Lately every time I tell Sir Monkeypants that we need to go and get something, he says, “We need more Calgon!” It makes me giggle. But as expected, it also makes me feel really, really old, as it references a famous commercial that our kids have never heard of. Hell, I bet FameThrowa and Sinnick haven’t even heard of it.

Did you know that the youngest contestant on American Idol was born in 1992? I bet he doesn’t even know what “Where’s the beef?” means.

At Easter when I saw Easter Creme Eggs at the Superstore — LOVE them, by the way, but even I, with my monster sweet tooth, can no longer justify the crazy amount of sugar they contain — I couldn’t help but hum the theme song from my youth. You know…”Oooh, oh, oh, Easter Creme Eggs!” And the commercial lives long in my memory — a lovely young girl with super straight 70s hair roller skating at the local rink with her beau, and he buys and egg and is skating with it, and takes her hand and she takes advantage of his affection to nab a bite of his egg. There’s about a hundred hours of 12-year-old fantasy right there.

One time when I was a little kid my mom was letting me watch The Carol Burnett Show. It was family-friendly in that there was no swearing or violence but I only got maybe a tenth of the humour involved. Someone on the show was playing a character called “Loyola” and when she entered the scene she sang, “You ask for it, you got it, Loyola,” sung to the tune of the famous Toyota jingle. I laughed and laughed. Commercial references are really funny to an 8-year-old.

I can’t believe I’m actually getting a little nostalgic for commercials. These days I’m always watching Treehouse, which is completely commercial-free programming for kids, or shows on the PVR, where any and all commercials can be easily skipped. Other than the Mac ads, I can’t even tell you what major ad campaigns are out there right now. Good and bad, I guess.

At least Captain Jelly Belly can sing the “You’re Watching Treehouse!” jingle. He can be all nostalgic about that when he’s 37.

I took Gal Smiley and Captain Jelly Belly with me to the Farm Boy on Sunday afternoon. We’ve been having a lot of trouble getting the stuff we need at the Superstore on the weekends — they are often out of stock on most meat products and produce products, and sometimes even staples like milk and cookies. Yesterday Sir Monkeypants had had enough of their crappy produce leftovers and declared, that’s it!, we’re going to Farm Boy.

I love the Farm Boy. (Non-Ottawa types: it’s a grocery store, but with an emphasis on fresh produce and other unusual food products). Unfortunately, having three small children means that it’s definitely easier for us to do all our grocery shopping in one place, once a week, so we don’t make it there very often. When the kids are a little older, though, I’d love to do all my produce shopping there, all the time. Everything is so incredibly beautiful and delicious looking. And the variety! Yucca root! Bitter melon! Yellow carrots! Wax beans (okay, not that exotic, but the Superstore NEVER has any)!

The kids love going there too, because there’s a stuffed monkey over the bananas area (Mikey, to his friends) who does somersaults. There’s also a cow in the yogurt area (Lulu, to her friends) who will make moo sounds when you press a little button, scaring the crap out of Gal Smiley, which only makes it that much more fun for Captain Jelly Belly. Sunday we learned about all kinds of unusual fruits and vegetables, and it didn’t even feel like learning. Next step: home schooling!

The other major reason to go to the Farm Boy is their fantastic selection of cheeses. Who doesn’t love cheese? In particular I adore this kind of cheese called St. Poulin, which I hear is available on every street corner in Quebec, but here can only be purchased at the Farm Boy, making it a rare and exotic treat. It’s a very mild cheese; maybe it would be ignored by more aggressive palettes, but it’s my all-time favourite.

I love the Farm Boy!

Here’s how to make S’mores in the microwave:

Take a graham cracker and put it on a plate.

Put 9-10 chocolate chips on top.

Put a big marshmallow on top of that (lying on its side works better than standing on its end).

Pop it in the microwave for 10-15 seconds. Bonus fun time — watch the marshmallow as it balloons to twice its regular size!

Remove from microwave and pop another graham cracker on top.

Enjoy!

For a while now, I’ve been working on this post where I talk about all the great gifts Sir Monkeypants has given me over the years. Naturally, there’s the obvious ones — three kick-ass kids and an awesome, crime-fighting minivan in which to cart them around. I’m talking about the little things, though, the things that were just for me, to make me happy.

