Making a “thumbs up” reminds me of SmokingToaster.

When we were in third? year university, SmokingToaster and her now-husband CapnPlanet went on a year-long work/study exchange to Australia. Back here in Canada, we only heard about their lives through sporadic letters that SmokingToaster wrote to my friend BarkyShark. One such letter mentioned that they were having some…shall we say, romantic challenges? Of the break-up kind? We were all worried, because if they broke up, would it still be politically correct to have CapnPlanet do our homework? University degrees were on the line!

A few weeks later I was at the movies with Sir Monkeypants and a bunch of guys from my class. BarkyShark had received a new letter, but didn’t want to blab SmokingToaster’s personal business to the dudes, who didn’t know her anyway. So she just gave me a thumbs up, and said, “SmooooooookingToaster.”

I knew right away what she meant, but the guys didn’t. They thought they were pretty funny so they joked that BarkyShark was naming her thumb “smokingtoaster.” All night long they’d use any excuse to give the thumbs up and say her name.

Sir Monkeypants was there that night, as was my good friend Gordo, and for months afterward, whenever they gave a thumbs up they’d say “smooooookingtoaster.” Eventually they met the real SmokingToaster and heard the whole story, but that didn’t stop them from the ongoing joke.

Even now, every so often, Sir Monkeypants pulls it out of the bag to make me laugh.

A few weeks ago I saw a one-line notice in an issue of Today’s Parent that they were looking for families to be toy testers. Every so often they do an article on the best new toys, and they need kids of all ages to test the stuff out and provide comments for the articles. I thought to myself, “Hey, I don’t have enough to do around here, let’s apply!” We’d play with some new stuff, I’d get to do some writing, the stuff would then leave my house (it must be returned after the two month test period) — all good!

And we have been chosen.

A big packet arrived in the mail today with a bunch of forms to fill out. If we fill out the forms and return them, then we’re in. So now the question is…do we really want in?

I thought it would be a fun thing to do, but Sir Monkeypants has pointed out a serious flaw in my plan — the toys must be returned. It’s a good thing for me — heaven knows we do not need more stuff around here, and our play room is constantly overflowing into all the other rooms in the house as it is. But from the kids’ point of view…not good, not good at all. If it’s something they don’t care for, I’m sure I can sneak it out. But if it’s a Webkinz, and they’ve built it a whole online universe with a home and little outfits and favourite foods, and they sleep with it at night and make it watch them pee? And then we tell them that their little friend Joe has to go back to the store?

Not good, my friends. Not good.

One of the forms we have to fill out requires us to indicate what kinds of toys our kids like, and the more I check stuff off — Thomas, Hot Wheels race tracks, stuffed animals, baby dolls, remote control cars — the more I see the potential for major attachment issues. I thought that if we found something the kids really liked, then hey, we’d add that to their Christmas wish list. But I forgot that when you are five years old, waiting six months until Christmas can feel like FOREVER. And when you’re the parent of a kid who is going to whine every morning about the toy that was so graphically torn from their hands, six months can sure as hell feel like FOREVER for you, too.

So needless to say, I’m conflicted on the issue.

I think my plan now is to talk to them about the whole idea and see if I can get a feel for how much they understand about what is going to happen. Maybe I’ll just ask for toys for the Wee One, because she’s really easy to fool, and I’m sure I could slip a few things into and then out of the toy rotation without too much complaint.

I have a week to send in the forms, if I want to. I guess I have some serious thinking to do.

I had such grand plans for the writers’ strike. So many movies and TV shows I was going to catch up on, such a backlog of entertainment that I was finally going to get around to watching. Instead I spent almost the whole writers’ strike reading other people’s blogs, going to bed early, and watching American Gladiators. I couldn’t have done a better job of time wasting if I were back in university and avoiding studying for my Calculus final at all costs.

The good news is that a lot of my regular shows won’t bother to return until the fall, especially the dramas. Those that are returning will probably only produce 3 or 4 more episodes this year, so they can still take a summer break. So maybe I’ll get around to playing catch-up after all.

In the meantime, I’ve been frantically rushing to watch one of my official Strike Shows, Pushing Daisies. I’d heard it was whimsical, and man, there is nothing better I like than a healthy dose of whimsy in my TV shows. downloaded the pilot for me about three months ago and I finally got around to watching it last week.

And you know what? It is the Best. Show. Ever. Okay, I might slide it in there behind Buffy. But other than that, I cannot imagine another show that is more perfect for me, more ideally suited to my sensibility and thought process and life in general. It’s so sweet, and funny, and with more whimsy than is really healthy. In case you haven’t heard of it, it’s about a pie maker, Ned, who can touch dead people or things and bring them back to life. But a second touch means that the thing/person is dead forever. In the pilot, he brings his childhood sweetheart, the super-charming Chuck, back to life, and now they’re kind of dating…but never touching. Meanwhile, there’s a ton of other nutty characters running around in eye-patches and with bird cages and singing and dancing.

