Las Placitas, Sick Days, and a Canned Wombat

Friday, October 16: I met my friend Martha at the Eastern Market metro for a trip down memory lane. Las Placitas, a Salvadorean restaurant on 8th St, was a staple in my family when we lived on the Hill in 1999-2000. At the time, it was a hole-in-the-wall on a sketchy street, where we made sure to walk on the side of the street near the fire station, just for security. Now 8th street is quite happening, with a few clubs, some shops, and some trendy restaurants. Las Placitas is still there, slightly nicer, but still serving the same solid food. I had plantanos, which were just as I remembered them.
The sauce on Martha's fajitas was just as I remembered it, and my seafood chimichanga was just what I wanted. Martha and I went to high school and temple together, but became friends at Camp Sisol. Martha was one of the most enthusiastic participants in all of my Jewish kids' music. I was happy to find out last year that we were both in DC.
Saturday, October 17: I know this date very well, I wrote it about 300 times on various forms. I spent Saturday working a big public health effort. It was quite successful, and ran very smoothly. A great combination of human factors and public health, 2 things that really fire me up. Much positive interaction with the public and excellent teamwork among our staff.

Sunday, October 18: Saturday night I started not feeling well--headachy and very tired. So I stayed in on Sunday, napping, watching movies and reading. I did make a brief foray to the library and Chinese restaurant, for movies and dumplings (respectively). On my way back into the parking lot of my apartment, I noticed an addition to the security card swipe:
I swear, it didn't have eyeballs on Saturday. I laughed out loud. With the card in the slot, it looks like a tongue.

Monday, October 19: I was still not feeing hot this morning, so I stayed home from work and went back to sleep until almost 11. Then, over breakfast, I opened a present my dad brought back from Australia.
How does one open a canned wombat, one many ask? With a can opener, of course.
The difference between canned wombat and canned tomatoes: tomatoes don't look back at you.
The wombat was a little can-shaped as he emerged.
Surveying his new surroundings and stretching. Being canned takes its toll on your muscles.
Free at last!
And right where he belongs, in a canned-wombat snuggle.

Thanks, Dad!