Sorry no updates over the weekend. But I was sleepy. And hungry. But mostly sleepy.
It's funny that I was just talking about that book "The Mole People," because I was starting to feel like a mole person myself, all subterranean and pasty, cringing away from the light of day. Now that I'm back on a normal day-night schedule, I feel much more sane--even though I'm now officially back in the ER, which is sure to make me insane, and sick, besides. I don't think there's a time I've ever rotated through the ER for any period of time and not gotten sick. Last time I was there, I caught pertussis. Times before that, a bad gastro, and the time before that, some sort of generalized viral funkiness that lingered for weeks. I can't wait to see what my immunocompromised pregnant self will pick up this time. Maybe Hanta virus.
One good thing about the ER this time around is that, now that it's obvious that I'm pregnant (what with the giant tissue expander I have apparently stuffed under the skin of my abdomen), all the nurses are being a lot nicer to me. Well, not that they weren't nice before, but sometimes some of them, especially the old-timers, could be a little...gruff. Yes, I believe that's the euphemism that I'll use. I never bring up the pregnancy myself (I think I actually have kind of a complex about it, since I want very badly to be perceived as PROFESSIONAL--read: no private life whatsoever) but I've found that once people sort of ask me point blank and force me to out myself, they love talking shop. How many weeks along, boy or girl, what symptoms I have, what symptoms they had, and so on. And now, unlike before, everyone cares deeply whether or not I actually get a break to eat my lunch. Or sit down. Or drink some water. Or go to the bathroom. Of course, like the stubborn mule that I am, all this inspires me to do is to jump up and show everyone how very unencumbered by my gigantic uterus I really am, running from one end of the ER to the other, interviewing families of four puking siblings, discharging one patient while admitting another. But as much as I don't want any special treatment, it is kind of nice to have people care so much.
I still haven't had anyone give up their seat on the subway for me, though. But I'm not holding my breath for that one.
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Oh, and just one general announcement, since I get so many e-mails about this that I have been bad about responding to personally--for now, Scutmonkey Issue #1 is out of print indefinitely. I may print up more copies when I collect enough material for Scutmonkey Issue #2, but who knows when that will be. The main problem with this whole comic business, at least for me, is that it's very logistically difficult to run a mail-order business when your work hours preclude you from ever being able to go to the post office. If I'm mailing a single copy of the comic to an address in the continental U.S., I can get away with just slapping on an 83 cent stamp and throwing it into the mailbox, but larger orders and overseas orders (oh, and Canadian orders--Canada doesn't count as overseas, does it? What sea?) I have to take to the post office or a Mailboxes Etc. equivalent, and they're usually closed before I head to work and after I get off work. So unless I can find a better method for distribution (maybe going through some kind of a third party? I don't really know how that would work) I'm going to have to hold off on a third print run for now. So--sorry everyone! I appreciate the interest, though! And you can still enjoy the comics online! For FREE!
Currently reading: "The Other Boleyn Girl," a recommendation from one of my co-residents, Allison. Not only do we have very similar taste when it comes to new fiction, but her mom is a librarian, so she gets all the best new books funneled directly to her house. I wasn't sure if I was going to like this book, since I'm not really a fan of anything about Victorian times (makes me think of Fabio and bodices ripping), but for some reason, I cannot put this book down. I just can't manage to decide if it's trashy or not. There's a lot of talk of courtesans and saucy flirtations and rich brocade cloth embroidered with gold thread, which all sounds suspiciously like a cross between V.C. Andrews and those soft-porn books that Anne Rice wrote--but who knows, maybe that's just the milieu of the royal court.
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