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!
I had 2 squash on my counter: a delicata and a spaghetti squash. Squash and Squash-on-South-Beach.
On Wednesday I finally returned to work, glad to be back after what felt like a long time (despite the fact that I had worked on Saturday and had only been out Monday and Tuesday). The day mostly consisted of responding to the 14 voicemails that accumulated during my absence.
The admin building is right near the landfill, where I spoke a few weeks ago. The hills pictured here are the landfill; hardly the garbage heap of our imaginations. It's actually quite a complex structure with a great view.
The leaves are turning here a bit. I do not see the same colors as in New England, but there are splashes of a red orange here and there.
