Cuepons and Bobsleds


Last Saturday was a real shocker of a day for me, as I learned that I’ve been completely mispronoucing two words my whole life.

In the morning, I told Sir Monkeypants I’d like to go to the Chapters sometime that day because I had a coupon that was about to expire.

He said, “A what?”

And I said, “A coupon.”

And he said, “A what? A queue?”

And I said, “No, silly, a CUE-PON.”

And then he laughed and laughed and laughed, and there may also have been some finger pointing.

Sir Monkeypants claimed that the word was “coo-pon,” not “cue-pon,” and I thought about it, and it did seem to make sense. But I’d been saying “cue-pon” my whole life, and seriously? Totally wrong? Seriously?

I grew up in a town in southern Ontario called Cambridge, and Cambridge is an odd and interesting place that seems to exist in its own dimension. In the Cambridge Dimension, it’s always 1974 Texas. Everyone has wood paneling in their basements, drives a pickup, and — I am not kidding about this at all — it is the place that originated the phrase, “Giver.”

I figured I may have stumbled on yet another Cambridge-ism.

So I got on the horn to FameThrowa, and I asked her on speaker phone: “Say you had a little piece of paper that said you could get 50 cents off of crackers at the Superstore, what would you call that?” And she very, very carefully said, “A coo-pon,” While Sir Monkeypants whooped with glee, she explained that she also grew up saying “cue-pon,” but learned a few years back that the rest of the world says “coo-pon,” and so made a concerted effort to correct her Cambridge-ism.


And then! Later that afternoon, while I was driving home from the Chapters having used my CUE-PON, I was listening to an Olympic update on the radio and the announcer said that there would be coverage later of the men’s bobsleigh.

Only he said “bob-slay,” when clearly, b-o-b-s-l-e-i-g-h is pronounced, “bobsled.”


So I came home and twittered about it, because I was far too embarrassed to ask Sir Monkeypants about it, and apparently, SERIOUSLY, it is bob-slay. I eventually caved and checked with Sir Monkeypants and yes, bob-slay.

And the funny thing is that I have a whole arm of my family with the last name Sleigh, and they pronounce it “slay,” and yet, I still say “bob-SLED.”


The Original Jelly Belly

This past year I’ve been trying to lose the extra weight brought on by three pregnancies, and I’m very happy to say that I’m only two pounds away from my target weight now. If I lose them by the end of April, I’ll have lost 30 pounds this year. I know, that’s cool, right?

I’m feeling good about the weight loss and the fact that I’m wearing clothes that haven’t seen the light of day in about ten years. I’ve come to terms with the other pregnancy side effects that I can’t fix, too, like the smaller chest and the lingering varicose veins and the weirdly coarser hair. I’m generally happy with the physical side of Lynn these days.

There’s one thing I’m still not over, though, and that’s the loss of my lovely, thin, smooth, shapely belly button. I admit it, I had belly button vanity in my youth. My tummy was never Britney-iffic, if you know what I mean, but it was at least free of stretch marks and relatively flat and there, in the centre of it all, was a lovely oval belly button, the ideal size and shape to be richly coveted by the Japanese.

I knew my belly button was taking a lot of damage during the pregnancies, but I thought that once I lost all the weight and got back to my usual size, it’d return to a relative facsimile of its former self.

Turns out, not so much. Even though I’m the same size that I was before, I’m nowhere near the same shape.

I’m thinner and I’m fitter and my pants fit again, but still…my tummy looks kind of like an empty grocery bag. With streaks on it. And a hideous, giant, stretched-out belly button as its new centrepiece.

I remember those golden, innocent days of youth when my friends and I all swore that we’d never have plastic surgery, that the very idea was repulsive, that we were all going to age gracefully and beautifully and embrace our bodies the way they were. SO easy to say when you’re 17 and unknowingly goddess-like.

I’m still not interested in nose jobs or boob jobs or liposuction, but damn if that tummy tuck isn’t starting to look good. Not that I will ever, ever get one — there is no way my mind could ever justify spending that kind of money on myself. Hell, I can’t even buy myself a pair of shoes unless they are at least 50% off.

