"Use of alcohol on call may merit expulsion!"

(Noah Wyle sighs heavily; cut to Ford commercial.)

Probably a good thing I wasn't on call tonight, then.

Tonight I went to get a nice, peaceful burger at the local bar. It was, instead of a nice, peaceful burger, Pariahs of The Medical World Night.

There was Karen, the woman who trained me at the abortion clinic. There was Julie, who used to escort there. Lisa, who did HIV outreach for the local health department and later moved to the capital city to do the same thing, was dining with Julie.

Goodness. All that the night lacked was a couple of old patients from my Planned Parenthood days.

All went well until Julie, who worked with a woman who worked with my ex-husband, brought up the ex-hub thing. Then everybody got very quiet as I struggled to put into words what the last year has taught me:

1. My marriage sucked from day one.

2. We were both too dumb to notice.

3. Regardless, I'm glad I was married to the man, and retain many happy memories of that decade.

4. He's better off now with the woman he's with, and I'm happy for them both; nay, thrilled, that they could be this content.

5. I'd rather not talk about it any more, thanks.

Perhaps I need to move to a bigger--0r a smaller--town. One where either nobody knows me and my history, or one where *everybody* knows it, but the town's so small nobody wants to talk about it.

If I stay here, my liver is going to cut out the middleman. It's going to hop out of my body, a la Lenny's brother on the "X-files," and go looking for a bar on its own.