It's television pilot season in Califrutopia.
Which means that several networks and studios will spend millions of dollars and tens of thousands of man hours to create a host of programs which, thank a merciful deity, you'll never ever see, in order to cull the stack down to a manageable number, of which all but one or two, based on historical precedent, will suck, and probably hugely.
This matters to me about as much as the weather on Jupiter, because in the meantime, I get a lot of days as a decently-remunerated and medically licensed babysitter, and the checks all clear. How many in a lot? This week has been 14 days long, so far. And just about the time I could get used to it, it will be gone, and I'll be back in the salt mines. But until then, I just got to give my bank account a transfusion that should cure the recent anemia, but a side effect of multiple 12 hour days separated by 3-5 hour nights off is that I'm sleepy, cranky, and several of the other dwarfs, none of whose names I can recall at the moment. (Bitchy? Meany? Clumsy? Stupey?...whatever)
(Bonus Game for those in school, or back there again: psychoanalyze the Seven Dwarfs based on direct clinical observation of the DVD/BD, turn it into a paper, ace your psych presentation.)
That's not a whine (It's not! It's not! It's not!); I knew the gig was tough when I signed up.
But it means my usual fund of bile has been eating craft service, is a little gassy, and putting on a couple of pounds, and would really rather face-test the thread count in my pillowcase than saddle up for any rhetorical jihads or jousting the slumbering herds of pigs in our profession. At least for now.
My profound apologies, but that means anybody stopping by will have to entertain themselves for a bit longer while I nap. True to form, there are some very old obscure magazines laying about for you to read. This will probably cease all too soon in a week or three, then I can recert about half a dozen cards and classes to prove that I'm still nursey enough to market myself to greener pastures, as if they actually exist.
After a few weeks of Hollywood's amateur drama queens, I'm not looking forward to returning to the professional circuit. The catering there sucks, everybody is Scarlett O'Hara, and I can't fire them.
Submitted for your approval: What say we all pass the word, and on April 1st, apropos of the day, we all submit reviews on our most horrible patients, direct to hospital management and the Press-Ganey knuckleheads, and roundly bitch them out for the worst offenders?
In a perfect world, this catches on like Talk Like A Pirate Day, and the patient ratings for the entire country, complete with the best individual write-ups, get posted online. Anonymously, of course.
See you when I've thoroughly inspected the inside of my eyelids, and can open them spontaneously without using my hands. And hey, look, I just wrote an entire post about not being able to write an entire post. Sleepy, soooo sleepy...