A week down, and work looks to be palatable and possibly something to look forward to. My coworkers are down-to-earth and happy, but not in the high-pitched sappy way I was worried I would find with so many women occupying not much desk space. The actual tasks are going to be a little repetitive ("Hello, your prescription is ready ... hello, you can't have more vicoden, atavan, percocet, methadone, _fillinnarcotichere__ you just refilled a month's worth two days ago ... hello, you missed your appointment ... hello, I can't diagnose over the phone you'll have to come in and see one of our clinicians") although checking in patients should break it up nicely. They, at least, are a varied and interesting crowd.

There are several providers, as different from one another as the patients, from the fast-moving-fast-talking PA who finishes charting on the way to the next room to the slow-talking southern Physician who is an hour behind by ten am, to the thorough Internist who arrives two hours before anyone else to review the day's charts, scribbling handwritten notes to himself and his assistant to make sure no test or question or possibility falls through the cracks of a busy city clinic serving the un-and-under-insured.

I am home now. Peter is cooking tacos and the dogs have gathered at his heels hoping for scraps. We are going to watch Toy Story, a welcome relief after this season of endless John Carpenter movies on Friday and Saturday nights. Two days in a weekend, and there is a lot of laundry to find time for.

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