what goes down must come up

On call, the overnight team usually orders delivery from a local restaurant, and we try to eat together if we can, so that we may actually socialize with other individuals without having to inject medications or move the table into a little more Trendelenberg every two seconds. During my call on Wednesday, we ordered from El Malecon, a local chicken place, with delivery of two pollo a la brasa, an order of arroz y habichuela, and a plate of maduros, which we all know are plantains cooked the mushy sweet way, as opposed to the fried salty way, tostones. What, isn't everyone aware of 25 ways to cook plantains? Oh, sorry, I guess I've been working at the hospital for too long. [University Hospital] is located in one of the biggest Dominican communities outside of...well, the Dominican Republic. (Or, as we like to call it, "the DR".)

So anyway, the food arrived, and we were all hungry and ready to eat, only the delivery guy failed to put any paper plates in with our order. Usually there's a ready stack of paper bowls in our lounge, but that night, nary a piece of disposable china was to be found. We scoped out the PACU, the supply room, but still--nothing. What were we supposed to do? All eat from the communal trough like horses? Just rip off giant chunks of chicken with my hands and cram them into my greasy maw like a diner at Medieval Times? Not without my flagon of ale, I'm not!



I will take full accountability for the fact that improvising with those little pink emesis basins was my idea. It's not like they were used or anything, they're disposable anyway, and once you get over the fact that it was a receptacle designed to HOLD VOMIT, you realize that it's just another plastic container, just the right size for holding your personal serving of pollo con arroz. "Anyway, think how helpful it will be to have these basins nearby in case the chicken is tainted and we all end up with food poisoning," I added, ever helpful.

The medical ethicists wonder why we are willing to sell our eternal souls for a plate of Chinese food when the drug reps come trolling around, and this is why. Residents, when hungry, will eat anything, anytime, anywhere, off virtually any surface. And eating out of a vomit basin may only be one step up from stealing food off a patient's tray...but an important step.

Currently reading: "A Million Little Pieces." Yes, that book. And hence, further evidence of the phenomenon in which I want to do exactly the opposite of what Oprah commands--all the hype just made me want to read the book more. Yes, the truth is important, but this particular truth is less important to me. When I read a book, fiction or non, all I really want in the end is a good story, and this (embellished) one seems like it might be. I don't need it to be sworn on a damn bible or anything.

living in a godless universe

The last time I was home post-call, I decided to nuke up some Chef Boyardee canned ravioli for brunch. (Oh, like you only eat the finest in organic produce all the time.) It had been a bad night, so I was pretty tired, and plus, I was juggling the kid, so that may explain why I stuck the bowl of ravioli in the microwave with the METAL FORK still sticking out of it, and without a moment of awareness, pushed "COOK."

Now we all know that putting metal in the microwave is strictly forbidden. I never knew what exactly is supposed to happen if you, for instance, tried to microwave tinfoil, but I assumed like everyone else that microwaving metal would probably cause the world to end, or at the very least, cause the microwave oven to explode. I mean, EVERYBODY KNOWS THAT. They might as well teach it in school, along with STRANGER = DANGER and CROSS ON THE GREEN, NOT IN BETWEEN. I just never actually tested this postulate, because, you know, who wants to cause the end of the world?

I didn't notice that I was microwaving the fork until a good minute into the cook cycle, when I walked by and saw that metal handle laaaaazily spinning around and around in the bubbling cauldron of ravioli. At which point, of course, I screeched, stopped the microwave, and removed the offending cutlery.

And you know what? Nothing happened. No sparks. No explosions. And this happened almost a week ago, so clearly, the world didn't end. The fork wasn't even really warm. I MICROWAVED METAL AND NOTHING HAPPENED.

I...I just don't know what to believe anymore.

Currently reading: "Brokeback Mountain," the short story on which the movie was obviously based. I can see how this was fairly easily adapted to the screen, though it's a pretty short story, even as short stories go--they probably had to pad it a little. It's a good read, though.

it's not me, it's you

I was thinking the other day that being a doctor sort of uniquely prepares you for being a parent. You're already used to totally sublimating your own self-interest in favor of that of someone else. Having a bad day? Not feeling well? Extremely sleep-deprived? Doesn't matter. When it comes to taking care of your patients, you don't bring your own problems or baggage into it. Once you're with them and introduce yourself as their doctor (well, one of their doctors), nothing else should matter but them and you doing your best to do the right thing for them while they're in your care.