For example, there’s that time he bought me a whole box of blue Papermate clicky pens. I hate pens with caps — annoying things that always get lost. I’m all about the click. Papermate blues are perfectly comfy in your hand — not too hard, not too soft — and they write so smoothly, with an easy flow that brings me joy. Sir Monkeypants bought me a whole box full about 15 years ago, and it was seriously one of the sweetest, most thoughtful things I’ve ever received. Only someone who really knew me well would have been able to pick out the perfect pen.

I pulled the last pen from the box about three months ago. Just a hint. Christmas is coming!

Then there was the time when I had a dream about all my friends shopping with me in a bookstore, and eventually I got tired of shopping and took the escalator up, and there was Sir Monkeypants standing there waiting for me, with a bunch of white balloons. I was so happy to see him. Months later, remembered this dream and gave me white balloons on my birthday. Pretty much the most romantic thing that ever happened to me, right there.

Oh, and last year, for Mother’s Day? A license for my favourite text editor, TextPad, which I have been using in demo mode for about 10 years now. No more giant warning on startup! I can just leap right into typing! Now that’s love.

This past weekend, though, Sir Monkeypants totally outdid himself. Know what I got? Just for being a cool mom, and working hard around here, and working the crockpot twice weekly?

A shiny new laptop. All my own. Sir Monkeypants pointed out this is the second computer I have ever owned in my lifetime — the first being the XT my mom bought me when I was in grade 12 so I could chat online with my Shad friends, but that’s a story for another day.

This new laptop (a Sony VAIO — my own choice) is for me to write. To work on my writing, wherever I want, whenever I want. To have a special place to keep the stuff I’m working on.

(Also…to run Windows, as Sir Monkeypants has changed our home machine over to Linux, which is fine, but it does not support TextPad. And I have a paid license burning a hole in my pocket, dammit!)

The laptop is cool and everything but what really moves me is what it represents. Not just that wanted to get me something to say thanks for the work I do around here, which is totally awesome in and of itself. But also, the fact that he sees that I’m into writing, that it’s a thing I love to do that makes me happy, and he wants to support that. That he thinks it’s a good enough hobby (and maybe someday, career?) that it’s worthy of hardware to back it up. That it’s important for me to have something for me, something that’s about TurtleHead and not just about Mommy.

I feel so loved. Definitely the best present ever.

Gal Smiley and Captain Jelly Belly are out on the driveway right now. It’s 15 degrees and sunny — they don’t even have coats on, only hoodies. Earlier we were blowing bubbles; now, they’re busy making chalk drawings, possible because there are no soggy mittens interfering with their ability to bend their thumbs. Sir Monkeypants might take them for a walk later, to do a little splashing with their new rubber boots. It’s quite the springtime scene.

Except…not quite. We’ve had above-zero temperatures for most of this week and plenty of sunshine, but since we had such huge snowbanks before the thaw, we still have about three feet of snow out there. It’s so strange to be out doing spring stuff in just shirt-sleeves with a veritable winter wonderland all around you. I guess this is what it is like when Calgary gets a chinook? Maybe?

In any case, the ability to make chalk drawings alongside snowbanks that are taller than they are is yet another very odd weather twist that the kids probably won’t see again in their lifetime. The kids keep asking to use our swingset — it feels like that kind of day — but the snow’s still over Gal Smiley’s head back there. We’re ready for spring…it’ll just be a little while longer before our backyard is, too.

So on Easter weekend we made the big drive down to Southern Ontario, and Sir Monkeypants did all of the driving. He prefers it that way — he likes to have something to occupy himself during the drive, and we have to stop so often now that he gets plenty of chances to rest and stretch. He really does not make a good passenger-seat parent. He’s great at amusing the kids with funny faces and peekaboo games, but he can only do that for so long before he gets tired, and then he is forced to resort to Mommy-style entertainment, which involves passing the kids something new every 30 seconds, as so:

“I want my snack box.”
“I need some juice.”
“I’m done with my snack, I want my craft box.”
“I want mine too!”
“This box is bothering me, can you take it?”
“I need a MagnaDoodle.”
“Can I have my snack box?”
“Can we watch a movie?”
“I need some water.”
“It’s too sunny! I need sunglasses!”
“The Wee One had a barf!”

