it clicks. It is the please don't make me eat cheese look. 

Maybe because he really is a treasure, or, just possibly because I have some kind of look on my face that communicates I'm not leaving the secret passageway unless you come too, he came.

We rummaged in the big garage, found the battery charger, and I should have the SECOND REQUEST filled by end of day. Voila!