A wandering mind is a terrible thing to put shoes on.
Yesterday I found myself brushing my teeth while sitting on the throne. Never multi-tasked that one before. Which reminds me when I was peeing at MacDonald's once while drinking coke from a straw. The symmetry astounded me.
I hate to be disappointed, so here's a short Christmas list:
For George Bush, a wife smarter than he.
For Dick Cheney, a lesbian daughter who gives him some undeserved credence with the left.
For John Ashcroft, Tommy Chong sent to prison for an obscure, ten-year old law never tried before.
For carpetbagger Hillary Clinton, a new shift to biblical values.
For John Kerry, a bunch of murky medals.
For Andy Rooney, abstention from Botox.
For Conan O'Brien and Lyle Lovett, big hair.
For Bill Frist, the hochmut to think himself a neurospychiatrist, expert in Schiavotology, instead of the lowly heart surgeon he is.
For Americans, to continue freely giving away the rights their forefathers bled for in exchange for an empty promise of security against a foe who can never be stopped.
For all young female celebrities: lots of preggie talk.
For aging female celebrities: more Botox.
For Brad Pitt: bad hair.
For all Hollywood: bad hair, known in LA as the "urban survivor" look.
For the Simpsons: that Maggie never talks.
For Paul McCartney: no hit song.
For eminent domain: more strip malls.
For Rachel and Jacob, red hair; for Keturah, determination; for Sarah, more starring roles in theater.
For Howard and Elisa, lots of money!
For Dobey, lots of indecision and obsession and good people skills.
For Chris, exquisite taste.
For Elvis and Gidget, long hair.
I'll stop there and take a breath, seeing as how I went from celebrities to immediate family.
But I think all the Christmas wishes above will surely be granted.
Now about my blood pressure: the doctor treating me here, who cannot be myself as my insurance company rules (even if I am the only competent doctor in San Miguel), has me on a beta-blocker and a diuretic--with some success--and my mood seems to have notched up a bit since BP control has been better. Then beta blockers do make me sleep more and worry less, though they have also induced depression in the past. Then I have my trusty Lamictal. And my appetite has been outstanding. Despite this my jeans still fit by sliding under my pot belly. I don't wear a belt because my lumbar spine hurts too much, so my fashion is to tie a scarf between two loops of my pants to tighten the waist beneath the spare tire.
Face it, ladies and germs; as we age it's not the weight, it's the gravity and the sagging skin. Anyone seen Jack LaLane lately? Not even the original juice man can escape. And trust me, as a doctor, I have rarely seen a young women with flawless skin from head to toe--always some blemish or secret pocket of seborrhea or cellulite.
C'mon, people, give up on People and Hollywood and all the stick-figure nonsense ideal of health. Feel good, look good. Quality not marketability. (Then I have two brothers in advertising for which such advice must be anathema.)
And how am I doing? As if you care! I'm burned out on writing about Eliot; must re-group before the final issue of Melic. I consult with patients here out of the goodness of my heart, but never knew before that an 80-yr-old wheelchair-bound by Myasthenia Gravis would have a mind flexible enough to make psychotherapy and hypnosis worth doing.
As my insurance company knows, in these charitable endeavors, it is my sitting limit of two hours that trumps my employability as a physician, except as a courtier lying on a velvet couch. "Peel me a grape, Principal Financial." This is why I have to write fast during my alloted two hours, as I just wrote this in fifteen minutes. I can write a decent sonnet in fifteen minutes. I bless my verbally talented parents!
Deceased, I hope they read this, though I'm told the dead are a tough audience except here in Mexico where they are party animals. "Folded into a single party," as Eliot wrote.
Any Hortonhearsahoo, Merry CHRISTmas! (I did that for Hillary) to all my blogees!
CE aka Dr. Diego
p.s. My poetry is quoted in a new antropology text for bipolar culture being published by Princeton Press. Can fame be far away? Harummph!