And so on. Sir Monkeypants can only take about three minutes of this before he bellows at everyone to BE QUIET, and then I have to pull over so he can resume driving.

On the rare occasion when I do drive during these long trips — usually when Sir Monkeypants is sick, which is maybe a third of the time when we go down — it’s a bit of a challenge for me because I don’t do much highway driving anymore. People have been telling me for years that I am not a good driver and although in my heart of hearts I do not believe them, when enough people tell you something you kind of have to admit that maybe you should do something about it. Sir Monkeypants in particular used to hate how I could not maintain a constant speed on the highway, and how I did not properly anticipate the need to pass, so I’d zoom up behind a truck and then have to brake while I waited for a chance to merge and then zoom forward again, all of which did not exactly help him relax and unwind.

A few years ago, before the kids were born, we drove out to the Maritimes, and during this trip I perfected a technique that I like to call The Driving Buddy. I find someone who is travelling at about the same speed as me, who seems like they know what they are doing…and I follow them. When they signal to pass, I do too. When they pull back in, I do too. I maintain a respectable five-car-length distance and then just track them, so my speed remains relatively constant. They’re my Driving Buddy.

Now that I think about it, it does seem kind of scary that I am leaving all the driving decisions to a stranger, who is not even in my own car. Huh. No wonder they say I’m a bad driver!

It’s tough to find just the right Buddy — you’re looking for someone who is a perfect fit when it comes to speed and style, and preferably provides a nice behind to look at, as well. A funny personalized license plate, for example, can never hurt. Someone who matches your exact make and model (known as a “sister car” by our kids) is a nice choice. Ideally it should be someone who is in it for the long haul, who is making a similar epic journey (look for a backseat crammed full with pillows and toys), who you can follow for hours and then give a little nod to when you both stop at the same rest stop. Sometimes it just doesn’t work out — he’s too slow, you’re too slow, he’s losing focus and not keeping his speed up — and you just have to let the Buddy go and find a new one.

On our last trip down I did a little of the driving and I noticed something — my Driving Buddies have really dropped in league. It’s not like I thought I’d hook up with a zippy sports car or a fancy 4×4 or anything like that, but I expected at least a nice Acura or maybe another minivan. It turns out that my Buddies are pretty much limited to 18-wheelers and Winnebegos. I can no longer run with the young, fast crowd. It’s yet another example of how I have aged. They’re probably all listening to talk radio and wondering if they should dye their hair, too.

I really need to get some hipper new CDs for the car.

I was surfing the IMDB yesterday and looking at the page for Owen Wilson, when I noticed that he and I have the same birthday. So I clicked on the date to see who else has my birthday. Kevin Nealon, Chloe Sevigny, Elizabeth Perkins, Delroy Lindo, Linda Evans, Margaret Atwood and Peta Wilson are all in my club. I like it. It has a kind of alternative-rebel-pottymouth vibe to it. Except for Linda Evans. Who let her in?

The IMDB page for November 18th also listed the couples who had been married on that day. And know what? I have to share my birthday with the wedding anniversaries of Katie Holmes and Tom Cruise…AND Michael Douglas and Catherine Zeta-Jones…AND Marilyn and Dan Quayle! I don’t think I’m too happy about this. If I ever become totally famous, I’ll never be able to have a big birthday bash because everyone else will be off celebrating the unholy union of one of these three couples. I’ll be left with no one but James Van Der Beek and Nicole Richie. It’s so unfair!

Last night I caught the last half of American Idol, the first time I’ve watched it this season (and, I think, possibly the first time I have ever watched it beyond the open-audition episodes). I’d just been reading a lot about the contestents in, oh, every single entertainment magazine and website in existance, and that made me a little curious, and there was nothing else on, and I was too sick to make it to the DVD player to put something in, so there you go.

The featured star last night was Dolly Parton. I submit to you this: Dolly Parton has had too much plastic surgery.

Right after American Idol was over, Dancing With The Stars came on, and I saw the first five minutes of that before I dragged my sick ass to bed. Dancing With The Stars is featuring Priscilla Presley this season, and I submit to you this: Priscilla Presley has had too much plastic surgery.

