The Working Man’s Omelette

Last night I came up with the best phrase: Working man’s omelette. I laughed as though to die. But what does it mean? It’s vaguely dirty, right? A euphemism for some pedestrian sex act?

Oh, all he got was the working man’s omelette. Nothing special. Said the hooker to the police officer upon finding the john’s cold body by the side of the road.

Last week Trombone had a cold. Then Saint Aardvark got the cold. But me? I just got a tickly throat and a vaguely stuffed nose for several days and yesterday and today? a deep, heavy exhaustion.

What? you are thinking, She can even complain about NOT getting sick? What is this Blogging? Is it just a big bucket of complain complain complain?

Yes but listen. If you never get sick but you feel like you might get sick at any moment, it is no more healthful than not being sick because you never know if you might ever get better. Plus I have not done much in the way of heavy exertion (the usual tending of toddler, eat, sleep, wine) yet I feel as though I maybe took up running again and also have a large bucket of bricks attached to my head with electrical cables. People. We watched The Mangler 2 last night. It’s not OK!

More water. I need more water. It’s hot.

I was driving home on the highway on Friday evening and there was this very bad driver in a small Mercedes convertible. He was all zooom zoooom zooomy in and out of all the lanes and as he passed me I noted his license plate. It read “jet.com.”

I feel sorry for people that stupid, actually. Because here you are, in your cloak of invisibility, zooooming down the highway and the two parts of your idiot brain haven’t even met.

“Asshole driver? Meet asshole vanity plate owner! Asshole vanity plate owner? This is asshole driver! Oh hey! Guys! Meet The Internet!”

You, sir, you are not invisible in your golden Mercedes convertible with your vanity plate url. I am invisible. I am in a silver Honda Civic sedan. Can’t catch me, I’m the Civic Sedan. Zoom.

Uh, so I bought new bras today. It wasn’t as traumatic as I thought it would be. At one nurse per day my boobs are about the size they’re going to stay. Trombone has been applying the lesson of Object Permanence to the boobs. Every evening when he finishes his nightly nurse and I put Captain and Tenille away for another day, he looks vaguely crestfallen and tugs at my shirt while craning his head to make sure they’re not Gone Gone Forever Gone. This could become a problem, as today at Superstore he yanked my shirt down and nobody in the vicinity seemed ready for that jelly just then.

Work is busy, the mornings are insane, the evenings are short, the nights are silent and warm. I am grateful that yesterday Trombone napped for two hours while I sat on the couch and thought about my tickly throat and wished I could nap too. I am grateful there is another day off tomorrow, when we might ride a miniature train. I am grateful for water parks and bananas and not having to drive on the highway or take transit for three whole days because it is a long weekend. Tomorrow I hope to be grateful for a haircut.