One more story for Agnes

By: LOUISE ESOLA - Staff Writer | Saturday, December 3, 2005 12:42 AM PST ∞

For those looking for a few chuckles today, I will be honest and tell you that finding something funny to write about this week was like trying to spot a pair of Bermuda shorts in Antarctica.

Fellow columnist Agnes Diggs, a colleague, friend and mentor, passed away on Sunday.

I first met Agnes in 2002 when we both worked for our Temecula edition. I later worked with her on most Wednesdays, when she would work here in the Oceanside office, within earshot of me talking to myself.

Like most people, I liked Agnes immediately. She was a storyteller. A warm character. Caring. Funny. She encouraged me to write this column, and to keep on writing. But what I loved about Agnes the most was: she got it. My sense of humor, that is.

So, when searching for something to fill in the space here on the A2 page of today's paper, I decided to pen something Agnes had been bugging me to write about.

In fact, I often used to send Agnes e-mails on the subject, because I knew she would be amused. Agnes, if you are somewhere reading this from way up above, you are about to smile.

Dear Agnes, you'll never guess what DJ did at school on Friday.

(But, before I recount the latest episode, I must fill everyone else in.)

You may recall that I recently wrote about children, and how husband Donkey Kong and I are waiting until we are ready for the pitter patter of a screaming child with an ill-smelling diaper. This, I wrote, has frustrated my mother, who believes child bearing comes after marriage just like "B" follows "A" in the alphabet.

Well, I won't exactly retract my story, but I will admit that ---- Agnes is already in on the joke ---- it's all hogwash.

For Donkey Kong, who after today will surely never want his real name in my column, and I already have a little boy. We got him three years ago. His name is DJ, Donkey Kong Junior, and is in all reality a plush toy monkey that can be spotted dangling from the rafters in the gift shop at the San Diego Zoo.

Here's the truth: He was born out of the idea that if my mother wants a grandchild so bad that this one will have to do. Grandparent wannabes beware. Agnes used to snicker about the matter, and then follow up in a very serious tone: "You see, this is why it's no good to pressure couples to have kids."

Agnes knew that in our home we have framed photos of DJ, and his dog Carlos, who is not really a dog but plush toy chihuahua who we all pretend is real for DJ's sake. DJ has such an imagination. Wherever does he get it from?

I often send such photos to my mother, who is annoyed that the joke has gone too far. At our wedding in April, my mom shook her head at DJ, who guarded the cake wearing a tuxedo purchased from an online store that sold doll clothing. It's how we get most of his clothes.

Small for his age, DJ is a perpetual preschooler and attends Gone Bananas preschool. He loves the color yellow ---- when Agnes complimented me on a yellow sweater I was wearing one day, I remarked, "DJ picked it out."

Obviously, he loves bananas and likes to climb trees. These days, he's dreading his flu shot.

His favorite kind of pizza is Hawaiian style, with pineapple and ham. Everytime we go out, we have to leave him with enough money to order a pie. If not, he threatens to report us to Child Protective Services for leaving him behind.

DJ is a capitalist, his daddy often remarks, and all household chores cost us $2 an hour.

To his middle-of-the-road mommy's demise, he is the founding president of the Gone Bananas League of Young Republicans. He's on the school's track and field team and holds the record for high jump by a 4-year-old. He often likes to bathe himself in his daddy's cologne.

And, sadly, he's in the principal's office every day for such violations as gambling in the school yard, placing banana peels outside of the girls' restroom, hiding the teacher's car keys, etc.

If Agnes were still around, I might have e-mailed her regarding his latest transgression, which went something like this:

DJ sent a fake love letter to the principal's secretary. He said it was from her secret admirer and requested that she meet him at the monkey bars on the playground at lunchtime. The poor woman, has never been married and in her early 40s with bucked teeth and eyeglasses, waited all afternoon and no one showed up. She was in denial that the scriber of such a romantic letter could be so cruel. She lost track of time and forgot to get back to her desk in time to ring the afternoon school bell. As a result, all the kids missed their school buses home.

I can almost hear Agnes laughing right now.

Staff writer Louise Esola covers Oceanside schools. She can be reached at lesola@nctimes.com.

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