So you see where I'm going with this analogy to parenting. The problem is, sometimes the interests of your patients and the interest of your child are at odds. Should I, for example, stay another half hour chatting it up with my patient, going that extra mile to be The Good Doctor and making sure that he's all tucked in, or do I go home and spend that precious half hour with my kid? And that's when it gets hard.

What I've been trying to remind myself lately, especially when I start buying in too much to that whole "A Working Mother Is Not A Good Mother" propaganda, is that while my time at home is for Cal, my time at work is kind of for Cal too. Because it's also partially for him that I want to be a good doctor, so that I can model good and responsible behavior (blah blah blah) and maybe at some point even get a Real Job, so that we can have the means to travel and expose him to the world and send him to good schools and give him enough allowance to buy only the finest of Columbian weed. You know, none of that cheap stuff.


* * *


So Cal is six months old today. Well, that was fast. Back in my Peds days, I used to love this age, the four-to-six month olds, because they were just so darn happy all the time. You made a noise! With your lips! And then you took that stuffed dog and waved it around! Oh, how droll! I shall laugh now! (Also, another plus, they had no memory of prior wrongs, so this was before the age when they'd start screaming the second they walked into my clinic.) To mark the occasion this morning, I cleared out all the 3-6 month clothes from Cal's drawers. He'd long outgrown them, really, but I had been keeping them around for nostalgia pieces. Looking at his newborn clothes now is, like, ridiculous. Was he ever really that small?




Oh yeah, I guess he was.

Reaching the six month mark has meant a thaw in infant-canine relations. For the first five months or so, Cooper and Cal largely ignored each other. Cal would look past Cooper like she wasn't even there, and Cooper would occasionally run up when Cal was crying, or lick at his feet, but mostly was resigned to giving us baleful looks upon realization that the baby was, unfortunately, not bacon-flavored. Then, suddenly, Cal noticed that Cooper had a face. I'm sure this marks some sort of big developmental milestone, but I don't see "recognizes animal face" anywhere on the Denver, so I don't know. Cooper had eyes! And a mouth! And fur! Lots of fur! We've been trying to teach Cal to pet Cooper gently, but just try to get a baby who's just gotten cool with the fact that he can actually CONTROL HIS OWN HANDS TO DO HIS BIDDING to do anything gently. So there has been some fur yanking. Cooper, however, has been remarkably tolerant of this manhandling, possibly because any good behavior on her part (i.e. staying still) has been reinforced with copious amounts of freeze-dried liver snacks and Jerky Treats.

So who knows, they may become friends yet.


* * *


I get approached a lot by tourists asking for directions. I don't know why, if it's just because I'm small and look non-threatening, or if it's because I live in a neighborhood where a lot of tourists get lost. Yesterday I got approached by a woman asking me, in a German accent, which way Rockefeller Center was. I pointed her in the right direction, but warned her that it was going to be quite a walk. She didn't seem to mind. I would have suggested the bus, but I guess when you're visiting a city, you don't mind walking around as much. Lord knows we walked all over the damn place when we were in Paris last year, but that was mainly to increase the number of crepe stands that we could patronize.

Sometimes I think it's a shame that I actually live in New York, because it would be such a fun place to visit. And then I realize how crazy that sounds. Something about living in a place makes you not ever want to do any of the touristy things, even if they would be kind of fun. For instance, I've lived in New York practically my whole life, but I've never been to the Statue of Liberty, nor have I gone to the observation deck of the Empire State Building. (There was a school trip to the Empire State Building back in third grade or so, but I think I missed it because I was sick that day.) I haven't taken those self-guided walking tours of Chinatown, or gone to the Planetarium at the Natural History Museum since they renovated and jacked up the price of admission to EIGHTEEN DOLLARS A PERSON, and I haven't gone ice skating in Central Park since I was a kid. Maybe we'll try to get out and about a little more this Spring. Seems like a shame not to take advantage of all the fun that people travel hundreds and thousands of miles to experience. I mean, we live right here.

I went to college on a beautiful campus with an arboretum and a lake that could just about knock you out with how gorgeous it could look in the fall. Do you know how many times I walked around the lake my entire four years at Wellesley? Maybe five times. Because I was VERY BUSY, I was PREMED in case you didn't know, and GET OUT OF MY WAY, you're blocking my path to the SCIENCE CENTER, where I have to spend many hours SCRIBBLING THINGS IN A NOTEBOOK. Oh, narrow-visioned youth. That was my big regret, upon graduating from college, that I didn't take advantage of things while they were right in front of me, and now I no longer lived next to a world-class arboretum, overlooking a lake. Regrets are sad things. Maybe we can use Cal to allow us to become tourists in our own city again. After all, he's never been here before.

