Arlene emailed tonight and mentioned that she'd really like to be able to comment on what shows up here. I could, I suppose, enable the "comments" section, but for two things:
1. With my luck, I'd end up getting stalked by some guy with a nurse fetish.
2. Nobody reads this blog anyhow, so why bother?
The thought of somebody else commenting on my writing, even someone as nice and kind and sensitive and marvelous and with a great sense of style (okay, I'll stop now) as Arlene terrifies me. I'm not a writer the way my sister and father are. I've had exactly one thing published: A letter to "Ms." magazine. I don't show this blog to just anybody. Mention the names "Eurotrash" or "Belle" and I quail.
Even linking terrifies me.
Sure, it'd be nice to be linked. Link me! I'm cute and friendly and I use lots of punctuation! The trouble is that with linking comes weirdos, and I deal with enough of them in work, outside of work, and in the mirror as it is.
I do NOT need a vintage silk-satin olive-green circle skirt with a black velvet waistband and black velvet polka dots all over it. Even if it is amazingly cheap on Ebay, even if it is my size, and even if I can think of eight places to wear it. Charge card, get thee behind me!
Nor do I need any Pierre Hardy shoes. Even if they do come in a black-velvet rounded toe style that would, come to think of it, look lovely with the skirt.
...or maybe I do.
The orthopedics department is moving all of its large joint surgeries out of our hospital. More to the point, they're moving off of our floor. I don't know if it's going to be every surgeon, or just a few, or if they're going to keep complex cases, or what. Suffice to say that this is the beginning of what feels like a long slow slide into hell.
A potato exploded in the oven today. I was in the shower, humming some little song, when I heard a bang. I figured it was the woman downstairs hanging up pictures. When I checked my tater, it had exploded.
Or not so much exploded as decloaked. The potato was intact. The skin of said potato was in one piece, mostly, but on the other side of the oven. I've never seen that before.
It was yummy anyhow.
The Cute Goateed Greek Neurologist shaved off his goatee. This makes him look like somebody's Greek grandmother. Or maybe about ten years younger; I can't decide. Unfortunately, there's no good way to tell a resident that he looks like Doogie Houser anyhow and any more youngification will not inspire confidence in his patients.
Thankfully for my fingers, Cute Grandmotherly Greek Neurologist has the same initials as Cute Goateed Greek Neurologist, so I won't have to be clever again.