Mom, Rash, and Cumming. (That sounds bad.)

MOM

The Mother Unit

Long/short and without invading her privacy — not that I haven’t Tweeted her from here to queendom come already — my Mom was to have a procedure on Friday which is normally done in the doctor’s office, but because of her age, heart, and other medical concerns, it was done at the hospital.

As is always the case, she takes these things in stride. As is also always the case, we, her children, and she, end up amusing and entertaining the medical staff,and on departure we are hugging everyone. We are a family of huggers. I am, in fact, well known for my hugs both by those who have been shocked and put off by my embrace and those who yearn for my long, tight, back rubbing, soothing caresses, being enfolded in my love and light.

The outpatient surgical waiting area, complete with grand piano that plays itself. And the EVITA balcony. I wanted to, I really did, but I didn’t.

Once Mom went under, sister and I were sent out to the GORGEOUS waiting area, handed a buzzer like one gets when waiting for a table at a restaurant, and informed that the procedure would take about an hour.

Imagine my surprise when ten minutes later it started to vibrate. Imagine my horror when I went to the volunteer desk and said, “I think you buzzed the wrong buzzer, my Mom’s operation takes an hour.” And they said, “The doctor needs to speak with you right away,” and led me to the consultation room.

Short/long. She is fine. The procedure was unnecessary because the condition is a result of her aging, there is nothing to be done about it except make a few adjustments in behavior, and it is what it is.

Thank goodness I had listened to her when she’d INSISTED on getting her hair done the day before the procedure. I am less worried about the condition killing her than I am about her head exploding if her beloved Baltimore Orioles lose one more game to the Yankees she hates so much. Her screaming at the television is likely to result in burst blood vessels or a stroke. Or, maybe not, once again the medical staff each and every one did some variation of, “You are in amazing shape and health for an 89-year-old.”

She is. And it gives me hope that despite my recent medical travails, if I keep living, I’ll be able to keep living, in the way my mom, example for us all, has thrived and gone on. But speaking of my medical issues … there’s my …

RASH

My beautiful rash. I can’t even look at myself in the mirror when I take my clothes off, shower, etcetera, and I have to hide at the gym, which has DESTROYED my sauna game.

By this time tomorrow, I should finally have had the skin biopsy which has now been postponed three times, and be on the way (I hope) to solving the mystery of this ever spreading (well, it’s stopped now as everything from the neck down is covered — PLEASE don’t move up to my face), ever morphing in shape and texture, un-diagnosable (so far) or treatable rash (that is not really a rash) which has been going on since January. I will also, no doubt, have had my vasovagal syncope reaction to the numbing needles and passed out. I’ve been told the biopsy leaves only the tiniest of scars. Look, a tiny scar after months of being covered in dots and splotches seems a little thing — as long as it leads to a cure.

I need a cure, because, of late, I am also having issues with forgetfulness, a mind stutter where I seem to go offline for a few seconds, and there is joint pain, for example, this morning I can hardly move my right thumb, and I’m having chest constriction — which feels like anxiety but I don’t feel particularly anxious. Weird. I would like some answers.

But, look, I know I’m lucky. Look at my brave, amazing Mom who delivered six children, had three miscarriages, has had heart, kidney, and endless other surgeries, gets daily shots, has seen her parents, two husbands, all of her siblings, and one of her delivered children die, and  — she’s so dear — wanted to go with me tomorrow for my two-minute skin biopsy because, “I know how you feel about needles and you take me everywhere.”

I have, maybe, the greatest mother of all time.

And finally, CUMMING, of the Alan variety

Last night my dear A treated me to a night at the Kennedy Center where we saw Alan Cumming performing his Alan Cumming Sings Sappy Songs, which A had already seen twice — once in its original iteration at the Cafe Carlyle and another time at Strathmore Concert Hall. A is a devoted fan of Mr. Cumming. I confess I had never seen him live, ever, and wasn’t quite sure what to expect. I can say with 100% sincerity, my experiencing of Alan’s one night stand was a great time.

The Carver Twins

More Carver Twins because … well, look.

I also must confess, I was a little disappointed that I did not see the Carver Twins, Charlie and Max, in the audience. I knew they were in D.C. for the climate march and I thought I’d heard they (or, at least Charlie) were going to be at the concert. If they were, they were well hidden. Alas. Although, probably fine because while I do have an undeniable appeal to young men with daddy-issues, with Alan being 52 and right there, clearly available and more than able (those pants were tight and obviously bothering him as he kept adjusting his estimable bulge), and considering my rash, why would they bother with me?

I was distracted by Mr. Cumming, though. (Aside from the bulge and its frequent adjustment.) He is a much better vocalist than I had thought and he invests each number with intense emotion, real commitment, and wraps it all up in a story, well told. And speaking of stories, his between songs patter was pretty damn glorious, near perfect. Funny, touching, interesting, shocking, moving, perfectly timed and delivered, and, too, his digs about the current state of politics and life in this country, well, they earned huge applause. His anecdotes about Stephen Sondheim, Liza Minnelli, Judy Garland, Kay Thompson, and a fellow named Raven, are hilarious.

And, it’s the way he delivers that really makes it. He has a smooth awareness of just how cute and gamine he can be before crossing over into calculated and arch. The sideways glance, the slow take, the rim-shot moments, the flirting, the outright seduction are some near-lethal combination of charming and erotic, so you feel surrendered and a little naughty.

That said, I don’t trust him. HA! He gives me the vibe of someone who wears his sensitivity as a defense of his cruelty, and I’ve tried to avoid those types in which I once specialized — their magnetism and sensual aura sucks you in and makes you part of their defense team, you fall for their vulnerability and use it as an excuse for all the horrible shit they do to you. So, no, I could NEVER give in to my lust for him — really, I couldn’t. Go ahead, Alan, test me. And, too, being shallow me, I could never have sex with him — really, I couldn’t, go ahead Alan, ASK ME — because he has too much underarm hair for me and I haven’t ever liaised with a man in his 50s. Unless one counts my nights with myself. Which, I don’t. So, Alan, there’s no hope for the two of us. I mean it. Don’t try. Seriously, you’d just get hurt but, well, if you don’t believe me, JUST ASK ME.

Now if we could get the Carver boys on board … maybe … okay, gotta run, the world isn’t going to hug itself, now is it? Love and light, dear ones.