Currently reading: "The Great Influenza." Man, med school must have been a lot easier back when there wasn't really that much to teach.

we've got friends in warm places

I guess if you have a good call, sooner or later you will have a very bad call. It's, like, the universe's way of evening things out. Stupid universe. But enough about that.

So, after weighing all our options, we decided that we're going to spend a weekend at the end of March in Tampa, Florida, staying at the home of Joe's old college wrestling buddy. (Greco-Roman wrestling, not the kind involving folding chairs to the back of the head.) What is Tampa? Where is Tampa? I don't much know, but this much is true: it will be warm. As an added bonus, Joe's friend and his wife have a baby girl almost exactly Cal's age--I think she was literally born two days before he was--which insures two very important things: there will be emergency diapers on hand in case our stash runs out, and a Pack 'n' Play already on site. Plus, since we're only going for two and a half days (so as to maintain sanity and not overstay our welcome), we'll still have plenty of time to enjoy city family activities as many of you have suggested, like going to the park and the museum and, I don't know, starting Cal's SAT prep course.

Speaking of Cal (see how I say that, like I don't talk about him CONSTANTLY already) we started him on solid foods a few weeks ago with predictably messy but fun results.




We weren't planning on starting solids until 6 months, thus adhering to the AAP recommendations on infant feedings, but I changed my mind when I noticed Cal was starting to reach for our food and make little chewing motions while intently watching us eat. And then I figured, screw you, AAP! I espouse your teachings, but what have you done for me lately? I mean, aside from sending me e-mails all the time since I somehow got on your regional mailing list and can't get myself off, despite the fact that I'm no longer a Pediatrics resident. (I also get a constant barrage of e-mailed Pediatrics job opportunities. "PRACTICE POSITION AVAILABLE IMMEDIATELY IN ARIZONA!" Uh, yes, sign me up, sirs.

Also, one other thing that happened a while ago but I haven't mentioned here is that Cal has teeth now. He literally got his two front teeth for Christmas, in fact. (Look closely--they're the bottom two.)




They are exciting. And sharp. That I can confirm from personal experience.

Currently reading: "The Great Influenza," a non-fiction book about the influenza epidemic of 1918. A little light reading to scare you shitless, especially if you happen to work in a hospital. You know, with the sick people.

i have a dream of a call-free monday

It's my third year of residency, and for the third year in a row, I'm on call on the Monday of the MLK three-day weekend. I can't say for certain, but I'm pretty sure this is not what Dr. King would have wanted. Probably.

But whatever, at least I get a regular weekend out of the deal, if not the plump and delicious three-day weekend. Unfortunately, no one informed Cal that weekends are the day that we don't get up at 6:30am (actually, during the week we wake up at 4:45am, but never mind about that) so this morning he woke us up with his friendly but insistent jabbering. And given the tilt of the Earth's axis coupled with the bad weather, 6:30am looked suspiciously like 3:00am. Jeez, Cal, let a sister sleep. She works hard for the money so you'd better treat her right. However, after various bribes (food) and inducements to return to a state of, if not slumber, then at least quiet, I threw in the towel and got started with our morning.





* * *


You know, I was just thinking yesterday, doing Anesthesia is kind of like driving a car. (This is starting to sound suspiciously like advice that your crazy uncle would give, sort of like, "A bottle of wine is like a beautiful woman.") You have to take this in the context of me not being able to drive though, OK? OK, so here's the analogy. At first, when you start learning how to drive, everything's scary. You don't know where anything is and you feel like the car's going too fast and you have no good sense of how to control where you are in relation to other cars on the road, and every single second you feel like you're going to going to spin out and crash into some tree somewhere. And so it goes with Anesthesia. (Don't laugh at me, you experienced drivers, i.e. the ENTIRE REST OF THE WORLD OVER THE AGE OF 15. Driving is scary.)

