Monkey luv

It’s no secret that I adore all things simian. Monkeys, apes, chimps—you name it. If loving primates is wrong then arrest me! Guilty as charged.

That’s why I was so delighted when I found out about this. A holiday created to honor local monkeys with a delicious buffet? Phenomenal! I MUST get over to Thailand at some point and see this feast in person.

In other exciting news, I recently discovered that Jill Greenberg (a photographer whose work I admire immensely) published a new book. Her signature style is amazing. She digitally manipulates her photographs in a way that is hard to describe, but the end result is luminescent and almost painterly. She has done quite a bit of work with celebrities, but of course her monkey portraits are my faves. And now they are in a format that everyone can afford and enjoy!

I was discussing Ms. Greenberg’s art with my coworker, and he told me that a fancy friend of his bought one of her original monkey prints from a gallery in New York. I almost swooned with envy. They are apparently huge–like 4 feet high or something amazing. Can you imagine?? I don’t want to win the lottery to buy a bigger house or fancy car. I want to win the lottery so I can afford oversized, shiny monkey photos. That’s the real ticket to happiness, I’m sure of it.

Cheeky phone home

I’m disproportionately obsessed with my new phone. It’s so pretty. It’s so ORANGE. I love love love it.

It has a full keyboard on the inside. I’m extra excited about this because it will make texting so much easier. Of course, it’s not like I’m a texting fiend. In fact, the only texting I usually do with Jim and consists of such messages as “U R a monkey” or “U R a gorilla” accompanied by a relevant illustration. But STILL. Think how much faster I’ll be able to type those messages now. It boggles the mind and makes me all tingly.

No grace under pressure

After a series of minor mishaps over the Thanksgiving weekend, it has become clear to me that I perform very poorly under pressure. I used to think I had a decent head of my shoulders, but apparently that is no longer the case. Now the best I can manage in a crisis is jumping up and down and yelling for help. And now for the trail of evidence:

STRIKE ONE
When we pulled into my parents’ garage after a relatively uneventful trip from Denver (aside from the cage-match-quality dog wrestling that Banjo & Rooster engaged in for no less than 2 hours of the drive) I breathed a big sigh of relief. I’m not big on road trips to begin with, and sitting for 7 hours in my present “condition” is less than comfortable. We said our hellos and dragged some of us stuff into the house and then returned to the garage to get the rest of our gear. That’s when I noticed that the garage was full of smoke. It occurred to me that the car might actually be on fire.

At that point I started yelling for help. I didn’t open the garage door or anything that might actually make sense. I just started yelling. Help quickly appeared and my dad (who is always cool in times of trouble) raised the garage door while Jim started to investigate. I was still standing several yards away, jumping up and down and yelling “I think it’s on fire! I think it’s on fire!”

As it turns out, it wasn’t. We didn’t discover the root of the problem until the following day (a leaky oil pump) but it clearly wasn’t a fire, and I clearly overreacted.

STRIKE TWO
I was just starting to calm down after the false fire alarm when we had another brush with disaster. After eating dinner and some delicious pie, I let Banjo out into my parents’ backyard. It didn’t occur to me that he was unfamiliar with their sliding glass door. So unfamiliar, that when he came sprinting back to the house, he didn’t bother to stop. He plowed smack into the door, nose first. I saw the whole thing and I was convinced he’d done irreparable harm, like maybe smashed his nose or neck or who knows what else.

So I started yelling. And jumping up and down. And insisting that Jim pick Banjo up and check for missing/broken parts. Meanwhile Banjo had stopped yelping and seemed to be just fine. But I still spent the next few hours watching him closely for signs of concussion and lamenting the fact that I had failed to pull the screen door shut in front of the glass so he could have avoided such a cruel fate.

STRIKE THREE
I’ve always been a little afraid of pressure cookers. Despite their wonderful quick-cooking abilities, they seem menacing with their tight seals and their loud steam and their cautionary warnings about cooling them down properly before opening. In fact, I had been bugging my mom to replace her pressure cooker for a couple of years because it was a bit leaky and that doesn’t work well with the whole “pressure” concept.

She ignored me, of course. She seems to have a sentimental attachment to pots and pans. Anyway, when she threw some potatoes into the aged cooker while we were making Thanksgiving dinner, for once I only had a mild sense of dread. I figured it’s worked before, it will work again. That is, until 15 minutes later when the pot started spewing hot water uncontrollably and making a horrible noise. That’s when I pulled out my favorite trick. I started jumping up and down and yelling for help. Do you see a common thread here? I could have reached over and turned off the stove but instead I stood there screaming “Don’t touch it! Don’t touch it!” as my mom calming grabbed a pot holder and moved the bubbling mess over to a burner that wasn’t in use.

Needless to say the pot was hastily retired and I had the final proof that I’m completely worthless in a crisis situation. Three strikes, I’m OUT!

How can this be? I was a lifeguard in high school. I saved kids from drowning on a few of different occasions. And when I was in college I stopped at the scene of a messy car accident and helped out with some basic first aid. What has become of me? What’s going to happen if a few years from now our kid falls and breaks his arm? Am I just going to stand there and yell? I really need to get a grip. Maybe I should have Jim create some mock emergencies so I can practice my reactions. Because I’m starting to feel seriously pathetic.

Recommended

I just finished reading Special Topics in Calamity Physics this weekend. It’s a good book for anyone who liked The Secret History by Donna Tartt. But not The Little Friend by Donna Tartt, because that kind of sucked.