(I am so very ready to be a senior citizen.)

Still, I saw Kate from Jon and Kate Plus Eight get one last season, and boy oh boy, the results were so amazing. They transformed her belly area from sack-of-raw-pizza-dough to babies?-what-babies?. Needless to say, her newly flat and smooth belly features a gorgeous, perfect belly button.

And also needless to say, I’m so jealous.

Guess I’ll just have to suck it up and go give all my bikinis to Goodwill.

Fuzzy Wuzzy Wuz A Bear

So! Yesterday I had my hair fixed.

A couple of days after the infamous First Choice haircut of a couple weeks ago, I was trying to do something, anything with it. While I was looking in the mirror I noticed that it was really short on top, while still really long at the back. And I had a horrible, awful, terrible realization.


And it wasn’t even just a mullet. I was missing a whole chunk of hair on my right hand side over my ear — there still is a little bald spot — so the longer hair was thick on the left, and stringy and thin on the right.

A DRUNKEN MULLET, if you will.

Thus began several consecutive days of baseball hat wearing and major fretting. Eventually I decided to risk getting it cut again, to see if it could be cleaned up at all. I followed the recommendation of my friend RheostaticsFan and booked an appointment with Veigh at Spahara.

I can’t believe how nervous I was going in. During the hair washing segment I was actually kind of shaking. I had my cavity filled last week (more on that some other day) and it was actually more calming to have a drill in my mouth than to imagine someone going at my head with shears. What the heck is wrong with me?

Anyway, Veigh was awesome. I liked her very much. She admitted to my hair issues without making me feel like I had a squirrel on my head and she did an amazing job of fixing things up. She cut about two more inches off the bottom to lessen the two-layer effect, and she trimmed everything else so it was even and sleek. She even did some sort of magic to even out the two sides so now you can hardly tell even detect the bald spot.


It’s been a long while since I had such short hair but with the quality of the cut, I think it looks kind of professional and mature, yet still sassy and young. In fact, I feel sort of Martha Stewart-ish in it.

At the end of the cut I told Veigh to skip the blow-dry. I hate having my hair “set” — I hate the goop they put in it, it takes me three days to get it all out, and I hate sitting under a hot dryer for half an hour, immobilized while fretting about all the other things I could be doing with that time. If the blow-dry made me feel all glamorous I suppose I’d go through with it anyway, but I usually prefer my hair when it is air dried, and besides, I’m going to stick a toque on it and go home and change a poopy diaper, so what do I need to look all done up for?

And since I skipped the “set” part, I only paid $35! AWESOME.

There’s no freakin’ way I’d post a before picture of myself on the internet, but here’s what I look like after:

My twin Martha Stewart

Oops! That’s Martha Stewart! I get the two of us mixed up sometimes now.

I believe I may have created a new meme

Five Jobs I Would Really Suck At:

1. Cab driver/race car driver/bus driver/anything involving driving
2. Chef
3. Professional athlete, any sport
4. Economist
5. Exterminator

Five Jobs I Would Have Been Really Good At, But That Ship Has Sailed:

1. Governor-General Of Canada
2. Doctor
3. Columnist for Entertainment Weekly
4. Host of Jeopardy!
5. CBC Radio Producer

Five Jobs I Would Maybe Enjoy That May Still Come To Pass:

1. Technical Writer
2. High School Teacher
3. Freelance Writer for Parent Magazines and Websites
4. Bookstore Owner
5. President of the PTA


Last Friday was World Trivia Night.

You may remember me blogging way back in January 2008 that I was determined to put together a team for World Trivia Night this year. WTN is the largest single-night trivia event in the world (according to Ken Jenning’s book, Brainiac). I love trivia and I love games and I love competition, so I was pretty damn excited to find out that the biggest event in the world was well within driving distance. I was SO THERE.