It’s definitely not a show for everyone — I can see how the bright colours and the weird characters and the use of a bedazzler for comedy purposes might just be too much cutsy-cuteness for the general public. But I so, so love this show. It’s just the right kind of perky and offbeat and gosh-darn-it, happy that I like. It’s the perfect antidote to Prison Break.

Pushing Daisies is exactly the kind of bold, distinctive show that I tend to fall in love with, only to have it last a half-season and then get cancelled (see: Cupid, Strange Luck, Serenity). Its pre-strike ratings were borderline. But the good news is that the strike probably saved the show. Since the strike blocked development on a lot of planned pilots for the fall 2008 season, the network has no choice but to bring back some of the iffier shows to fill the gaps. So although it probably won’t return this spring, we’ll most likely get more of Pushing Daisies in September. Yay!

In the meantime, I’m about halfway through the 9 existing episodes, so there’s more joy for me, just a remote click away.

I don’t want to jinx it or anything, but it’s been more than two weeks now that Gal Smiley has been pooping in the potty. Another New Year’s goal knocked off the list! For the curious, it was a combination of Kindersurprise and running out of “pooping” pull-ups (the cheapy no-name kind; we use name-brand for overnight) that did the trick.

I’m quite relieved about this turn of events, because we’re heading down to visit our parents in Southern Ontario in a couple of weeks. I love my mother and she really does her best to allow me to parent the way I want to parent, but she cannot resist giving advice on two favourite subjects: one, that our kids should have been toilet trained yesterday, and two, that breast feeding is gross and we should have weaned after two or three weeks of that nonsense. So at least with the Gal being officially out of diapers, we can perhaps keep it down to one major lecture.

This is only the second time we have made this trip with all three of the little ones, and I’m already freaking out about it and making lists out the yin-yang. We’ve been talking a lot lately about how we really do need to travel more with the kids, because it’s always the family trips that kids remember when they grow up and think about things they did with their family. But still, I just don’t get how some people we know (no names, but you know who you are) are able to take their kids to Australia or New York or Saskatoon or hell, even camping, without having a total breakdown. I really, really need to work on loosening up and going with the flow a little more. I hope that a few more trips to Southern Ontario will boost my confidence.

My sister-in-law and her family are headed to Disneyworld next week and before the Wee One was born, we had discussed going with them this winter. The Wee One is too small to make the trip though, so we are going to wait a couple more years. But that hasn’t stopped us from already beginning the planning. Sick, I know, but we are already looking at possible places to stay and talking about what we would do each day and what kind of luggage we’d need to bring and how it would all work.

With any luck, we’ll have the planning done by winter 2010. See y’all at the Mouse House!

I’m still feeding the Wee One in the middle of the night, but good news! She’s down to just one or two parties a night now, knock wood. No more going to Brooklyn!*

Usually as part of the night feed I change her diaper. She’s fussy and wanting to eat and go back to sleep so a quick, smooth diaper change is essential. I like to pretend that it’s an Olympic sport, and I am the awesomest diaper changer that ever awesomed. To perk myself up I give myself a little bit of Olympic-style commentary.

“See that move there, where she pulls up the back of the diaper for a nice, snug fit? That’s her signature move right there, the judges love that. They actually call that ‘The TurtleHead.’ Some of the younger competitors are trying it now but no one can do it like the original.”

“Obviously it’s a huge advantage to be able to train with your own baby, so people have already been making noise that this season will be her last. But this contest shows that she’s still at the very top of her game. If and when she retires, it’ll be a great loss for Canadian sport.”

* From a 30 Rock episode in which Liz Lemon has lied about her age and now is dating a much younger man; he suggests that after the art gallery opening that they hit a dance club and then an after-hours bar and then a house party in Brooklyn. Liz: “I’m 37! Please don’t make me go to Brooklyn!” It’s a common bedtime request around here.

Plucking my eyebrows reminds me of Fatima, a girl I worked with the summer after I finished grade 10.

In high school, my homeroom teacher was Mrs. Keyzers. My mom nicknamed her “Cocaine Keyzers” due to some supposed drug use, although the only evidence of drug use I ever saw was her unyielding devotion to Jennifer Warnes, which required us to listen to Famous Blue Raincoat every single morning. One day, Mrs. Keyzers came over and asked if I’d like a summer job working at the school. My position would be Textbook Girl — I’d have to inventory and repair all the textbooks in the school, receive and stamp any new books, and distribute all the books as required for September to the appropriate classrooms. A summer job that paid actual dollars, and did not require me to wear a polyester uniform, sounded pretty awesome, so I said yes right away.

