Miss Chef is Crazy

This has been a very tough week for the two of us. We both worked through the weekend, including a physically exhausting Mother's Day. Miss Chef has had it worse than me--she had to work from 8 am past 10 pm that Sunday, while I got to skip home at 4. Plus, she's on her feet all day and/or night long, while I get to sit on my butt most of the day.

Of course, as the week drags on, we get more tired from the accumulated fatigue. Each morning is a little harder, each post-lunch energy sag a little deeper. Last night I actually felt pretty good after class, since it was exam night and I wasn't on my feet trying to be entertaining and informative. But by the time I was in the closet changing, I was ready to just crawl in bed.

I was sitting at the kitchen table eating dinner (peanut butter and jelly with a glass of milk--mmm, comfort food) when I heard Miss Chef's key in the door. Turning to look at the clock, I saw it was only 8:45, fifteen minutes before service even stops. I assumed Chef Adam had sent her home early, since she'd worked double shifts the last two days.

We said hello, and then Miss Chef quickly blurted out, "I'm not staying." Once again, my face probably went through a series of expressions, confusion most prominent among them.

Turns out, since Chef Adam's family is out of town, he wanted to check out the Charlotte version of BLT Steak, the eponymous chain of Laurent Tourendel. He and Miss Chef have done this before, going out after service to see a movie neither I nor Adam's wife were interested in. But never has Miss Chef done it when she was already exhausted. Still, she seldom gets the chance to visit other, high-end establishments, and I know she lives in a slightly different world than I do, working at night in a high-energy job. Far be it from me to hinder her professional development!

So off she went, with my blessing and admonishments to be safe, enjoy herself, and tell Adam to keep his hands off her (there's an unspoken and jocular agreement on mutual sexual harassment between them). I trundled off to bed, my own fatigue turning out to be stronger than my slight concern about her making it home without falling asleep behind the wheel. (I did wake up when I heard her come in the front door, but was asleep again before she made it to the bedroom.)

This morning, I had to wake Miss Chef up shortly after 6 am, so we could drop her car off at the auto shop before she drove me and then herself to work. Once she regained consciousness, I asked her what time she'd gotten home.

"About two."

That's my girl!