Annum Novum Felicem!

Okay, so my Latin is a little hazy (read: sucks) but I somehow doubt I'll offend the linguistic sensibilities of anyone, because how many ancient Romans actually visit this site, any way? I hope all the nouns and adjective agree in gender, number and case come to think of it. Yeah. Here's to hamfisted Latin-phrases-as-you-please translations.

I worked last night, or yesterday, or whatever, and came home and fell asleep at 9:30 p.m. like an eighty-year-old. (I'm entitled to go to bed whenever the hell I want to, as I spent a portion of yesterday cleaning massive amounts of liquid poop off of the floor, the chair, the wall and yes, the curtain of a patient's room as a favor to another nurse, who herself was trying to clean the still crapping patient. ) Because housekeeping won't come to "clean" the floor or whatever until we've "prepped the surfaces", meaning we nurses get to scoop poop/vomit/blood/whatever off the floor any way, so why not hand over the bleach and mop and we'll just finish the job. Because we're versatile like that. And also, not unionized, unlike the housekeepers, who apparently don't have that magic elastic clause "and other duties as necessary" written in their contracts. Not that any one's bitter, or anything.)

Luckily, the little old lady had some spunk in her and I arrived just in the nick of time to hear her lament, "Oh God! Look at me! I'm covered in shit!" Well said, and quite true. (Meanwhile, I supposed this was all some rather Dantean lesson about the perils of using the s-word as liberally as I tend to).

Any way, my patients were all very nice and continent, thank you very much, but that didn't mean I wasn't ready to sleep when I got home. It was great, until midnight revelers woke me up with various loud noises and bright shiny objects (presumably fireworks) and found all the ruckus had literally scared the shit out of the dog. Thanks, neighbors, for making my day full of varied shit-cleaning-up experiences.

Something wafting from the direction of the kitchen (hopefully not the heating element of the dishwasher) smells like burnt plastic. I'm hoping it's only a melted piece of plasticware, and not some dreaded maintenance-repair type thing. Because--horrors!--that would mean I'd actually have to wash dishes by hand. Ugh!

As any astute reader would have by now realized, this little foray into stream-of-consciousness-writing is not going to be winning any Pulitzer prizes, so I'll stop for now, with my wishes for an annum novum of your adjectival choice.