Laundry is not my hobby. Not today. Probably not tomorrow.

Well, it kinda is. Here's the thing. The dryer is merely a tumbler. Which would be cool if it was a tumbler on the Batman Begins scale. No. With my luck or lack thereof, I get a big spinny metal tube that throws the clothes around while they air dry. Arrrgh. Good news is, the weather is cooperating, it was nearly 90 degrees today. That man o' mine strung up an erstaz clothesline on the patio when we found out we had to wait for a week for the $5.00 part to be non-expeditiously mailed to us. The $5.00 part comes on the heels of the $150.00 (expedited) burner assembly, which, when assembled, didn't work. Seems the problem is, ah, electrical. Wood's buddies when he told them, asked first thing, "What did your meter tell you?" Well, it's Wood in sheep's clothing, kicking himself for not putting his electrical meter on the darn thing right off. Turns out the problem isn't the gas flow, it's the overtemp thermostat breaker thingy. But boy, have we got a good look at how the lint piles up in, under and around a dryer. And the belt configuration! We could go on for, oh, minutes, about how the belt configuration is terribly difficult to figure out when it falls off before you get a good look at it (but there's pictures on the internet, thank geeks).
So, here I am, it's Monday night, I'm not on call, the laundry can wait a little bit, must be time for, hmmmm, VODKA! No guilt.

So, I'm hanging in the hallway at work, waiting for the opportune moment to relieve my coworkers for a lunch break, shooting the shit with one of the perfusionists who covers our hospital (a perfusionist operates the heart-lung machine that keeps you alive when your heart is being sliced and sewn). One of the newer heart surgeons, a Texan of Indian (bombay not blackfoot) extraction, walks up and relates this story:

"So you know what? I was standing up at the front, and this breast surgeon guy comes up to me and says

'I don't like your coat. It looks like something a resident would wear.'

(Heart surgeon wears a knee length lab-type white jacket embroidered with his name and title)

I looked at him and said "Excuse me?" and he told me

'I don't like your coat and I don't think you should be wearing your boots into the operating room.'

(oh yeah, he wears his cowboy boots. To work. In the OR. )

like that's any of his business what shoes I fucking wear and so I told him

"If you have a problem with my jacket or my shoes, we can settle this right now. Otherwise, you just stay out of my heart room and I'll stay out of your breast room (heart surgeon is all of 5' 4" 130 lbs soaking wet with his boots on). Can you believe this shit?"

I told him no, I couldn't believe this shit, but another staff member who heard the tale said

"Good, I'm glad Dr. Boob got put in his place."

Jeez, some people.