Sir Monkeypants recently got his hands on all five seasons of The Wire, a show few people in Canada have seen but one that is widely regarded as one of the greatest series of all time. He started watching it late at night after I was in bed, but then he got so sucked into it he wanted to watch it the very minute the kids were in bed.

As a result, I jumped in at about episode six of the first season, and OH MY GOD. I totally see what the fuss is about. The show is so amazing — absolutely mesmerizing and a true-feeling picture of a completely different world. The police on the show, with their electric typewriters and “secret” tape recorders the size of my arm, and the drug dealers, with their fabulous wardrobes and constant paranoia, and the drug addicts with their terrible hand-to-mouth existence in the projects, are all just so compelling. I loved it right away.

But I hate watching stuff out of order. Don’t even think of trying to get me to watch a sequel before the original. For the two hours of constant whining, bitching, and sulking you’re going to get, you may as well have driven to the video store and rented the original and made it a double bill. Ask Sir Monkeypants. Trust me, HE’LL TELL YOU.

So, since I had already missed several earlier episodes, and Sir Monkeypants was still watching it after I went to bed, he’s now hours and hours ahead of me in the series and getting farther ahead all the time. Each evening for the past week, he’s dashed to the TV after the kids are down.

I didn’t even get to watch Dance Show this week, people. THAT’S HOW HE DO.

Anyway, I find myself suddenly with a couple of hours of free time on my hands in the evenings now. Turns out, if you keep your butt off the couch at the end of the day, you can actually get something accomplished — who knew?

Last night I was working on labelling some of our old photos and getting ready for my book club meeting tonight and making lunches for the next day. Then, while tidying up the art supplies, I got distracted with this:

Oh, that’s right. I coloured. Pretty Ponies. For a good half hour. There I was, picking out the perfect shade of pink or purple or yellow for a pony’s mane, while the TV showed drug dealers in jail and teenagers getting beat down and plenty of cops using the word, “motherfucker.”

Just another typical evening in the Turtlehead household!