It was bound to happen. After hanging around Stefan for so long, making clothes for his stuffed animals, having pretend conversations where we talk about their health and discipline, their special powers and upcoming challenges, I have officially become a stuffed animal advocate, not able to go to sleep at night unless a certain pink monkey who looks curiously like the cartoon character of Curious George is on my bed, tucked under the covers with me.
Pink Monkey. I think it all started when Stefan left Pink Monkey in my car last week and K seat-belted him in the front seat when she got out, pretending he was real. I drove around for a few days making comments to him about the traffic: "Crappy traffic today, hey Pink Monkey?" or "Nice weather we're having," or "Did you see that guy cut me off!" Pink Monkey sat there nodding her head, keeping me company.
Then I thought, why not take her in the apartment with me, it would be fun....
She started out on the couch, but then ended up on the bed with me as I worked on my novel. She became a kind of mascot. And then she slowly made her way under the covers with me at night.
Pink Monkey is like having a pet and yet not having one. I don't have to clean her cat box or take her for walks. I don't have to shell out money for her food at the grocery store, nor will there be any vet bills. I don't have to spend long hours petting her.
She is my new silent companion. My always smiling new significant other. Is this what happens when we get older and live alone? Don't want the mess and fuss of a trying relationship?
My smiling monkey has cute little soft ears. A sweet little body with a tan circle for a stomach. Soft little arms and legs that flop at her sides. A little V of a nose and a piece of pink thread that stretches wide in her welcoming grin.
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Hi Eliza...
ReplyDeleteI am much older than you, but I see so few people even your age that I stopped to read your blog (I was searching through SF people for someone). You have photos of so many of my favorite poets, and I read about your 'jealousy' which amused me, and thought you might just be interested in a group to which I belong that keeps me writing poetry. It is a group of seniors who meet on Monday afternoons, and is such a great group of people that they have become my S.F. 'family.' If you have any interest in joining us (our group leader is a sweet, kind 'younger' gal who gets poetry out of everyone, even non-writers), let me know and I'll invite you to one of the meetings. It is a loose group, non-demanding, friendly and fun, consisting of anything from 6-8 to 18-20 people. We never know. Hope to hear from you, your writing is interesting.
Peggy Cartwright