Angie Kinghorn

Wordless Wednesday: the Titanic and Beyoncé

I know it’s supposed to be wordless Wednesday, but bear with me, because this may require some explanation.  


Mark and I took a weekend jaunt to his alma mater this weekend for homecoming.  Friday night the campus takes on a carnival atmosphere.  There was a Ferris wheel, a carnival ride that would have made me lose my dinner for sure, a bounce house, and….



The sinking Titanic.  


I told Mark I had to take pictures because nobody would believe me otherwise.  This is a giant inflatable thing just like a bounce house, except people climbed up the steep grade in the middle so they could slide down the deck.


My poor iPod camera didn’t do this thing justice, by the way.  It was huge.  And complete with giant inflated propellers on the back (which Mark refused to stop the car to allow me to photograph).



Here’s another view.  Huge.  Titanic, even.


On a completely unrelated note, I told Mark that if we ran across any big metal chickens this weekend, he had to let me buy one.  He agreed, but added that he felt sure no such chickens would be forthcoming.


Imagine his shock as we sauntered down the street to dinner and ran across this:



I promptly dubbed it Beyoncé Jr., and demanded that Mark take a photo.  Of course I wanted to get it, but Mark wasn’t keen on a $150 metal chicken.  It seems The Bloggess has singlehandedly created a market for metal chickens and through sheer demand, driven up the price.  Oh, well.  One can dream.


Three blocks later….



I grabbed Mark’s arm and gasped.  “Holy mother of chickens!  It’s HER!  It’s actually Beyoncé!”


Bizarrely, I was more excited by this than I would have been by a sighting of the actual Beyoncé.  Yes, I know, I’m odd.


Sadly, Beyoncé was locked in an art gallery that was closed for the night.  And, as Mark kept asking, “Where the hell would we put it, anyway?”


***If you are unfamiliar with Beyoncé the giant metal chicken, you must go visit The Bloggess and read about it immediately.

The Great Monkey Deception

Y’all are not going to believe this.


This morning, as I was eating cereal and waiting for the coffee to clear the dregs of sleep from my brain, the kids were watching TV.  (Don’t judge; I’m a terrible person, let alone mother, before I’m sufficiently caffeinated.)


Anyway, they were watching Curious George.  We’ve seen every episode a thousand times by now, but somehow, I never quite noticed…


THAT CURIOUS GEORGE HAS NO TAIL.

See?!?  I am so not making this up.

Now, every Curious George book I’ve seen starts with the phrase “This is George.  George is a monkey,” or some such.   All the PBS disclaimers at the end of the episodes say, “George is a monkey.  He can do things you can’t do.”  You know, so that if your children try to swing from tree branches by their nonexistent tails and fall and break their legs, you can’t sue the network. 

Ahem.

Anyway, according to Wikipedia, this means George is not a monkey, but an ape (perhaps a chimp), or a gorilla (um, no).

I mentioned The Great Monkey Deception to Mark as he was on his way out the door, and he said, “Well, maybe he’s a macack.”  At least, that’s what I thought he said, because frankly, I assumed he made the word up.  

So I said, “Yeah, right, George the curious macack.  Very funny.”

But you know how we established in the predator urine post that Mark knows everything?

This, from the Wikipedia entry on Curious George: “…though it should be noted that some species of monkeys, such as the Barbary macaque, have little or no tail.”

Somebody please sign my husband up for Jeopardy.  And order me a large slice of humble pie.


Predator urine. No, really.

