plus ça change...

Because I am apparently a staunch proponent of self-torture, I moved, lock, stock and barrel o'monkeys, on New Year's Eve (and spent the two days prior to that packing up my place, having worked the holiday week).

It was an ironic mix of grim puritanical roll-up-your-sleeves-and-get-the-job-done-sleep-and-sanity-be-damned on the one hand, and the blessings of friendship and kindness on the other. (Friends who help you move more than once every ten years? Amazing people! Ply them with lots of good wine and give them lots of hugs!)

Top New Year's Resolution? To NEVER MOVE. EVER AGAIN. (At least not this year.)

Put another way: If there were an Olympic Sport called Moving Way Too Much-- I WIN FIRST PLACE! I WIN THE GOLD MEDAL! Shoo-in! No contest!

Any way. There are still Issuez which are making me contemplate living as far away from urban claustrophobia as possible, which I can't really blog about as They Are Being Sorted Out Right Now and would bore readers silly any way--but at least my stuff is all in one place. For now.

Switching jobs (and facilities) made the move virtually a no-brainer, and the New Place feels like a luxurious palace in terms of space and light (windows! natural light! WINDOWS!) compared to my little shoebox of a studio in Belltown. The studio was wonderfully close to my old hospital (walking distance!) but so is my new apartment (relative to my new hospital)--and it's within half a block to trails, parks and quite a lot of other Stuff To Do. I am well-pleased.

There is also the wonder of a GAS FIREPLACE, which warms the place so efficiently it almost overwarms the place, and this is saying something, coming from The World's Most Perpetually Chilled Woman.

Of course, I am not allowed too much of a rest, and all this idyllic surveying of my domain would, in theory, at some point cause terminal boredom. My last week on the trauma ICU commences tomorrow, and I am chomping at the bit to git-her-done, have a couple weeks off, and start on the cardio-thoracic ICU.