The other Textbook Girl was Fatima. She was a senior and this would be her last summer on the job after years of experience, so we kind of had a Mr. Myagi-Daniel type relationship. She was a really nice, sweet girl and taught me everything I know about textbooks — that is, when we bothered to work. We had our own office, a room that was halfway between the second and third floors, a big room that was completely filled with great works of literature. It had a huge window seat with a beautiful view and I spent most of my high school years sitting in that window seat, eating my lunch, reading. I made it through almost every book in that room by graduation.

Our office had a lock on the door and because the lock system in the school was kind of lax, the key to our office opened most of the other doors in the place. The building was almost a hundred and fifty years old, an old stone castle, with balconies and towers and secret rooms and passages. We spent a lot of time getting into places we probably weren’t supposed to be, but I didn’t feel guilty at all — it was more like playing a grown-up version of princess. We were completely unsupervised — the only other people in the building were the janitorial crew and, sometimes, the school secretary. We’d work for a few hours then read for a few hours then have a dance party in the library or climb up the tallest tower or eat our lunch on the roof. It was probably the best job I’ve ever had, and in times of crisis when I have to go to my “happy place,” I go to our little book room with the view.

You’d think after spending eight hours a day with someone for an entire summer, I’d know Fatima like the back of my hand, but actually, I don’t think we were ever all that close. We were both kind of quiet and our chats were mostly polite and surface-level. She was thinking about applying to university and we talked a lot about what she should do for a career, where she should live, that sort of thing. We sometimes talked about music (she introduced me to Elaine Page) and sometimes talked about books (I introduced her to Ernest Hemingway).

One day I was complaining about the fineness of my hair, which frizzed out inside the hot, humid, non-airconditioned school. Fatima had very thick, coarse hair and she said that it caused a real problem when she plucked her eyebrows. Instead of simply plucking, each hair hurt so much that she had to “Pluck…ow!…massage massage massage…pluck…ow!…massage massage massage.” To this day, I repeat the “massage massage massage” mantra every time I pluck.

Neither Fatima nor I were big on beauty tips, being make-up free, fashion-challenged geeks, but I did have a shining moment when I told her that washing her hair twice would make it bouncier and full of body. She loved that one. I wonder if, when she washes her hair twice, she thinks of me and the book room.

Yesterday morning, I showed that one of our Wiltshire StaySharp kitchen knives had been damaged by its sheath. About a half centimeter near the tip had been bent 90 degrees to the side, and when I tried to use it, it made a huge raggedy mess of everything.

I asked him if he thought the knife could be repaired, or if I should just throw it away.

Then Captain Jelly Belly burst into tears. We already knew that he had a problem with throwing things out, based on his past teary-eyed request to retrieve his car package from the Garbage Store. But seriously, a knife? That he isn’t allowed to touch or use or even look at?

Maybe he was just upset that he wouldn’t get to use the knife someday. I know I often had fantasies as a kid of the wonderful day when I’d be allowed — oh the joy! — to prepare dinner. Baby, I’m living that dream.

He would not calm down about the knife, so Sir Monkeypants had to go immediately down to the basement and straighten it out using a hammer and pliers (and did a good job, too). The knife went back in the drawer and the Captain went to school happy.

Then this morning, he was playing with a balloon that had been kicking around here for a week and was already half-deflated, when it accidentally popped. So I asked him to go put the rubber leftovers in the garbage, and know what? He totally cried.

I told him it was not safe to play with a chunk of floppy orange rubber, although I do see his point, the entertainment value there is endless. He asked if he could just keep the deflated balloon somewhere, just to look at. So I fought hard not to roll my eyes and instead went and got a clear plastic Tupperware container, and put the balloon inside like a little coffin. Then we had a little graveside ceremony and the Captain took his Tupperware upstairs to put in a safe place, presumably to be treasured forever, or until we get a new balloon, whatever comes first.

While the Captain headed upstairs, turned to me and said, “Oh my god, I think he has hoarding.”

This morning’s forecast calls for “freezing fog.” What the heck is that? Fog can actually freeze??

I am SO over this winter. Consider us broken up for the rest of the day.

Last night was parent/teacher conference night at Gal Smiley’s preschool. Sir Monkeypants got to attend, and we were all very excited about it, even though we don’t have anything in particular to talk to the teachers about. Want to tell us how awesome our kid is? Be our guest! Can’t wait!

When I was in school, I used to make my mom attend all of my meet-the-teacher evenings, even though she’d try to get out of it.

Mom: It’s parent-teacher night tonight, but I don’t think I have to go.
Me: Oh…but…couldn’t you go anyway?
Mom: But you’re doing fine at school. I don’t need to go talk to them just to hear that you’re doing fine.
Me: But everyone else’s parents are going!!
Mom: Oh alright, don’t have a cow.