You need a team of 10 people (actually, you can play with fewer team members, but it’s to your advantage and also more fun to have as many people as possible). I tried all year long to get a team together. In the end I got seven people to commit, but I couldn’t find any more. I asked just about everyone I know in the world, and they all said no, mostly saying that they would just be no good at trivia (but it’s a night about fun! There’s a bar! You can just sit at the end of the table and get drunk!).

After about 100 No’s I started to feel the way a teenaged boy must feel just before he gives up and hires a hooker instead. So I threw in the towel and decided to accept the fact that I just wouldn’t be able to go to WTN this year.

Man, I was sad about it.

So on Friday, WTN day, I was pretty pouty around here all day. Trivia was happening, and I was not a part of it. I was crushed.

Then, at around 1:30pm, you will never guess what happened. A miracle!

A guy from my writer’s group (which I haven’t attended in almost two years, by the way, and I’ve only actually met this guy, who is relatively new to the group, one time) sent around a mass email saying that someone on his WTN team had to cancel at the last minute, and they were looking for one more player to join them at the last minute.


After getting Sir Monkeypants’ blessing I nabbed the spot and HOLY CRAP, was I giddy. I danced around the house and I jumped up and down and I hugged all the kids. Then I got out the Trivial Pursuit cards and made the kids help me cram.

World Trivia Night is held every year in the big cow barn at Landsdowne Park. This year there were 211 teams — the maximum allowed — and it was thrilling to be in the big barn with so many other freaks and geeks. I was literally swooning with a combination of joy and too much chocolate.

I really just didn’t want to embarrass myself — I had no idea what to expect in terms of how hard the questions would be. But as it turns out, I was a pretty valuable teammate — there were several questions to which only I knew the answer. So that felt pretty good. Overall our team got 92 (we think) questions right out of 100 — not too shabby at all.

There are ten rounds of ten questions each. After each round, they announce a winner for that round — the team that got the most questions correct. With 211 teams, chances are more than one team is going to get 10 out of 10 questions right, so they take all the teams that got a perfect (or the highest) score and draw a round winner at random.

My team (shout out to More Cowbell!) got 10 out of 10 correct in four of the rounds…and once, WE WON THE FREAKIN’ ROUND WINNER AWARD.

When you win the round, your whole team gets a little gold medal to wear around your neck.

I swear, when they called out MORE COWBELL I just about died. I jumped up and screamed and clapped and all in all, it was most unbecoming. I just couldn’t help myself, though. It was SO much better than I have ever imagined winning an Oscar would be. In fact, I was exactly like a surprise Oscar winner — crying and hugging everyone within reach and generally acting like my life had been justified. If they’d ask me to come up on stage and say a few words at that point, I totally would have been just like one of those babbling winners who is all, “Oh my God! I can’t believe this! It’s so amazing! I want to thank my Mom! Mom, you are SO AWESOME!…” And so on for a half hour.

I am exactly like Halle Berry’s soul sister now.

I may never take my medal off again.

I am SO TOTALLY going to WTN next year. Whoo!

Happy Birthday, SocialButterfly

My older sister, SocialButterfly, turns 40 years old today.

In honour of her birthday, I would like to give her the gift of an apology for all the crappy things I did to her as a kid.

I’m sorry I hit you in the head that time with a Fisher Price toy camera, and you had to get stitches.

I’m sorry about that one time I didn’t flush the toilet after filling it with hair from my hairbrush, and you teased me about it, and I gave you a HUGE lecture about how much it costs to flush a toilet and how we should not be doing it unnecessarily, and you were all chagrined, when really, you were right in the first place, and I should have flushed.

Remember when your Grade 8 yearbook came out, and there was a page where people had been invited to complete the sentence, “I love…”? And you had said, “…waking up to music.” And I thought that answer was totally lame, so just to prove a point, I turned on your radio at full volume at 7am on a Saturday morning, thus “waking” you up to “music”? Yeah, sorry about that one. I was a wee bit jackassy.

