I like the symmetry of that number.
I haven't worked in days; all I've got to tell you is old gossip from the unit. Like, it must really suck to have your discharge paperwork in hand and then suddenly hemorrhage and fall over, just like (snaps fingers) *that*, and die. That must just suck.
Just as it must suck to be the nurse whom the priest berates (and this is not gossip; I was there to see it) because said nurse called said priest in on a Sunday to give Holy Communion to a patient. Seems the priest didn't want to have to fight traffic.
Which made Gina, my six-foot-two-inch-tall, Baptist chaplain friend remark, "Well, some get called by God. Other people just get a text message."
I've spent the last couple of days doing very little, and today doing quite a lot. For several days this week, it's rained and rained and rained, which we needed badly, and which gave me the excuse on Saturday to stay home in my pajamas, sample a new beer (Konigsberg Haven Quadrupel), and read. Today I hung out with Chef Boy at the grocery store and then went book shopping. I'll fill you in on my neurologically-flavored selections once I've had a chance to read 'em. Right now I'm unapologetically reading James Herriot and waiting for my potato to finish baking.
And I'm kicking myself, because there was a guy selling unidentifiable bits of Hispanic food from a handcart this afternoon, and we didn't stop. Of course, I had tacos carne asada with cilantro and onion in my lap, but who knows? Perhaps he could've had an appetizer in his cart.
Speaking of which, I recently made a mental survey of my neighborhood and found this: it is possible to get elotes from a cart, cabrito, kim chee, baba ganouj, fresh pita and tortillas, and fresh French bread within a two-mile radius. As well as your windows repaired, ironwork done, your saltwater aquarium dealt with, and your Christian bookstore needs taken care of. Oh, and you can get run over by a train, too.
You can keep your lily-white suburbs. Gimme the 'hood, any day.