We promise. We deliver.

Obviously, I am a shameless individual, because not only did I post here about The Barking Christmas Carol Dog, I actually have him/her displayed prominently in my home (never mind the pumpkin, my feeble effort at Halloween decorating).

I think he barks "O Tannenbaum" and "Joy to the World." I think. We only tried the directions ("Press his left paw to hear him sing!") once because Piper got pretty excited over the whole thing and wanted in on the action (whatever that might have entailed from his canine perspective, I can only guess).

I myself have a question: Where are the eyes? I guess I'll go have to look to make sure I don't have some kind of lethal-gene expressing Christmas decoration lurking in all its DNA misfittedness on my living room shelf. Because there's scary, and then there's just downright wrong.

Meanwhile, I worked the perfect "extra shift," a 7a-11a. Golden, baby. Pass meds, do first round of assessments, alert PAs to colace orders (the elderly are obsessed about their bowels) and dropping hematocrits, and just as things get brewing on the floors... on comes your poor 11a-11p replacement to take it all away, Calgon style.

Work is freaking me out lately. I haven't like, cried or anything while I'm at work (although the first couple of weeks I got pretty close a couple of times) but the whole idea of real responsibility can be quite scary after a comparatively leisurely academic career, in which the worst infringement one could possibly commit is the stealing of intellectual property, which while punishable by law, most likely wouldn't directly result in the death, dismemberment or disfiguration of another human being, all of which could potentially happen during hospital shift work.

I mean, I really can't think of a time in graduate school when the failure to footnote would have caused bodily harm, although I'm sure the more creative (or intellectually anal retentive) could conjure such a situation. Plus, as demanding as graduate level work in humanities might be, I can't think of a single time when I had to triage three or four issues immediately and be as accurate as possible in delivering timely consideration and prompt action lest someone suffer dire consequences because of my inaction or misaction. I mean, that's what proofreading, spell-check features on word processor programs and book editors are for, right?

Still, I kind of miss the staid, scholarly existence (even if I no longer have the attention span or aptitude for parsing out obtuse philosophical arguments and applying them to practical situations, like painting the garage or making toast). Any way, it is hard to go from being reliably mediocre in what you do (namely, half-read your assignments and cranking out flat, unispired papers guaranteed to make unremarkable passing grades) to feeling like a bona fide dumbfuck half to most of the time you're at work. It sucks and I would be lying to you if I told you otherwise.

Enough mumbling. Perhaps something exciting will happen overnight, like I will be transported to a world in which it is my patriotric duty to stay and home and do as I please for a princely annual sum. If it doesn't, I have to get up and go to work for another happy funtime twelve hour shift, so I suppose I'd better go pack my lunch/dinner now.