These are both women who are famous, who depend on their look and their face to be recognised as part of their careers. They have both the money and the contacts to seek out and hire the best plastic surgeons in the business. And yet, they both look like frozen wax sculpture versions of themselves. They can’t make normal facial expressions. They always look like they are grimacing. EVERYONE can tell they’ve had work done. It does not make them look any younger, just freaky.

I just thought I’d record this here so that when I am pushing 60, and thinking, “Boy, I’d sure like to shave a few wrinkles out of this double chin!”, I remember Dolly and Priscilla, and decide to age gracefully instead.

I know what you’re thinking. “Yesterday was Monday, yet no post from TurtleHead! Is she dead?”

To that I say: close enough.

Remember back in October…November…December…January…when every other post I made went something like, “We are sick, we are all sick, sick sick sick, and it sucks”? Followed by a graphic description of boogers, and their removal?

And then came February and March, when every bug currently living in Ottawa had already passed through this house, giving us a lovely Honeymoon period of wellness, during which I was foolish enough to believe that we’d make it through the rest of the winter without any more illness?

Apparently the universe is punishing me for not having a Corey Hart Moment* while I could. And also for travelling to Toronto, where a fresh lot of bugs caught sight of our new blood and rubbed their furry little feelers with glee.

This time around, it’s the motherlode — the flu. We’ve got fevers. We’ve got stomach cramps. We’ve got chills and shakes and wicked chesty coughs.

And the barf. Oh, the barf.

Sunday night we tried to put the Wee One to bed, but she was so congested and coughing so much — plus, teething to boot — that she just cried and cried for hours, which is so unlike her. While we were trying to soothe her and get her some sleep, the Captain decided to throw up all over his bed. Then he threw up on the bathroom floor while we were trying to get him to the toilet. Then some more went in the toilet. Then another splotch on the floor where we stood him when we mistakenly thought he was all done. Then another floor splotch on the only clean spot in the bathroom where we had moved him when we were sure there coudn’t possibly be any more. And then more, in the sink.

So the Wee One howled in her bed while we stripped him down and his bed down and cleaned everything up and got him back to bed with new jammies and new sheets. Then I went in to deal with the Wee One and a half hour later, the Captain threw up in his bed, AGAIN. And believe it or not, totally repeated the whole process so the bathroom was once again turned into a major biohazard.

And I know you won’t believe this, but after the cleanup and after I finally got the Wee One to sleep…the whole thing happened AGAIN. I swear he must have vomited everything he ate for the past three weeks. He was actually so sick, and had so much trouble breathing afterwards, that we’re pretty sure he must have eaten something that was contaminated with an allergen. He had a new brand of banana chips that day, which is the likely culprit — possibly made with peanut oil, we think.

Oh, and did I mention that during this mess we were entertaining guests? FameThrowa and a friend of hers were over. Here’s our idea of a party time: screaming baby, barfing boy, two loads of laundry, major bathroom cleaning and decontamination, followed by snacks and tea. Aren’t you just dying to come on over? Thank goodness FameThrowa used to live with us so she was able to make her own tea. Entertain yourselves, guests! And watch that puddle of barf on your way out!

So anyway, I spent most of yesterday moaning in bed and feeling crappy myself, while a not-quite-as-sick Sir Monkeypants tried to nap on the couch while sick kids sat all around him watching videos. I couldn’t even get up to make it to the computer to talk about barf. The internet had to wait a WHOLE DAY to hear about it. Criminal, I know, which is why we are thinking of getting a laptop, for barf-recording emergencies such as this.

* Corey Hart Moment: A moment when you notice that the quality of your life is made better by the distinct lack of something bad, as in, “Let us take a moment to acknowledge the fact that Corey Hart does not have a new album.” So named when my friend Gordo made exactly that comment in university one time.

While watching Jon and Kate Plus 8 with the kids:

Captain: Know who my favourite character is on this show? Aiden, the boy character.

Me: That’s nice, but you do know that these are real people, right? Sometimes we watch TV and the people are just pretending to be characters, to tell a story that didn’t really happen. But this is a real family, and the Mommy and Daddy really have those eight kids.

Gal Smiley: Oh! Do they have robots?

Me: Robots? No.

Captain: Or monsters? Are there monsters?

Me: No, no, nothing like that. This is their house and it’s just a house like ours. No robots, no monsters.

Captain: So, who is the bad guy on this show?

I think they are lacking a fundamental grasp of the concept of reality television.