What Easter Means To Me

You know how it is...people like to complain. If there was nothing to complain about, I'd complain about that.

So...it's Easter Sunday at the hospital. We do a rotating holiday schedule, and I apparently rotated my way into Easter this year. Which would be fine, since I'm not a Christian and I worshipped at the alter of the Dove chocolates already before work, but I'm getting sleepy from inactivity. Apparently most Southern Illinoisans have opted to stay home with their families instead of keeping me productively engaged today.

Selfish people.

Lori cooked a big roast beef-and-vegetable meal, which I politely ate two enormous platefuls of (I was willing to throw myself on those 10,000 calories to spare the others. I'm noble that way.), and then I immediately came to work. So now I'm busy resulting one paltry CBC an hour and watching the clock like it's a television showing a double feature of Lassie Come Home and Boy's Town.

By the way...is anyone else amazed that Roddy McDowell was such a cute little boy and grew up to be such a creepy, fussy man? I think his acting peaked with Lassie.

But the problem, of course, is that the less work I do, the sleepier I get, and the less work I want to do. Which means that when I get to the pinnacle of sleepiness, the zenith of somnambulance, we'll have a massive 12 car pileup on the highway and someone will expect me to spring into action and save some lives or something.

See? Selfish.