Eat, Speak, Dance, Sing

Eat, Speak, Dance, Sing is this girl’s mantra. These are the things cancer stole and still hoards. Mantra repetition fills the head. The journey resembles the famous little engine. I think I can. I think I can. Oh shit, I can’t. Damn you cancer. Damn you.

duchess-diaries-dancingSaturday night, the clouds part, the angels sing and I cross dance off the list.

Sisterella’s baby girl got married. To say the YaYas are happy for this girl would be an understatement. The dress, the décor, the company–perfection. We are also glad the day has come and gone so we can have our dear Sisterella back to ourselves. We’re selfish like that.

Middle Chicken is my date. When a little one goes across country for law school, they tend to lose touch with friends at home. I spy her flitting about happy, smiling and laughing. She also looks like she stepped out of Vogue so there’s that.

Seems everyone is looking their Sunday best. A girlfriend tells me, “I know it’s a mess on the inside but it doesn’t show on the outside.” Squee. Thanks doll. Wanna be my BFF?

Could it be I’m getting closer to public appearances and parties again? Yes, Virginia there is a Santa Claus. Coincidence? I think not. It’s that I walk around all day repeating, “Eat, Speak, Dance, Sing.” And spend each night begging Sweet Baby Jesus to snap his Holy fingers and produce all four.

Of course, when you’re hidden away for months (cancer will do that to a girl-asshat) people are curious. I’m ready for that. What is it people want to know?

“Do you still have Gus?” Why am I not surprised?


“Wait. Is he here right now?”

“Yep.” My hand unconsciously moves to the spot where he is securely fastened down.

Then we both look at the spot and they question, “Is he behaving?” I swear to God, I should write a book about my famous feeding tube. Fortunately this night, all is quiet on the Gus front. I taped him down, filled him to the brim and tucked him in the top edge of my thong to prevent errant escape. Success.

The music begins. Toes tap of their own accord. One leg gets a little swingy. Pretty soon, head is bobbing. There may even be a little shoulder action. Fun Brain says, “Go. Go dance. You can do it.” Usually vodka pushes me to the dance floor. This time it’s Fun Brain.

Realistic Brain says, “Don’t. You can’t do it. What if you fall? You’ll embarrass yourself in front of everyone.” Like the nerd in the corner, the music takes over and I can’t help myself. I dance move my way to the floor and join the Yayas. Geeks got nothing on this girl.

There is a woot woot at my joining and we’re off. I am, indeed, dancing with my best girls. God only knows how I look but when “All the Single Ladies,” blares, Fun Brain tells me my moves are flawless. There may have even been singing.

As for Eat, Speak, Dance, Sing?  Thanksgiving is next week. Perhaps we can knock another one off the list.


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