the Russian way

Last night I met a friend at a cafe after work. Well, technically I was still working, because I was on call for another two hours. When she showed up, her first words were, "I wonder if they make margaritas here?" Turned out, the answer was yes. I was maneuvering my straw around the ice cubes to suck up the last few drops of golden tequila goodness, enjoying the happy hummy feeling whirling in my head, when my pager went off. Whoops. I fumbled my cell phone and dropped it on the floor. Then I bumped my head on the edge of the table trying to pick it up. It occurred to me that the margarita had been a mistake.

Fortunately, I had Altoids in my car. (Yay, Altoids -- every tipsy doctor's best friend!) And the patients in the ER were pretty straightforward, so it didn't matter that my brilliant mind was a shade less brilliant than usual. But still. Not good. Today I emailed my friend A. about what I'd done. She's a transplant from Ukraine, and she's got that alluring mix of smartass cynicism and fatalism nurtured by years under Soviet rule and fortified by the radioactive vegetables of her Chernobyl childhood. She wrote back:

As you may know, in Russia surgeons don't even go into the operating room without at least a shot of vodka - that's the truth! It's for the nerves, gives confidence :)

Well, that makes me feel better. And gives me ideas. I could use some more confidence. And I've got a whole box of Altoids waiting in the car. Hmm.