Then she’d actually have to get a sitter and everything, just to go and spend three minutes with the teacher in which the teacher told her that everything was, in fact, fine. I even made her go to the first parent-teacher night when I was in high school, I was that geeky.

Other parent: You gave my kid a C!!
Another parent: You gave my kid a detention!
And another parent: You didn’t put my kid on the mathletes team!
My Mom: Uh…I don’t actually have anything to say, I’m just here because my kid really really wanted me to show up.

And show up she did. It really meant a lot to me that she always went; it just made me feel like she cared. Even though she’d trudge over there just to spend a few minutes chatting about the weather with my teacher, it made me feel good to be able to say to the other kids in my class — in an offhand way, like it was totally embarrassing — “Yeah, my mom’s comin’ tonight.”

So thanks Mom, for showing up.

Sir Monkeypants and I had a talk about this last year when we had our very first parent-teacher conference for the Captain. He remembered feeling exactly the same way — that even though he did fine in school and there was nothing to discuss, he just really wanted his parents to come out and meet the teacher and see his world and be a part of it. Unfortunately, both his parents worked strict hours and could rarely actually make these events. Which only makes more determined to not miss any of his own kids’ meet-and-greets.

I’m so happy to find that this is yet another issue on which and I see eye-to-eye. Conventional wisdom tells you to talk about the Big Issues upfront before you get married — how many kids? what religion? how will we share finances? — but and I totally skipped that part. We didn’t really talk about any of the big things, but amazingly, I find we are completely in sync on every major issue. When it comes to raising our kids, again, we could/should have talked about everything ahead of time, but really, I think that’s all bogus — you can think about some situations in advance, but when you’re in the moment, you don’t really know how you are going to react to things; you can’t imagine every conceiveable scenario and have a plan ready to go. So again, I feel so lucky that, every step of the way, I’ve been happy to say that I completely support and agree with . I feel 100% comfortable with him being the other parent in this house; I like the way he is raising our kids.

And for that, I am truly thankful.

(Just don’t bring up the laundry sorting thing.)

Here’s my shot at the movie quote meme that’s flying around. All of these are from movies I’ve seen approximately a hundred times each, so I hope they aren’t too hard for the general public — I find it impossible to gauge!

1. Pick 15 of your favourite movies.
2. Go to IMDB and find a quote from each movie. (or write it yourself if you can, you know, actually remember dialogue from your favourite films)
3. Post them here for everyone to guess.
4. Strike it out when someone guesses correctly, and put who guessed it.
5. NO GOOGLING/using IMDB search functions.

Quotes:

1. But I’m not available to drive tomorrow. Busy. Speed;

2. From the moment I first saw you, I knew I was through with bar girls and strippers and motorcycle chicks, and… when we first started talking I was smitten with you, and I’m smitten with you more every day I think about you, and the fact that you know I’m full of crapola only makes you more attractive to me. Tin Cup;

3. A: I love you.
B: Snap out of it! Moonstruck;

4. Someone is either a smoker or a nonsmoker. There’s no in-between. The trick is to find out which one you are, and be that. If you’re a nonsmoker, you’ll know. Dead Again;

5. That’s a piecrust promise. Easily made, easily broken. Mary Poppins;

6. Traveling through hyperspace ain’t like dusting crops, boy! Without precise calculations we could fly right through a star, or bounce too close to a supernova and that’d end your trip real quick, wouldn’t it? Star Wars;

7. Okay, everybody, shut up! I’d like you to meet my new girl, whose name is… Jersey! Jersey is an ex-kindergarten teacher, and a former nun, who just escaped from the convent, and is tired of being the only virgin in New York City! Would anyone like to buy her a drink? Coyote Ugly;

8. Don’t you get it? Do you see the hat? I am Mrs. Nesbitt! Toy Story;

9. Off the top of my head, I’d say you’re looking at a Boeski, a Jim Brown, a Miss Daisy, two Jethros and a Leon Spinks, not to mention the biggest Ella Fitzgerald ever. Ocean’s Eleven;

10. Mr. Takagi, I could talk about men’s fashions and industrialization all day but I’m afraid work must intrude. Die Hard;

11. I don’t want to sell anything, buy anything, or process anything as a career. I don’t want to sell anything bought or processed, or buy anything sold or processed, or process anything sold, bought, or processed, or repair anything sold, bought, or processed. You know, as a career, I don’t want to do that. Say Anything;

12. I’m not sure I agree with you a hundred percent on your police work, there, Lou. Fargo;

13. From here to the eyes and the ears of the ‘Verse, that’s my motto, or it might be if I start having a motto. Serenity;

14. We’ve been eating oranges and makin’ IDs. The Fugitive;

15. A life lived in fear is a life half lived. Strictly Ballroom;