Whinge

In Britain, the word 'whine' has a G in it.

I don't know why.

But to add a sense of Occasion and Properness and Grandeur to this blog I'm about to commence writing, I'll say that I'm 'whinging.'

I'm tired. And though I had a fun clinic today, it was the sort of fun that involved attempting to keep a GIGANTIC toddler from ruining every piece of equipment in the room, getting a parent to focus on actually telling me a story in a comprehensive manner that didn't skip from one symptom to another, and topped off with two grade school twins determined to out-do their sib. Fun, yes. Exhausting, you bet your bottom. Dollar. Bet your bottom dollar. Hey! That phrase actually makes sense -- assuming you keep your money in some sort of semi-vertical stack say like in your pocket. Or pennies in a jar buried under your grandmother's porch. My wallet is organized more horizontally, though.

Anyway. Clinic. Fun. Exhausting.

And only a precursor to my Penultimate Call.

Hi, my name is Brenna, and I have an unhealthy obsession with the word "penultimate."

Call tonight. Busy. Crazy. Patients getting transferred from all over kingdom come and arriving ALL AT THE SAME TIME crazy. Nurses demanding (though nicely) admission orders post haste on the five patients that arrived within two hours of each other crazy. Not eating dinner until 11 pm crazy. Doing 10 pm rounds at 1 am crazy.

I'm exhausted. And I'm sick of the NICU babies. And... I want to go to sleep. And I don't want to have to get up and be HERE again tomorrow morning. And round. And then go home, fall asleep, and do it all over again the next day.

You know... I don't think adding a G to 'whine' makes it any less appealing to listen to. Or read.

I think I'll go to bed now.

(Oh, yes. And two-and-a-half points to the person who gets tonight's post's movie reference.)