Sleepy, Grumpy, Doc

I am so crabby. 

If I had a dollar for every time I have washed or sanitized my hands since Tuesday, I would have enough money to buy some really bitchin' hand cream to repair the damage done by said compulsive cleanliness.

 Seriously.  I'm training to be this guy:

All the pretty doctors have wedding rings.  Even the one who looks like Jon Stewart.  (Thanks for making hair graying at the temples cool again.)

I've been kicked out of empty patient rooms for making obnoxiously loud phone calls in them.  But getting the phone calls from friends was really nice.  Also nice was the brief visit by the therapy dogs, two Portuguese water dogs with single-syllable names.  There really is nothing better than a big furry body leaning up against your knees.  Unless you're in a dance club.  Then there's nothing worse.

I'm spending an awful lot of time 'liking' things on Facebook.  I really should be spending my energy 'liking' some job applications, but what can you do.  It's much easier and so pleasant to find animals being funny on the internet.  Very little thinking required.  Ha!  Animals.  They can't talk right.

Hospitals are, on the whole, places of healing.  But they really aren't very restful.  There's a constant chugging, pulsing, whooshing, gurgling about the place.  Sometimes a chorus of beeps and dings and tones, like an elevator that suddenly decides it wants to be an opera star.  Clicks of doors, rustling of curtains.  Ins and outs of all sorts of people, not all of whom have squeaky shoes, but enough.  A constant draft.  A million questions.  Infinite tests and procedures.  On and on and on.