Doctor, Doctor, Give Me The News

I love hospital gift shops.

But before I go on about those beauties, I should probably touch on my trip to New York-Jon Stewart was oranger than he looks on television; Stephen Colbert is a giggler and completely enthralled with Jon, clearly idolizing Jon; the West Side YMCA is shit; Kosher is Klassy; Cyndi Lauper is a sweet woman, and her guitarist is apologetic to the utmost when a show cannot go on; Young Frankenstein was amazing, even without Roger Bart; I love red carpets, even at The Tony's, since I got to see Bobby Cannavale (shut up and google him, for Christ's sakes!), Rufus Sewell, John Lithgow and more; Time Square is always crowded and it is disgusting in the heat; No cab drivers speak English; Three hour crusies around the island pass quickly when the tour guide likes you.

Done!

So, gift shops.

No tax, right? Great, I got to say. I work in a hospital now and am five feet from the gift store and the chocolate bars are only a dollar and the jujubes are a dollar ten. Hello. Not to mention the cookies! It's fab.

Not to mention the fact that my job-which, to be clear, I am currently at-is just sitting in front of a computer all day, watching other people use computers. Klassy like Kosher.

A side note? I'm sunburnt from New York (um, 74 fucking degrees? What?) and am in the awful stage of peeling. God, humans are disgusting.

Anyway. The cute doctor who comes in daily is here, and well-Lady's gotta work!