Monkey Mania

It seems that I collect monkeys. I refer to my delightful offspring as my little monkeys...not always turkeys, on occasion. ...case and point, all around best example.

A few years ago, I began a sentimental quest for these little wooden monkeys:

Two of these little guys hung on the dining room curtain rod in my grandparents home. As a child, there was nothing I loved more than playing with those monkeys. I dangled them all over the place. When my grandpa passed away my dad brought the monkeys to live at our house. We loved those monkeys...so did my sister's dog. We came home one afternoon to discover he had been conducting a monkey autopsy. There were little gnawed animal parts all over the dining room. It was deeply disturbing. My creative and mechanically talented sister managed to recreate one of the monkeys, but I could not bring myself to look at it's newly canine texturized body. The day I found monkeys on Ebay, I about giggled myself silly with delight. I now have them dangling in my scrapbook room. I just burst with joy at the sight of them.

This whole explanation leads up to this:

My latest primate acquisition.

I have a dear aunt who spoils me. She was traveling about the country and found this sock monkey backpack in a funny little shop in Northern Idaho... and thought of me. I am not sure if it is desirable to have someone see a monkey and immediately think of me, but... as it is, I am really glad she did. Isn't it a kick? I love it.

I am considering wearing it to church with treats in it.