The Wormlips Scrapbook

Today marked the return of the prodigal daughter. To celebrate, we went to my physical therapy appointment. On the way home we got a noble fir.

For our midnight tree decorating session, Tennessee Ernie Ford was Lulu’s music bed of choice. Then I put on one of my favorite Christmas ditties: St. Stephen’s Day Murders by Elvis Costello and Paddy Moloney.

With his gin-flavored whiskers and kisses of sherry,
His best Chrimbo shirt slung out over the shop.
While the lights from the Christmas tree blow up the telly,
His face closes in like an old cold pork chop.

We carefully stuck the ugly decorations at the back of the tree.

Stella didn’t help at all.

Every year my heart hurts when I come upon the ornament that Cedric Williams gave me in 1976. Twin brother to Dedric, he was 10 and living in the Section 8 complex across the street from us. Dedric was tough; Cedric was affectionate and sensitive. They hung out with JR who put nails in the end of a stick and killed a cat. Cedric wanted to be at our house every day after school and every free weekend minute. Eventually it drove me crazy and I stopped being very nice any more. But still he adored us.

In 1978, when I told him we were moving, he begged to come visit our new place. I said sure, but I left without saying where we were going. I never said goodbye, even.

Let’s talk about my health, shall we? At tonight’s SoundVision Productions Christmas winter holiday dinner there were abundant dishes of which every bite brought me big pain. I am so bloody sick of whatever’s wrong with me that I almost had a mid-meal meltdown. Only after I stopped trying to eat was I able to carry on a conversation. The cake, however, was painless, so I ate a shiteload of that.

When I got home, today’s blood test results were awaiting me online. Do you understand these things? Here are some of the results that were flagged as “abnormal.”

I hope a gal doesn’t need much ferritin cuz I sure ain’t got me none. Might this explain why I write in my blog so much?

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The instant-messages that fly between Lulu and me are always scintillating and, as you can see, sometimes even touching:

Yo-Nenny — I keep telling you: if you want me to write about you too, you have to come over so I have something to say. Okay?

Honestly: daughters!

I spoke with one of my doctors today. Not my new foot guy from England or my old foot guy whom I miss. Not the eccentric surgeon who became an MD at 21 in India. Nor my GP whom I’d follow to the ends of the earth and in fact do follow all the way to Folsom. No, this is another of my legions. When I log onto my HMO’s web site, the dropdown menu of my docs practically hits the floor.

Don’t worry: I won’t rattle on about what body part is doing what (though “rattle” is descriptive of my general comportment). Suffice it to say that something’s been up for the past six months, maybe an allergy, that makes eating painful. And there are unidentified neurological goings-on that have my medical battalion baffled.

So on the phone today, Doc 847 asked a number of questions, probing for the tiniest clue. Suddenly his nose twitched (probably) as he scented a warm trail. Something about temporal lobes.

Have you been experiencing a heightened religiosity lately? he asked.

Huunh? I replied delicately. Me?

Or are you writing more than usual?

Uh, well, actually…

I ask you, gentle reader of my imagination: Do those four blog entries last night count?

No, really. That’s creepy. How did he know about all this writing? Suddenly I don’t feel like writing any more. Goodnight.

Speaking of which, I dreamed last night about my dead friend Kathy. I saw her in a rich but subdued garden: exotic, dark plants without blossoms or color. It was her garden, she told me, and she’d planted it in the year since she died. Now she spends all her time tending it and redesigning it. She’s doesn’t miss radio at all, she said, and the gardening keeps her from missing us too much. She’s used to being alone anyway. Unlike my most of my dreams about dead people, I got to touch and hug her before she faded.

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On Monday morning I got my cast off.

Right afterwards, I shaved my right leg and flew to LA. I love the funky North Hollywood hotel where I stay. Its café (Café 101) has stellar french fries. Speaking of stellar, the establishment is reputed to be frequented by stars but I’ve never seen any. Just people who dress like them.

I came home after the Pacifica Radio Archives fund drive the next night. [I'd been managing the Web site. See if you can find me.] It went well. I donated $100. Did you?

My work week concluded with a swell of interpersonal strife that I neither understand nor need. For a change I decided to take the weekend off. I mowed the lawn and visited M at Dickens Fair. Look at her friends modeling in the window of the corset shop, Dark Garden. Aren’t they just pure perfection?

I tried on a corset myself and was elated to realize I’m a 2-inch size smaller than last year. I can cinch down to a 24-inch waist without turning blue.

As in past years, I was compelled to get out on the dance floor. Literally compelled; M is relentless. I waltzed and polka’d with strangers and M’s friends for quite a while, frustrated at how quickly my legs tired until I remembered I’m four days out of a five-week cast. I added an item to my list of lifetime ambitions: learn to spin endlessly without puking. Here’s M and a friend, both of whom are good at that. He had a Christmas-caroling voice so deep it rattled my eardrums.

I wish I hadn’t eaten all those chips and cookies and chocolate when I got home.

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