Hi.
Yes, I’m still here.  I could try to explain why there haven’t been many posts here at On the rocks and straight up in the last couple of months…but I’d rather share what Stephen King says in “On Writing,” his book about how he came to be a writer:  “Then as now, I tend to go through periods of idleness followed by periods of workaholic frenzy.”
Yes, that.
Anyway.
This weekend’s paper featured an in-depth article on how to keep deer (and other pests) out of your garden.  A solution for almost every pest involved spreading “predator urine” around the affected plants, or, for gophers and other tunneling beasties, soaking something in predator urine and dropping it into their dens.
I thought this was our paper’s way of avoiding an uncomfortable subject by substituting a preferred word.  For instance, a large gathering downtown over Memorial Day resulted in what was unquestionably a riot.  As in, 30,000 people gathered in one place.  The mob commenced to loot, fight, and eventually shoot one guy in the head.  The paper is resolute in its use of the word “melee” instead of “riot” to describe the incident.
Naturally I assumed that “use predator urine” was the paper’s polite way of saying “go pee in your garden.”  The venison spaghetti sauce served at all our family Thanksgivings proves nothing if not that we are predators of deer, right?
Right.
And given local ordinances about public urination, the paper can’t come out saying, “Hey, guys, go take a whiz off the porch into your wife’s flowers so the deer won’t eat them.” 
Right?
Apparently not.
I shared my theory with Mark, and he shot it down, telling me that no, the paper meant that you should use actual predator urine.  Not husband pee.  
“Yeah, right,” I said.  “You are so messing with me.  Like you could go out and buy predator urine.”
“Oh, you can get it at Home Depot.”
“You are so full of it.”
“No, I’m serious.”
“Yeah, right.  You just want me to go into Home Depot and ask ‘Hey, dude, where do you keep the predator urine?’  And then he’ll be all, ‘Uh, I got a crazy lady on Aisle 6 wanting to buy urine.’”
“I’m serious.  They have fox urine.”
“Riiiight.”
“They do!  And it stinks.  Trust me, you do not want to smell like fox urine.”
“Look me in the eye and tell me you’re serious.”
He looks into my eyes.  “I’m serious.”
“Ok, then look it up online and show me.”
He moves to my computer.
“Wait! Don’t you dare Google ‘fox urine’ on my computer.  Use yours.”
“I’m not.  I’m going to the Home Depot website.  Though maybe they don’t sell it online.”
“Yeah.  That would be convenient.”
He types.  He clicks.  Products appear.  None of them are fox urine.
“Huh.  I guess they don’t have it online.”
“Shocker!  Might that be because you are so screwing with me?”
Mark continues clicking and typing.  “I know that they have wolf, bobcat, and coyote urine…I’m sure there is other stuff, but I don’t know what.”
“Ok, say you’re right.  How do they collect this urine?  I’ve gotten urine samples from a 4 year old at the pediatrician and I would rather chew my own hand off then try and catch one from a coyote.”
“Captives.  Zoos, breeders.”
“You’re telling me that our zoo is in a major monetary crisis when they could be selling all of their animal waste products to major home improvement stores?”
“Sure.”
“Is there anything else you’d like to add to this ridiculousness?” I ask, now typing furiously to record for posterity Mark’s pitiful attempt at wife ridicule.
“Yes.  I’d like to add that you think it’ll be fun to do this sarcastic, scathing post, but you’re the one who’s gonna be embarrassed when it’s confirmed that they do sell all these products.”
“Ok, fine, you get on your brand new computer and Google ‘captive urine.’”
He gets on his computer, types for a minute, and then smugly hands it over.
You’re kidding me.
Right there on Amazon.  Red fox urine.  Also available?  Urine from wolves, coyotes, and bobcats.  
Of course it is.  Because Mark knows everything.
I stare at the screen, searching for telltales that would mark this as a fake site.  Trying to figure out how these are joke products.
“So why didn’t you want to Google it?”  Mark asks.  A smirk dances around the corners of his mouth.
“Because you can Google perfectly innocent things and get horrible links to Thai whorehouses and stuff, and I’m pretty sure ‘fox urine’ would lead to the kind of viruses that come screaming out of your laptop and splatter you with giant oozing sores.”
“Thai whorehouses?”
“Yes.  Or massage parlors, whatever.  Stop smirking.”
Later, in the bathroom, we’re both brushing our teeth, and I’m trying to salvage some of my dignity by reiterating my previous argument.
“You know, I still think they used the phrase ‘predator urine’ because they couldn’t say on the section front of a reputable newspaper that they wanted you to go pee in your own flowers.  I mean, if your cousin Tom proves nothing else, it’s that men are deer predators.”
I continue to talk as Mark swishes with Listerine.
“And that part about using predator urine in gopher holes?  I mean really.  Peeing on your flowers is one thing.  Peeing in a gopher hole?  What if the gopher jumped out and just, you know, latched on?” 
He chokes on his Listerine and spits into the sink.
“You know that gopher in Caddyshack would have done it.  I bet they’re all like that.  Isn’t that why people have gopher bombs?”
“Why don’t you Google it?”
“I am so not Googling ‘gopher attacks penis.’”
“Ok, well, try ‘cougar attacks penis.’  I’m sure you’ll have better luck.”
I’ll leave that one to you, dear readers.