Then, as you get more used to driving (or so I can only presume), you start to get more comfortable, and certain things become automatic, like signaling, or checking your mirrors or what have you. Maybe you even do a halfway decent job of driving a familiar route under ideal conditions, like driving to work (school) in the middle of the day when it's sunny out. And so it goes with Anesthesia. Standard general case, healthy patient, no major blood loss, we're cool. But back to the car now, even when you feel comfortable under ideal circumstances, you still have to master the subtleties and tricks of driving under non-ideal circumstances, like driving at night, or in the snow, or learning to drive stick shift if you're used to driving automatic. After you have the basics down, these are the things you still have to master in order to, I don't know, become Mister Smith. In anesthesia, this is handling the patients who come down for emergency surgery "not medically optimized" (as the euphemism goes), or dealing with the unexpected in the middle of an otherwise mundane case, or just learning the subtleties of all the meds and physiology and drips and equipment that we have to use every day. This is the point I think I'm at now, entering the second half of the year. Give me your appys, your TAH/BSOs, your TURPs, and I feel reasonably comfortable. But throw me that septic patient with asthma and CAD who just had an MI three months ago and also has a mouthful of loose-ass teeth to boot, and my heart starts to beat a little fast, like I just might spin out at any moment and crash into a tree.

Also, a bottle of wine is like a beautiful woman.


* * *


Joe and I still haven't made any headway on our vacations plans for the end of March, mostly owing to the ill-timing of our vacation right smack dab in the middle of Spring Break, where the price gouging for any warm-type vacations spot is at its worst. This has led me to three conclusions:

1. We're going to have to choose a very non-traditional vacations spot, where no one else would even ever think of going. Like Duluth.
2. We're going to have to go somewhere where we can stay with friends for at least part of the time, so we don't have to sell Cal in order to pay for the hotel.
3. We're just going to have to pay a lot of money to go on vacation, under the somewhat dangerous assumption that we'll have real jobs in a few years, so what's another few hundred dollars now?

Being risk-averse, though, I'm not crazy about option 3, as it sounds suspiciously like the way people talk themselves into debt. Option 1 seems reasonable, but really, what's a non-traditional vacation spot that you'd actually want to go to? It's our first family vacation, and we're going to...Albany! I've explored all of the places that you lovely people suggested in the comments, and while I would love to visit any or all of them, it's just that damn time of year that has us over the barrel. It's "high season" for beach travel, I guess. Joe suggested that we think about going to Vegas, since we can get good hotel deals there and "it's warm," but it's not exactly like people go to Vegas to spend time outside. And the flight is long. Also, I just can't bring myself to take Cal to Las Vegas for his first big trip. This, I'm certain, would lead him to grow up to become an Elvis impersonator of the "old fat Elvis" ilk.

As for option 2, maybe we need to make some new friends. Preferably those with giant villas in the Bahamas that will conveniently be out of town for the week that we're aiming to travel.

Currently reading: Just finished "Pyongyang." I really enjoyed this book. It's more of a travel journal than anything else, but it's the best graphic novel I've read in a while (even more enjoyable for me than the acclaimed but frankly kinda boring "Epileptic"). Next up, "A History of Violence."

in abstentia

Yesterday, in the Anesthesia Lounge, where a group of residents were sitting eating lunch:


RESIDENT 1
Well, she wanted to wait a year before getting married, that's what I heard.

RESIDENT 2
A year since what?

RESIDENT 1
A year since his separating from Jen. And now it's been a year. So she wants to get married soon, that's what I hear, anyway.

RESIDENT 3
From expert sources.

RESIDENT 1
I know everything. I read all the magazines.

RESIDENT 3
OK, where did she adopt her first kid from?

RESIDENT 1
Cambodia! Easy.

RESIDENT 3
What's the kid's name?

RESIDENT 4
Mad Max?

RESIDENT 1
Maddox!


(If you have no idea what or who this conversation was about, congratulations, you live in a pop culture vacuum. Now shove aside that boulder and leave your cave so that your pasty skin may see the light of day.)


* * *


I had a Good Call last night, the kind where it's pretty busy into the late evening (makes the time pass faster) and then, suddenly, not busy any more (allowing for sleepytime). The best thing about being on call, of course, is being post-call, which means I get to go home and play with Cal in the light of day. With sunshine and everything. Just like a real person.

Unfortunately, from the tersely typed missives e-mailed to me from Joe as late as 10:30pm, Cal did not seem to have a very good call night. The past two times that I've had to work in the hospital overnight, in fact, Cal has had a hard time. I think the problem is that he has really gotten into his bedtime routine, which consists of bathtime, a little bit of playing, nursing, and then sleep. He knows and is firmly entrenched in this routine. WOE BE IT to he who takes Cal out of his routine. And since I figure largely in this nightly ritual (especially in the role of "best supporting boob"), it makes it difficult for Joe to replicate when I actually can't be home for bedtime, which unfortunately happens with some degree of frequency. It's not that he doesn't take the bottle (because he does all though the day) or that he doesn't love his daddy (because they are BFF), it's just that...the boobs. He likes his nocturnal boobs.

