Nag, nag, nag.  That’s all they ever do.  This time it’s about sugar.  Something about too much sugar in the bloodstream.  So what does she want me to do about it?  Pump her tummy?  Why doesn’t she just go see a doctor and get it overwith already.  I’m trying to watch my game and she just won’t shut up.  Diabetes supplies.  She wants me to get up right now, while the Red Sox are winning, and drive to Walgreens to get her some diabetes supplies.  Can’t it wait until tomorrow?  I think you’ll live, dear.  Total silence, that’s better.  Nice and peaceful.  Calvanelli just scored another homer.  Life is good.  No—wait—life isn’t so good.  I just heard a car pull up.  Don’t tell me she invited that Lydia over.  She’s even louder than my wife is.  First off: close the door.  That’ll keep the harpy sound out.  Yep, I can hear them gawking even from inside here.  She’s telling that stupid frump Lydia that I never do anything she wants me to do.  She’s telling her that I’m lazy, just a big fat good-for-nothing lazy oaf.  She’s knocking on the door.  What is it?  Lydia wants to say hi and she brought mandel bread.  Oh, isn’t that jolly.  When the next commercial comes on, I’ll come out.  Not a minute before.