The Funny Part Will Be When All My Friends Feel Bad For Writing Me Emails Saying, “Why Haven’t You Updated Your Blog, Asshole?”
2006 is worse than I thought. At this point, it’s even worse than the infamous beginnings of 1999 when I got dumped, drove to
Later, in an act equal parts “24,” “The X-Files,” and “Gilmore Girls,” fueled by cheap vodka and the hurt I’d been bottling up inside, I ripped the alien’s head off when he refused to tell us why he had come to earth. Suffice it to say, that was the low point of the year.
That’s got nothing on 2006.
While I’m not one to write about my personal life (pause for laughter), I suppose everyone deserves and explanation as to why I haven’t written anything for a week. I’ll break it to you the same way that I told my mom, in a manner akin to soaking someone with a hose before throwing a match at them:
EVERYTHING’S FINE DON’T GET WORKED UP JUST STAY CALM EVERYTHING IS FINE!
I’ve been in the hospital the past few days. Not because I needed medical attention. Actually, it was The Girlfriend who did. Surgery actually. But like I said, EVERYTHING’S FINE. She’s back home now and I’m back at work and everything is normal except for the fact that now she has one kidney instead of two. (Kidding)
But I’d be lying if I said that I felt like I was back to normal. Not just the fact that I haven’t been in my home for five days or that I ate a hamburger the other night of questionable integrity that was made for me at closing time as the owner of the diner was shutting out the lights in the kitchen. But something like this really rattles you. It rips you from what you previously thought was your boring rut and makes you appreciate that rut like a Maui sunset.
It also got me to thinking about how weird it is to love someone. A while back I wrote that I thought having a girlfriend is like having a child you make love to. Yes, I hyperlinked that phrase – because as “Law and Order: SVU” as it sounds, I’m more convinced than ever that I’m right. Because like I said before, “It’s child-like in the sense that, first and foremost, before you even care what the person does or says, you don’t want anything bad to happen to them. And you go from there. And you wouldn’t immediately write them off if they, perchance, pooped their pants.” And seeing something bad happen to someone you love is as awful as my premonitions predicted.
Like I said though, everything is fine now. She’s recovering, and any gifts you would like to give her can be sent care of me. (Please note that she really likes chocolate chip cookies and she just got Playstation 2 and she loves sports game.) Also, spending these past few days in a hospital, I’ve learned a lot about myself and love and just how inaccurate shows like “Grey’s Anatomy” are. And I would consider it a failure on my part to not share what I’ve learned with you. If not about myself or the ruse that are primetime medical dramas, at least about the essence of love. It’s a free verse poem I wrote entitled “Love in Triage: No Emergency Here.”
Love is resisting the urge to say “You owe me one,” when your girlfriend asks you to clean someone else’s pee off the bowl so she can use the bathroom.
Love is offering to put on a hospital gown as well, so your girlfriend won’t feel so different.
Love is making snide remarks at a nurse who you get the feeling is suggesting that your girlfriend is overreacting.
Love is sitting by someone just as they are about to go into surgery and saying, “I can’t believe this. I’m getting a pimple right here. This is awful.”
Love is not making fun of someone for asking the same exact question three times in a row while still in an anesthesia induced haze.
Making fun of them later on when they are coherent is also love.
Love is saying, “You’re the prettiest girl in this recovery room,” when clearly the morbidly obese woman two cots down with the bugger in her hair is rockin it.
Love is turning off the TV in the hospital room right as the guys from “Queer Eye For The Straight Guy” are about to reveal the newly redecorated apartment because your girlfriend just woke up and wants another lemon ice cup.
Love is sleeping in this bed in The Girlfriend’s apartment, made up of couch cushions and pink flannel sheets. It makes me feel like the most special little princess:
Love is going out for sushi when you really want a hamburger. That has nothing to do with this particular situation, but I’m just saying.
Love is sitting in a waiting room reading the same sentence in a magazine five times because your mind is entirely somewhere else.
Love is emptying someone’s bed pan. (Just kidding, she didn’t have a bed pan. Besides, that’s not love that’s community service.)
Love is walking in the rain to Blockbuster to rent “CSI” Season One on DVD. Because sometimes love is selfish.
Love is sleeping in a chair that was designed by people who never wanted you to get too comfortable in their product.
Love is restraining yourself from punching your boss in the face when he says, “I was at the theater so late last night, I’m exhausted today!” because you know that your girlfriend can’t get food if you’re in jail.
Love is not laughing when the doctor says, “You may have exceptional gas for the next few days.”
But most of all, love is not caring about doing any of it. That’s love in triage, baby. No emergency here.
(Back to our regularly scheduled drivel next week when I attack such important items as a review of the release of “Glory Road” – the story of one white man who discovers that black guys are really, really good at basketball.)