What am I supposed to do about it, though? I'm not going to start bottle-feeding him at night just so he gets used to the concept of Boobs in Abstentia while I'm on call--I mean, I have overnight call maybe once a week (interspersed with short call, where I can usually, though not always, get home for his bedtime), and it's just so much more work to heat up the bottles and clean them and all that, not to mention all the time-sucking (heh) extra pumping that I would have to do every night to keep up the Strategic Milk Stores. He'll just have to get used to some irregularities in his routine, I guess. Either that, or we should get Joe that man-boob prop from "Meet the Fockers."

Currently reading: "The Year of Magical Thinking." Almost finished with it, actually--I started it during Cal's nap on Sunday and made my way halfway through before he woke up. An excellent read, made all the more enjoyable (for me) in that there's a fair amount of medicine in it. [University Hospital] even makes it into the story, which I guess makes sense, given that Joan Didion lives in New York. I had only read one other piece by Didion (an essay for my AP Logic and Comp class in high school, the title and topic of which escapes me now) but maybe I should check out some of her other stuff.

Next on deck, "Pyongyang: A Journey in North Korea."

leukocoria

"Hey hon," Joe called out to me yesterday afternoon from the computer, "tell me what you think of this picture." I went over to take a look at what appeared to be an e-mailed family photo from Christmas. And here's what I saw. I think if there's one picture that could freak out an ophthalmology resident and a (former) pediatrics resident equally, it's a picture of their child that looks like this:






MICHELLE
(Putting on her best "not freaking out" voice)
It's probably nothing.

JOE
Yeah, but still.

MICHELLE
I think it's the way he's angled, so that the flash is straight on with the optic nerve on the left. Probably.

JOE
Yeah, but still.

MICHELLE
And I think I remember a picture of him from a month ago with red-eye in both eyes.

JOE
Yeah, but we don't want to sit on this. I want to take him to the [University Hospital] eye clinic tomorrow morning.

MICHELLE
Isn't it closed?

JOE
I could easily open it.

MICHELLE
You want to dilate him and examine his eyes?

JOE
Did you see the picture? I think we need to.


Notice that neither of us actually said the word for what was really freaking us out. Because you know, saying bad things makes them come true. So we just looked at the picture and looked at each other and looked at Cal and didn't say bad things even though we were both thinking them and getting scared.

We didn't wait until Sunday morning to drive up to the [University Hospital] eye clinic. What we did end up doing was taking him to a pediatric ophthalmologist that same evening. Namely, my mom. She was at her office seeing patients, and said that we could come by around 6pm. Which, one subway ride later, we did. Grandma to the rescue again. (Yes, I know, we're so lucky with our ability to Access Health Care that it is ridiculous.)

So at the office, we put in the dilating drops and both my mom and Joe took a look into Cal's eyes with the indirect ophthalmoscope, with the headlight and the lenses and the whole deal. Joe especially took a good long look, especially towards the nasal side of the left eye, where the pupil was white in the picture. Normal. Cal was even reasonably cooperative, only crying a little bit with the drops (they sting) and remaining reasonably still for the eye exam, only protesting a little bit at the end. Normal. Thank god.

I guess that's part of being a parent, worrying much, much more about someone else than you worry about yourself. This won't be the last time that we have a scare either, not by a long shot. What about the first time he falls and hits his head, the first time has a high fever, the first time he gets a big bruise that just doesn't seem to be healing as fast as it should. Why didn't anyone tell me there would be this much worrying? This was not in the package insert!

I could stay up all night worrying about Cal. And there are books and newspapers full of things for me to worry about. But what can you do? You can't keep your child in a hermetically sealed glass box, like a Beanie Baby or the pope. All you can do is love your kid and protect them without becoming That Crazy Overprotective Parent, and, barring the ability to "not worry" (which is everyone's well-intentioned advice, but impossible to actually achieve), just try to make sure that you're doing all the worrying on the down-low so that your kid never has to.

