This afternoon I got out of the house to go to Tractor Supply. Our dog, Ella, is just about out of glucosamine chews, and other than the fact that Dad’s in the hospital, this is apparently the most pressing concern for our family, our dog’s arthritis. Yesterday, in the midst of being overwhelmed with Dad’s issues, Mom said, “You could get some glucosamine at Walmart, but you’ll have to check the back of the bag to make sure it’s for the right-sized dog, and I don’t know how much Ella weighs, maybe fifteen, maybe seventeen pounds because we’ve been feeding her more, and things would probably be cheaper somewhere else, if you could buy in bulk, if they even make glucosamine in bulk, and–” I said, “Mom, relax. I’ll take care of it.”

Well, I guess everyone was getting out of school or work this afternoon, since it took fifteen minutes for me to get from my driveway to the nearest stoplight, six blocks away. Finally I thought, Fuck this. My sister has an Amazon Prime account, and turned the car around. (Mom, Amazon is the world’s online shopping mall. Amazon Prime lets your order anything from dildos to dog food and have it delivered for free to your doorstep in two days–guaranteed.) So everyone can stop worrying about Ella’s stiff hips–her glucosamine should be here Sunday.

If only all of life’s problems were so easy to solve.

Since I’m a glutton for punishment, I next went to the Department of Motor Vehicles. I noticed a few days ago that I don’t have current proof of registration for my antique car, Garfield. Honestly, in the twelve years that I’ve had the car, I don’t ever remember having this. Since you don’t have to renew antique tags on a yearly basis (or ever), I thought, Maybe I don’t need proof of registration. But what happens if I get pulled over? Anyway, I wanted to find out. But when I stepped inside the DMV, there must have been fifty people inside, and every one of them was in line in front of me. Again I thought, Fuck this, and turned around.

Back in my car, I called the DMV. Someone picked right up, and they told me that, yes, indeed I do need a registration (that never expires), and I can get a duplicate one for a dollar. All I have to do is bring in my license plate number. Y’all, I can’t tell you how glad I am that I’ve never been pulled over in Garfield. Apparently I’ve been breaking the law for up to twelve years. Now I feel like such a rebel.

To anyone who’s attracted to bad boys–I’m over here!

This evening I ran a couple errands then called my aunt, who’s staying with my dad at the hospital tonight, to see if they needed anything. She said, “I need a REAL Coke IN A CAN. Not a bottle. A can. It doesn’t even have to be cold.” So that’s what I brought her–three cans of Coca-Cola. Y’all, I don’t know if she’s a caffeine or sugar addict or what, but you would have thought I’d given her a line of cocaine and not just a can of soda. Her eyes were so wide when she popped the top. She said, “Here’s three dollars, and keep the change. IT’S WORTH IT.”

Before I left the hospital, I messed with the dry-erase board on the wall, the board where they write what day it is and who the nurse and doctor on duty are. There was a section at the bottom that asked, “What is your current pain goal?” The answer line was blank, so I wrote, “To not have any.” (Duh.) Then there was a pain-rating scale with five different cartoons. Basically there was a smiley face on one end and a scrunched up, frowny face on the other. Well, all of the faces were bald, so I drew them different hair styles, and one guy (pain level 3-4) even got a top hat.

I don’t know if anyone on the hospital staff will find this funny, but it clearly wasn’t about them.

Now it’s almost midnight, and I’m ready to call it a day. I’ve felt all right today, but my energy level is still shit. I’ve resigned myself to the fact that it could be like this for a while longer–up a little, down a little–until my doctors figure things out. Not forever, but for a while. I figure I can handle anything for a while. Hell, if I can drive a car without proof of registration for twelve years without getting pulled over, surely I’m lucky enough to survive this current storm, to ride it out until the calm returns. And maybe, just maybe, when the calm does return, I’ll celebrate my good fortune by drinking a Coke–from a can.