Sack o' Potatoes

I think I've written once or twice about my Las Vegas uncle and his child bride. He's my mom's elder brother, and will turn 62 in June. He is a survivor of the Vietnam war and a recent brawl with prostate cancer, and a dentist who specializes in doing work on and for the elderly. His diet is maniacally healthy, his main sources of exercise are regular walking and tango dancing, and he takes enormous pleasure in using "shocking" language and wearing garish shirts that appear to be imported from a Hawaiian tailor with dreams of outfitting the mafia. Basically, my uncles is a nice old guy who despite his basic goodness enjoys acting like an asshole.

His wife of several years is not yet 30, and a year older than my cousin Z, my uncle's up-to-this-point only child. See, when my uncle discovered he had cancer, he and his wife (who really is a very nice person, and who plainly loves my uncle very much--something I find confounding, but comforting) decided to take steps to ensure that no matter what might happen with his cancer, they could still have a baby if they one day felt it was right for them.

Fast-forward a year or two, when my uncle nearly choked to death swallowing one of his post-cancer horse pills, and his wife collapsed next to him on the kitchen floor realized tearfully that she wanted very much to have his child, to have something left of him in the likely event that he dies before she does.

He assented, and thanks to the wonders of medicine and technology, my newest first cousin was born--fully 25 years after my last first cousin. The Boy finds it hilarious that I have a cousin who's 40 years my junior, and I have to agree. The baby was born premature, weighing only three pounds, but healthy and gaining weight by the hour. She'll be able to leave the hospital in a month, and her parents are ecstatic. My mom is dubious about the event, feeling that her brother was irresponsible to give life to a child he won't see grow up, but had to admit I was right when I reminded her that no father can ever guarantee that he'll live to see his child grow up.

I'm happy for them, and am knitting a baby cocoon and hat combo for the wee thing. The yarn is a much nicer cotton than I normally knit with, silky soft, and I love the colors. As it's knitting up, though, I've noticed that while the word cocoon sounds lovely and snugly and made for swaddling, I am essentially knitting a sack to stuff a baby in. Congratulations on your tiny miracle--here's a bag you can shove her into! Mazel tov!

Strange Things Afoot at the Circle K

Remember how I said I was so in love with the Ninth Doctor? Well . . . that's kind of over. He's now someone I look back on fondly, like an old flame. David Tennant, however, has lodged himself into my head and heart as the Best Doctor Ever, and is now on my list of Secret Boyfriends, ahead of James Marsters, David Sedaris, and Alan Bennett. He's running neck and neck with Nathan Fillion, in fact, and would be a clear first if it weren't for the fact that the Fillion character I love so much is HUMAN, and therefore more accessible to me than Tennant's Time Lord. Yes, that's how these things get decided. Shut up.

I'm through the fourth season of Doctor Who, and now I have the series of specials to watch. I have decided that I won't be watching Season 6, as I don't like the looks of the kid who plays the Eleventh Doctor. He's too young, for one thing, and much too smirk-y, and he just rubs me the wrong way. I'll happily read about what happens, but I don't think I'll be watching.

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These two photos are of a single full-page ad in my local newspaper:
What an opportunity for romance! You GO, Denny's! You go! Can't you just feel the romance? Can't you hear Barry White in the background? Don't forget the coupon!

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I took this photo at the grocery store yesterday, as The Boy and I were standing in line at the deli counter. I noticed it first and pointed it out, and we both reached for our phones at the same time, to take a picture:


These were lovingly made with a label maker, and pasted carefully onto the handle of this shopping cart. Why? Some kind of public service announcement? I don't have a girl, so I couldn't punch her even if I did smoke weed. And where was Jerry Stone? Was he hiding amongst the produce? Was he spying on us? Or was the message meant for The Boy and me especially? My sister and ex-husband both shop at the same supermarket--maybe one of them was trying to tell us something? Or was it a secret code, meant to lead us to untold riches hidden behind the toilet paper?

The world may never know.