Currently reading: Just finished "Stolen Lives." Probably won't start "The Year of Magical Thinking" for a few days at least, since I'm on call tomorrow night and will probably be too tired to read on the subway the next morning, but who knows, if I don't get called to do a kidney transplant or some big Neuro case overnight, I might get some rest.

the play pavilion

Sometimes I have dreams that totally make sense, and yet, totally don't. Like a few nights ago, I dreamed that I had a Hep C patient that self-extubated in the OR in the middle of surgery. And then as I was scrambling around, getting my propofol on the line and getting ready to re-intubate, the patient got up off the table and started chasing me around the room, attacking me and ripping out pieces of my flesh his bare hands. And also, for some reason, the patient was a cyclops.

Now, the first few parts of this dream I can well understand. I'm nervous about dealing with emergencies in the OR, and I'm nervous about catching Hep C or some other such communicable disease from my patients. In fact, I'd just had a Hep C positive patient the day before, so it makes even more sense that it was on my mind. But A CYCLOPS? That I do not understand.

(Trivia factoid! In sixth grade, my class put on a play of Homer's "The Odyssey" and I played the part of the cyclops. It was the part that I asked for, because I thought it would be fun. All the other girls wanted to be either Penelope or Calypso or one of the sirens, because, you know, they're all pretty and such, but did Penelope or Calypso or the sirens get to wear a costume made out of a PAINTED GARBAGE BAG with a giant PAPER-MACHE EYE that gets STABBED with a STICK? I think not! And say such lines as, "My eye! My eye! I'M BLIND!" with fake blood and everything? I THINK NOT!)

Today we put the finishing touches on Cal's play pavilion. Truly it is a baby cage for kings.




The "finishing touches" that I speak of are the two panels that constitute the fourth wall of the square. You see, the Superyard XT (the finest in plastic baby containment devices) only comes with six panels, forcing you to make a baby cage in the shape of a hexagon. I don't know what shape your living room is, but in our right-angled world, a hexagon is not a very easy shape to fit, well, anywhere. And yes, I supposed you could make a very long, skinny rectangle with six panels, but that shape is a little too coffin-like for my taste, and it doesn't take a meeting of Chinese grandmothers to tell me that putting our baby in a coffin-shape is BAD LUCK. Personally, I think that offering six panels is just a scam to get people to buy the Superyard XT extension set, and that's exactly what we ended up doing. Damn you, successful scam!

The establishment of the Play Pavilion has made me realize that we have truly crossed over. This is no longer an apartment for two adults and an infant, it is Baby Wurld. Where everything is colorful and padded and non-toxic, and you cannot stand anywhere without being in arm's reach of a spit-up rag or a box of wet wipes. Which may not sound terribly appealing, but actually is a step up from our previous design scheme, Dog-Chewed Ikea.



"Buy more teething rings. And toys that make beeping noises, I like those. YOU ARE POWERLESS AGAINST ME. Obey or I'll make more cute faces."


Currently reading: "Stolen Lives." Gripping. Sometimes I ask myself how I would hold up under torture, and the answer is: badly. Next up at bat, "The Year of Magical Thinking," because I like reading books that get me good and depressed. Also, it was next to the register at the bookstore, so why not.

top that, 2006

OK, so this year I:

• Had a baby
• Started a scary but fun new residency, pushing myself completely out of my zone of comfort and complacency (wherein I was writing Tylenol prescriptions and Rule Out Sepsis admission orders blindfolded with one hand tied behind my back)
• Got some cool days-of-the-week socks from my mom for Christmas

Hmm. Tough to top that. The socks, I mean.

So if you happen to be on call New Year's Eve, you gotta do it up right. First of all, make sure you're on with a fun senior resident who likes to cook. Secondly, make sure someone brings movies to watch between cases. Third, invite all the surgery residents who are on call over to the Anesthesia lounge for midnight revels. This is how we ended up snacking on prosciutto-wrapped roasted asparagus and sparkling cider while watching "The 40 Year-Old Virgin" after our last was wheeled to the PACU, switching over to live TV only to briefly witness the mayhem in Times Square and comment about Dick Clark's post-stroke dysarthria. Special message to Dick Clark: you're allowed to retire. It's OK. Because you're making me sad.

Now I'm home, and Cal and Joe and still asleep. Time to tiptoe around the apartment and somehow start up the shower without waking everyone up. Happy New Year, everyone!




Currently reading: Well, I'm not reading this just yet, because I have yet to get my mitts on a copy of the book, but someone recommended "Stolen Lives" to me, which looks a little cheesy and sensational, but still a page-turner. Just the way I likes it. Does the fact that something's an Oprah's Book Club Pick make you more or less want to read it? For me, less.