dr s________ told me at work today that i "have the best job" because on saturdays i get to putter around this tiny room by myself, cleaning things that are given to me & then wrapping them up like presents for the big autoclave. for reasons unknown to me, the big autoclave is named Mo. my job is the best because i can be alone.
i pointed out to dr s________ that i also get to listen to the rock+roll on the radio while i work.
dr s________ said the radio now is not as good as the radio when he was my age. he asked me to sing �my true story� for him. (i can't sing.)
(the rock+roll: today tec played �lost cause� for me, because i asked her to, because last night i dreamt that beck was involved in this media scandal in which it was revealed that he had stolen every word & every note in every song. the press was making a big, revoke-the-grammy, milli-vanilli kind of deal out of it. i was sitting at home watching it all unfold on the television, thinking, but what if it is like a cento? i was thinking, but what if it is like solex, digging through her record store to find the samples for her songs?)
these are the things i clean at work, over & over, on saturdays:
seven Pratt dilators, sized 13 through 39. one Pederson speculum. one tenaculum, one forceps, one sharp curette. one surgical tray to hold it all. it takes me maybe two minutes to wash it all & to wrap it up again. on monday i put all the wrapped-up trays into the autoclave, which when turned on smells like the first time you turn on the furnace in the cooling fall: all the settled dust in the ducts catching sparks. it smells like that.
