The chocolate cake for Thursday is made. For those interested, it's the recipe off the back of the Hershey's cocoa box, which even Chef Boy says is the best he's ever tasted. It stays moist for *days*.
The salad for the next two days is made. Artichoke hearts, cabbage, romaine lettuce, baby corn chopped up, red pepper, cucumber, tomato.
My laundry is mostly done.
The patient with the weird collection of symptoms turns out to have both a demyelinating process of some sort and a bizarre, very rare form of bone tumor. "I've...uh...never heard of that" I said to Doctor Number One. "Neither had we." he replied. Doctor Number Two points out that this is not the time for that patient to be playing the lottery. Patient says that's fine with him, just as long as the state doesn't come after him for the amount of the jackpot next week. Mayo says they're not entirely certain that the tumor is what they say it is, but what they say it is is the closest match. We may have something entirely new here.
After five sessions with Der Trainer, I've encountered a new embarrassing reaction at work. Previously, people used to ask when my baby is due. Now, they say "Oh! You had your baby!" Friend Pens, in her wisdom, told me I should reply, "Yep. And as I get stronger and more fit, I will be able to kick your couthless ass more thoroughly."
More reason to think that Just Because You're A Doctor Doesn't Mean You Know Everything: a patient, a doctor, decided to manage her own Parkinson's medication. No problem there, as most Parki patients prefer to continue the routine that's kept them functional for years. But! If you try to "wean" yourself prior to your brain stimulator being turned on, you will indeed fall over and freeze, and we'll have to pick your rigid body up off the floor. Note to all concerned: This is not as easy as it looks. Six people and a bedsheet later, we got her back to bed.
"House" is on tonight. It'll be the first chance I've had in months to watch an episode. I hope it's a good, snarky one. My record is still good: I've only missed two diagnoses in all the time I've been watching--the first was the pregnant teenager with autoimmune weirdness, and the second was the guy with the stuff that's transmitted through pigeon poop. I even got the nun with the IUD.
On a completely serious note: If you work crazy hours, can't motivate yourself to exercise, and hate your life, please consider dropping the dough to hire a trainer. Yes, it's expensive. Yes, it's embarrassing to realize how out-of-shape you really are. But damn; this is the second-best money I've ever spent on anything (the first being the clams to get away from The Ex Husband). No really noticable changes in my body yet, but my stamina is improving, and I feel wonderful.
And I'm not even tempted by the cake.