Anywho, S.T.I.C.P. was quite the page-turner, despite the fact that the literary references got a bit tired after a while. The only major downside to the book is that the author is very young and attractive (this according to her picture on the back flap of the book jacket). So young and attractive, that you begin to think that perhaps your best years are behind you, and while we’re on the subject, why in the hell didn’t you write the great American novel or do something important while you were still young and energetic?

But uh . . . otherwise a satisfying read. Check it out.

Two down, one to go

Tomorrow is the beginning of trimester #3. It appears we might actually have a baby in two and a half months. It’s still hard to believe, even when he’s practicing his Cirque de Soleil routine in the middle of the night.

But it’s becoming more real by the day. For instance, there are a lot of baby related items strew about the house. We still haven’t painted the room, so we’re trying to keep things out of there so there’s more room to maneuver. Plus, my shower was this weekend. In addition to adding a bunch of new items to our tiny cheekster’s wardrobe, the event confirmed a few things I already knew. #1: my mom and my friends are fabulous (and fabulously generous, with fabulous taste) and #2: I tend to cry. A lot. I cry any time my emotions swing beyond the norm. In other words, when I’m: happy, sad, grateful, scared, angry, feeling exceptionally lucky, tired, etc. etc. It’s sort of ridiculous, and I can’t pinpoint when the change took place. Because when I was a teenager I almost never cried. I HATED crying. And now I can’t stop. It’s like I’m making up for lost time.

Anyway, I think I couldn’t stop crying on Saturday for a few reasons. First and foremost, because I feel so damn lucky. I know that sounds cheesy, but it’s true. I feel so lucky that the second IVF worked. It’s probably because I know of many couples out there who have gone through so much more than we did and are still trying. So I know this pregnancy is not something to be taken for granted.

The second reason I couldn’t stop crying is because as I stood in a room full of my friends, I realized how much I value each and every one of them. When I was younger I didn’t have that many female friends. For some reason I always got along better with the guys. It might have to do with my warped sense of humor. Who knows. But over the past few years I’ve developed some amazing friendships with other women, and I’ve really come to rely on their support and guidance. And they’ve patiently listened to more tales of woe and details of medical procedures than anyone should ever have to, bless their souls.

The final reason I couldn’t stop crying? Well, the hormones, of course! Max is really doing a number on me. That’s right—Max. Well, actually . . . Maxwell. But we’ll call him Max for short. We decided our friends and family are mature enough to handle finding out the name ahead of time, so we told everyone this weekend. And luckily there was nary a snide remark. In fact, the announcement went really well. A lot better than Jim’s favorite name, Wolfgang, (yeah, for reals) would have, I suspect.

Whew!

My dad’s tests all went well. The bone scan showed that there are no additional spots of cancer, and the ones that are there have shrunk a bit. The CAT scan was clear. They’re not sure why the PSA number went up a bit, but it basically means that he still has cancer. And since we’ve already been told (on numerous occasions) that his advanced prostate cancer is pretty much incurable, that part wasn’t a surprise. It’s just the keeping-it-under-control part that the doctors are trying to focus on now. So they’re going to try a new medication that is supposed to keep the PSA in check. Fingers tightly crossed.

Lord of the Nerds

Breathtaking in both their complexity and sheer geekiness. I have to give extra props to this one, of course.

Nervous

My dad’s PSA level went up two points, so he and my mom headed back down to MD Anderson this week to have all his tests redone. We’ll find out the results tomorrow. If they tell him he needs another round of chemo (which would be his third) it will be quite a blow.

All I can do now is keep my fingers crossed and hope for the best. I hate feeling so helpless.

Showin’ the ‘hounds some love

Very exciting week for us: Jim was one of the first runner-ups in the office mustache competition. I say “one of” because there were actually three categories: the Magnum, the Uncle Rico, and the Most Original. Jim competed in the Magnum category. And let me tell you, he worked it.

In brief, the competition was designed as a fund raiser. Each participant chose a local charity to raise money for. Jim chose Wiseguy’s Italian Greyhound Rescue, which is the organization where we adopted Rooster and Banjo. So we bugged our friends and family for donations. We even baked a batch of cupcakes and sold them at the office for $1 in an effort to raise more money. In the end we raised about $325.

Growing the mustache was not an easy or comfortable task for Jim, as it turned out. But in the end he did quite well, especially considering his follicular challenges. I have to admit it was amusing seeing him walking around with a mustache. He had a distinct cheesy salesman look.

The grand finale of the competition was a forum for all the competitors to “present” their mustaches to the office. These presentations ranged from simple “I’m growing my mustache for . . . ” to highly involved (a mockumentary video showcasing one of the “most original” contestants). Since the competition finale coincided with Halloween, participants were encouraged to incorporate their mustaches into their costumes. Jim dressed up as the Swedish Chef, a la the Muppets. He did a ridiculous little number featuring a mustache-wearing rubber chicken and a large faux meat cleaver. And of course, there was the requisite “Bork! Bork! Bork!” I laughed so hard I cried, and I wasn’t the only one.

The competition was designed as a “winner take all”. In other words, all the money that everyone raised was pooled together and the idea was that the 3 category winners would split the cash between their chosen charities. The winners were to be determined based on both amount of money raised and votes. But when it came down to it, the office decided to award cash to the runner-ups as well. I guess some people raised lots of money but didn’t get as many votes, and some got a lot of votes but didn’t raise a lot of money. Anyway, the change in rules meant that Jim was a winner! Sometime in the next few days he will be able to present Wiseguy’s Italian Greyhound Rescue with a check for more than $600! We didn’t tell them about the competition, so I think they’ll be very happily surprised.

Jim shaved the day after Halloween and in a strange way I miss that cheesy ‘satche. All the office mustaches made for some great conversation pieces over the past few weeks.