Quincunx
Pre-Pirate

Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr

Steve sings the following to the tune of On the Good Ship Lollipop:

On the pirate ship Sweet Potato
My little first mate she's a pink tomato
And anchors aweighhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.....
Sinking ships, every day

So I was only slightly surprised when I found him and Caroline sitting in a laundry basket in the middle of the living room, thusly:

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"Thar she blows!" yelled Steve when I entered; showing an astonishing lack of tact for someone who aspires to have marital sex again at some point in his life. 

When I coldly inquired whether they were pirates or whalers, Steve told me that pirates don't answer stupid questions and that he and his crew required grog and Cheerios or they'd blow me out of the water.

Aye, aye Cap'n Rubbermaid.

I wrote that last post so badly it embarrasses me. I was monstrously uncomfortable at Patrick's computer...

oh! do you want to hear something amusing? When I left my laptop with the nice people of Apple they took my telephone number and promised to call in four to six days when the fan had been replaced. On day five I started twitching so I called the automated system and learned that my computer was ready to be picked up. I wondered why they had not called as promised but... no worries. When I got my laptop home and back online I discovered that they had attempted to contact me to let me know that the repairs were completed. Only for some reason they decided to do so via email. Not so helpful.

And before I forget, a very nice woman named Andrea sent me an email two years ago with a link to a duvet cover from Ikea that was covered in numbers. I went and got it for Patrick and he loves it. The exact pattern is no longer available but this one is close. I see that it is not available online but I have a weakness for numbers-obsessed kids so if you don't have an Ikea within driving distance and you really really want it just email me. I can probably figure something out.

Anyway my laptop has been returned to me and I am no longer crammed into Patrick's desk. So I am at liberty to recognize how silly some of the things I wrote last time must have seemed.

1. My father's oncologist told my brother that he (the oncologist) believes there is a link between vasectomies and prostate cancer. I repeated this to Steve and he (Steve) reacted by suggesting we therefore keep looking for birth control options. Many (many) of you pointed out that research has shown that there is in fact no link and there have been numerous studies done etc. Okey-dokey. So noted. I just repeat what I am told. Sorry to rumor monger.

2. In the post I also felt compelled to mention the oncologist's addendum to his statement re. vasectomies; to wit: those who are genetically predisposed to prostate cancer should be even more wary of the procedure. At which point I launched forward several synapses and said that we had decided Steve would not get one. Which implied that Steve had a family history of prostate cancer. Actually Steve has a family history of being killed by the Nazis. I do not write that to be flip. Steve's birth family attempted to flee Latvia as World War II engulfed eastern Europe but only a few (his birthfather, his birth grandmother) survived to emigrate to the United States. So although we are lucky to have contact with his birth father and to know, for instance, that high cholesterol runs in his very immediate family; a broader medical history is still nonexistent. So when Steve hears "family history increases risk" he always favors caution.

Hope that clears things up. Sorry for the disconnectedness.

As for the cholesterol levels, oh, fuck if I know. Steve is six feet tall and weighs 165 pounds. Until his knee blew up he ran about five miles a day for the past twenty years. He likes: sushi, all fish, wheatberries, tea, most fruit, every vegetable. He snacks on dried cranberries. He never ever eats fast food. He has a weakness for: chocolate icecream (reduced to a once a month indulgence after his first borderline cholesterol reading) insanely expensive Scotch and Reese's miniature peanut butter cups. That's it. Compared to me (my weaknesses could fill a phone book and my likes start with ribeye and meander down to foie that is grasd'd, pausing briefly at real salted butter and whipping cream) he is a monk. One of the extremely boring ones, too, not a cheesemaker or anything. And yet I have arterial walls reminiscent of a blade of new grass and as far as we can tell he is one thinly sliced coconut cream pie away from the everafter.

Life, and you can quote me, is just not fair.

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