Oh, look. Emigrating to Canada is back on the table.

The evidence for low-level alcohol use having much effect on the fetus is pretty shaky.

Colonial ciders and beers probably averaged 5% alcohol, and it was not uncommon to start the day with a quart of cider and a pound of bacon.

The loss of a Buffy-loving governmental official is always cause for sadness (and makes me wonder if we'll ever see a Buffy-loving president, and then makes me wonder whether, between his age and being the spouse of a damn cool woman and the father of two incipient ones, we might not have one already -- why has no intrepid journalist asked the hard-hitting questions that really matter?).

Ugh so tired. And not looking forward to work. Yesterday afternoon a package arrived containing two medical group applications that must be completed by Friday, or DIRE CONSEQUENCES. By hand, because apparently these people don't do writable PDFs.

Each one is 37 pages long.

I hate these people so much and want to stabbinate them hard. It's going to take roughly the same amount of time to complete both no matter what I do -- laboriously write it all out, or, box by box, convert the whole thing to a writable PDF and then fill it out twice by computer.

I called their office yesterday to see if someone could email me the forms, couldn't get through to a live human, and called the number their voicemail claimed was their new members office and got the Radiology department (twice, so, not my mistake -- they're sending people to the wrong place, which no doubt sucks even more for the radiologists).

(Also, they pre-filled out the forms with the names of the two doctors I work for, and spelled one guy's name wrong. On every one of those 37 pages. HAAAAAAATE.)

And, cereal because it in no way deserves to have to share space with my pathetic work rant:

Tons of health~ma and it's-nothing~ma to your DH, Sox, and calming, reassuring vibes to all of you.

Lots of ~ma for T, Sox. Let us know if there is anything we can do.

Health`ma for Sox's DH.

Health-ma to your DH, sox.

Ugh, JZ. That's a lot of suck.

Health~ma for DH of Sox.

Dear Self

Anytime a plan includes the phrase "I'll have to remember" know that you will not and revise. Especially if it is in conjunction with "I'll do that in the morning". Write it down somewhere, like I am doing now.

Cordially, Me

Buffistas, meet our new Prime Minister

My sister met ran into him in the back alley of her building once. True story.

I did meet and have dinner with his father when I was at the Carter Center in the 90s.

That would send me into a rage attack, JZ!

I’ve been so depressed lately over the Donald Trump thing, so thanks, Canada, for showing me that people won’t necessarily vote for the racist fuckface.

My coworker had a dream last night that she killed Donald Trump with a shotgun, because he had been abusing her for years! Which story she was telling before the meeting started, but into the conference line. So that's fun.

Thanks you guys. Doctor appt. at 1:45 - so we are relieved that they didn't send him to the ER.

Short story is he got up at 4:30 with some belly issues and then fainted. I heard the bang and rocketed out of bed bc I thought HPF had fallen out of her bed. She was fine. I came back down and he was already up and getting back in bed. We're both freaked out. He's also laughing at me that I ran for HPF in an emergency.

(We did check for stroke/heart attack symptoms before waiting to call the doc. Or I did. Also concussion, cholera, alien space babies, and blue-confetti.)