The Wormlips Scrapbook

Yo-Nenny and Jason came by last night for a bitteen of competitive Double Canfield, becoming so engrossed by the action that they missed the last bus home. We had an exceptionally silly time. In order, here are: Jason’s — uh — poker face; Yo-Nenny goes hysterical; Stella administers a sliming.

Between games I snapped a few photos of my newly cleaned house, for pre-rental documentation. I probably should pack up my treasures to keep them secure, but I just don’t have time.

I had just remodeled my living room when lava started seeping in through the base of the front wall. Within seconds a grey, steaming, bubbling skin had covered the floor leaving only tiny bare patches of oak. Suddenly I realized: Damn, I shouldn’t have turned on that lava machine!, which I guess was a feature of my remodel — maybe a cutting-edge, green way to heat my floors? I went to flip off the switch but nothing happened: more lava. I had nowhere to stand, and it was totally wrecking the finish.

As I write, again and again I keep hearing footsteps clomping up to my front door and then receding. I hypothesize that they belong to political activists who are reading the sign I put out there:

No soliciting, no matter how worthy your cause. Thank you.

Yesterday Stella and I got our shots, for rabies and flu, respectively. I didn’t really need that “respectively,” did I?

I’m feeling increasingly guilty about leaving her for so long. She’s getting mopey and hiding in corners a lot. So when she looked longingly at the toys on the shelf at the pet food store, I had to indulge her. I didn’t buy her this…

But she really wanted this one stuffed pig. She really did. I could tell. I thought it might comfort her while I’m gone. Notice that the first thing Stella does, once left alone with the pig, is to sniff its floral butt.

By the way, Polly Piggy is “created for interactive play” (as opposed to other dog toys) and is also a “really tough toy but still vulnerable.” It floats, and comes with the promise that it will be my dog’s “best friend and companion for hours of fun and enjoyment.” Here’s Polly five minutes later.

Look who’s home from her year in the jungles of Central America.

I’m so glad you’re back, Jill. Cheryl just got back from Nepal, too. I get to see her later this week.

T’is also the season for parents to welcome home prodigal daughters from college. When prodigal daughters don’t drive, welcoming is an active process entailing several hours of travel time. I arrived in her town a night early so I could go to Monday night Irish dance class nearby. It’s been several years since I’ve done my solo steps in front of P, our beloved and brutally exacting teacher, and I was nervous. But afterwards P made of special point of telling me that I’d danced well. Since she does not dole out praise lightly — I’ve gotten it a handful of times in more than a decade — I’ve been cradling those words in my mind like brittle petals ever since.

I spent the night at Shirley’s and Scott’s. Meet their hounds, Bailey and Buddy.

They had a another overnight guest, a guy from North Carolina who sipped iced whiskey, played a shiny guitar and sang — in what was clearly the voice of experience — original songs about mighty hangovers. He had accompaniment during the choruses.

The following noon, upon my arrival on campus, my prodigal daughter was working frantically on a final essay about something linguistic. Her third-floor dorm room looked disturbingly lived-in, though she did have a stack of six packed boxes. Luckily I’d brought my laptop so I got to finish a two-hour work task (forgetting to unplug and bring home my computer’s power supply: an $85 error, it turned out). Then I wandered around the hallway, sightseeing. I was intrigued by the signs, particularly the one that begged its readers not to throw food in the stairwells, nor to spit on the walls or in the water fountains. There was a notice about a workshop on interracial dating and another poster asking students not to put objects bigger than the trash chute into the trash chute.

How much can one college student have accumulated in a mere nine months, you may ask? Let me answer the best way I can: five hours, a thousand stairs and one parking ticket’s worth. I was barely able to jam the final wee item — a bike — into my huge old station wagon.

We used the last credits on Lulu’s meal ticket to buy fifteen bags of M&Ms, two Pepsis and some Junior Mints. Before heading home we dropped some of her stuff at the house she’ll be sharing next year, only blocks from where we lived in 2000.