New York. The Times Square ball drops on TV. At Wing Manor, when that happened, Glark, Sars, and I were all chatting in the living room as we had been for the previous four hours until Sars glanced at her watch and noticed it was midnight; we all trooped upstairs to watch the ball drop only to reach the game room in time for the post-ball-drop fireworks. Wah wah. Then Sars and I ate some snacks and watched Don't Tell Mom the Babysitter's Dead on TBS. Don't act like you're not jealous when you know you are. Anyway, bandaged Mark watches from his bed, with Elizabeth crowding in beside him. Mark whines that his Foley's still in, and wheedles Elizabeth into taking it out for him, against hospital regulations. Mark moans with pain and relief (I guess), and says he doesn't think he can order a Foley for a patient ever again. She helps him up, and they head for the bathroom. Again, more discussion of Mark's urinary life takes place than I care to consider. He tries to take a couple of steps on his own and falters; I really doubt that he'd be walking the day he had an awake craniotomy, but I've never had one, so whatever. Elizabeth grabs his arm before he falls and gently chides him that "it's not a race." Mark knows he has to take "small steps." Right on cue, the fireworks start outside the hospital window. I roll my eyes into the next area code. Crappy New Year.