“So I really am important? How I feel when I’m drunk is correct?” – Futurama

When I went to the hospital and they were done with the surgery I asked if I could do the stitches. The doctor said, “Suture self.”
This past weekend The Mrs. was in the hospital. No, it wasn’t the ‘Rona (really) but instead it was scurvy. I told The Mrs. that she should have eaten that pineapple, but, no. She refused.
We didn’t intend to take her to the hospital, but the doctor sort-of insisted after running a batch of tests which included things that shoot radiation at her and other things that have rotating magnets. There was a lot of blood drawn, but even though I asked to do the parts that would cause The Mrs. pain myself, they declined.
The short version is that after several gallons of intravenous antibiotic, The Mrs. got a lot better. The doctor described the infection as guacamole. He said it was the technical term that medical professionals use to describe sickness, with the antibiotic that slowly scooped the guacamole out by a basket of tortilla chips. I hate technical talk like that, I mean, I don’t even like guacamole. I’m more of a salsa guy.

I guess I should have been tipped off when he told me the special was the chimichanga plate with refritos.
After about 36 hours, they booted The Mrs. out. She feels better, but is not quite at 100% as I write this. One virtue of having a sick relative is that it clears away a lot of the mundane things that we deal with daily. We are used to life being normal – get up when the alarm goes off, shower (every other week) get gallons of coffee, and deal with that five-minute commute to work. Lather, rinse, repeat.
Days turn into weeks, weeks turn into months, and months turn into late notices if I forget to pay the natural gas bill. All of this, of course, is accompanied by the theme song of the latest news and outrages that are taking place in Washington or points further away where they wear funny hats and have no idea how to properly make barbeque sauce, like Texas.

I like Texas, and I hear one of their neighbors is OK.
When events like The Mrs. being in the hospital intrude, everything that’s normal takes a back seat. Things that were important fade into the squabbling trivialities that they really are. The events of our lives that define them aren’t the minutes we drain into offices and cubicles, but rather the impact felt on our lives by others and the impact that we provide to the lives of others. At least that’s what it said on the Hallmark® card, but it was in a really fancy script.
The important moments in our lives are really that, moments. One problem I’ve noted in myself is that I tend to be able to be swallowed by the constant noise of the days turning into weeks. I turn my head down and find that another year has passed.

We also argued about how global warming wasn’t a threat, but that was anti-climactic.
What do I have to show for that year? How have I gotten better? What have I accomplished? Whose lives have I touched, I mean, within the limits of those restraining orders?
The soundtrack of our lives is often the things that we can impact only in the most negligible way, unless of course you’re the guy who makes sure that Biden doesn’t trade the nuclear codes for an extra pudding at dinner. But regardless of our roles on the local, state, or national stage, all of us can impact the lives of the individuals that are close to us.
Sometimes those efforts take years. Pugsley is growing into a fine young man, but we fought a titanic battle for years. Raising a boy can be like that, especially if he’s as stubborn as his father. And he is. We even have arguments over who is more stubborn.

You can’t argue with Pete Buttigieg. He’s not thinking straight.
On the other end of the spectrum, though, a chance comment might be the gentle stir of a butterfly’s wings. Just with a single word or phrase, you never know whose life you might change, either for better or worse. Even now, I can still remember that nice gentleman in the grocery store asking me, “Are you sure you need to buy a dozen doughnuts?”
Then there are those whose lives we touch who we never will meet. In my case, for writing P.J. O’Rourke was a big influence – he was prolific and funny and the grocery store clerk had no idea she was selling a really grown-up magazine when I handed over my cash for the latest issue of National Lampoon. There are other mentors that I have met only in books, whose lives and words have inspired and continue to inspire me today.
Day-to-day life can take me away from focusing on what is really important. There are times when I thought I was making a lot of progress, and instead I was just walking in big circles. Having a guidepost and a goal, even if (and perhaps especially) that goal can never, ever be met.
This was something I already knew, but that’s the insidious nature of the daily grind, it can make you forget those things that are important. There is a joy in losing self in action and work, but there is a danger, too – losing sight of the things that are the core of existence. It’s like going out to dinner and ordering something besides steak. I mean, if there’s steak on the menu, why do you need any other pages in the menu?

My crazy high school girlfriend is like that cheap grill I bought – they were both smoking hot and burned the house down.
As I said, The Mrs. is better, but not 100%. She’ll never run a marathon, but the last time I saw her run at all was in 2014, so I don’t think she’ll lose any sleep over that. One side effect of her no longer storing the guacamole, the doctor said, is that she might lose an inch or two in height over the next two months. I guess The Mrs. will have to learn how to be a little patient.













































































