Where the hell I’ve been

Sometimes life gets in the way of blogging.  I’m ok with that, since this isn’t an actual job for me, but since I have virtually dropped off the internet for the last few weeks, it seems appropriate to tell y’all what’s been going on. 
In a nutshell: my husband got sick the Thursday before Halloween.  Sick enough to go to the doctor, sick enough to not be able to sleep, sick enough to take narcotic painkillers.  This is a man who has to be on death’s own doorstep to take even two Advil.  Naturally, I thought he must be dying.  His doctor, on the other hand, thought he had a kidney stone, and sent him home on Friday to wait out the weekend with pain meds, copious amounts of water, and a sieve in which to urinate until nature took care of the problem.  
I pretended not to worry (translation: I tried to hide as much of my anxiety as possible and made myself busy nagging him to rest, to drink more water, to actually use the sieve in the bathroom, etc.), but I became fearful as the weekend ticked by and his pain got worse.  The hubster is the kind of guy who will gut it out through anything.  He’d go to work with his arm half amputated, saying, “It’s only a flesh wound!” 
So seeing him doubled over, groaning in pain, and getting up from the couch like a pregnant woman…well, it scared the hell out of me.  
But not as much as his attitude Monday morning, when no kidney stone had appeared, and when one of his testicles was suddenly so swollen and tender he wouldn’t let me touch it.  Never mind gutting it out, the hubster stayed home from work and called the doctor until, on his third call, he finally talked to the guy and was referred to a urologist.  Who couldn’t see him until the next day.
The next day, he was still in agony, and had an appointment with the urologist, followed by an ultrasound and a CT scan.  The day after that, he had an appointment at 8:30 a.m. to discuss the test results with the doctor.  I offered to go, but the hubster told me to take the kids to preschool and not worry about it.
So I was suspicious when he called me right before 9 and told me he’d changed his mind.  He wanted me there for the appointment after all.
“What’s wrong?”  I asked.  “I know you’ve already seen him.  What did he tell you?”
“Nothing.  He’s running late.  And I just decided I’d rather have you here for the appointment.”
“You’re a terrible liar.  Doctors don’t run late first thing in the morning.  What’s wrong?”
He almost sounded normally exasperated as he replied, “Nothing.  Seriously.  Just come down here after you drop the kids off.”
I knew.  I knew in my heart something was not good.  I knew from his voice that he was keeping it from me.
But I didn’t know I’d be sitting with him twenty minutes later, gripping his hand while the urologist spoke to us about how he was virtually certain that the problem was not a kidney stone.  It was most likely cancer.  Testicular cancer.  And he’d booked an OR for 11 a.m. the next day to remove the affected testicle and the tumor that took up an estimated 80% of it, according to the ultrasound.
“Wait,” I said.  “Back up a minute.  Tomorrow?  Can we get a second opinion before we do this?  You said you’re not sure it’s cancer?  What if it’s not?”
The doctor was kind, but firm, as he explained to us that yes, we could get a second opinion, but that any doctor in the world would do the surgery based on the test results.  And that the test results indicated time was of the essence.  We couldn’t afford to wait even a week.
Things get a bit blurry from there.  I remember staring down at my husband’s arm.  He was wearing my father’s watch.  His memories.  His legacy.  His death, barely 13 months old, shone from my husband’s wrist as I gripped his hand, and listened to the all-too-familiar language of malignancies and tumors.
Somehow the demons stayed at arm’s length until my in-laws arrived and took the children home with them.  But they howled through my head the rest of that night and the next day at the hospital.
For now, I’ll leave it at that and tell you only that the surgery went well.  The pathology came back in five days (it can take far longer), and while yes, it is cancer, it’s a seminoma, the most easily treatable type of testicular cancer.
The hubster was ordered to stay home from work the rest of that week, and I watched him  attempt to rest.  Both of us wondered where things would go from here, though the urologist told us he was confident that the next thing would be radiation.  To decide on a plan, we had to go see an oncologist, but the soonest we could get in was the Monday after Thanksgiving.
He was right.  The oncologist recommended radiation, so the hubster’s due to start a two and a half week course of it soon.  They hope to have it finished by Christmas, and then all indications are that he will be just fine.
“Just fine” is not a part of the lexicon I can understand anymore.  I’m so happy things aren’t worse, and I know how much worse it could have been.  But the voice in my head watches everyone else (including the hubster, now), walk around as if everything is just fine, and screams, “This cannot be happening!”
This is the recurrent nightmare I have dared voice only recently to my therapist and family; the nightmare in which something happens to my husband.  Just like something has happened to the rest of the men in my family.  He’s the only man with us when we gather around the table for Christmas dinner, and it’s not lost on anybody that we dine with ghosts. 
So that’s where I’ve been.  Wrestling demons.  Not wanting to write for fear of what might spill onto the page.  
But don’t worry, because the logical part of me, and all of everyone else, knows that everything will be just fine.  I want to believe it, and I will believe it, but for me, it’s gonna take some time.