I’m really sorry about that one time when you were in Grade 4, and you were trying really hard to impress a cute guy in your class, so you told him you had a robot in your bedroom that cleaned it for you, and he came to me for validation, and I failed to back you up.

Sorry I just told the world about that robot thing.

I’m sorry that when we used to stay up after our official bedtime, pretending in the dark that we were twin babies named Tina and Bina, that I made you be Bina, even though you always wanted to be Tina.

I’m sorry that I have, in the past, suggested to you that Placido Domingo is uncool.

I’m very, very sorry that I was too self-involved during my university years to pay much attention to your kids, when they were wee babies and toddlers. I had no idea what I was missing out on; I completely did not get it when I called to talk to you and you would dare to talk all about your kids instead. I get it now. I sucked back then.

I apologize for that one time that Nana and Papa brought us back wallets as gifts from a trip to Florida, and I cried and cried because you got a pink one and I got a blue one but I WANTED THE PINK ONE, and you caved in and traded with me. You have a good heart. I was (am?) a whiny baby.

Sorry about all those times you wanted to socialize, but I just wanted to sit and read a book, and so totally rebuffed you. I must say though, you never seemed to take it personally. I suspect you have always understood me much better than I have understood you.

Now you’re 40, and I hope I’m a better sister to you now than I was then. Just to prove it, I’m going to call you on the phone right now and I vow to talk to you for a full fifteen minutes, which is terribly painful for me (not because it’s you, just because it’s the phone, and I HATE the phone), but it’ll make you happy.

Happy birthday, SocialButterfly!

Hole In My Head

On Wednesday I went to the dentist with Gal Smiley and I HAVE A CAVITY.

I freely admit I am being a big giant baby about it.

You’d think after all this time I’d be kind of used to it. I have terrible teeth. Each of my back-most molars has been filled twice. On the top, one of my second-to-back-most molars was lost to a root canal about seven years ago. The other second-to-back-most molar on the top has been filled three times — actually, it may even have been four times, now that I think about it — and seems destined to disintegrate any day now.

Compare these to Sir Monkeypants, who spent at least a third of his life skipping the whole dentist thing, and who has a perfect, unfilled, cavity-free set of teeth. But I’m NOT BITTER. Much. I just hope the kids got his teeth.

The last time I had a filling, I was just a few weeks pregnant with Gal Smiley. The hygienist at my old dentist’s office broke off part of one of my fillings (in the molar with the four fillings — probably she couldn’t tell what was real tooth and what was fake) and it had to be redrilled and replaced. The dentist (nicknamed “The Butcher,” and not just by me) didn’t want to fill it until after the Gal was born because he had this thing about fillings causing undue stress on pregnant ladies, but the broken off filling was KILLING me, so I begged him to fill it. That turned out to be a big mistake, because the filling (after the job was “finished”) hurt more than the original hole in my head, and after sobbing in Sir Monkeypants’ arms for 24 hours, I went back and begged The Butcher to do something, anything. So he filed it down and fiddled around with it while I was sobbing in the chair, and I’m sure the whole time he was thinking, “THIS is why I don’t like to do fillings on pregnant ladies, they get SO HYSTERICAL.” The end result was something I could live with, but which still aches to this day.

So I’m not too jazzed about the whole cavity/filling thing, even though I’ve parted ways with The Butcher (See you! Bye bye! Don’t bother to write!) and now have a very nice dentist who doesn’t have any scary nicknames that I know of.

But still, I am shaking in my boots.

I really hate the drilling. Of course, you can’t feel anything, but it’s the sound that is so awful. That, and the smell. Ugh, the smell. I’m shuddering.

But you know what’s even worse? The needle for the freezing. Man, that sucker hurts. It hurts so much, that I’m tempted to try the drilling without freezing — my mother always swore by it. This time, though, the cavity is in a really inaccessible place, between two teeth, and so the dentist has to drill right up into the centre of my tooth and then drill sideways out of it, and that sounds like freezing is probably going to be a good idea.

I’m also not so fond of the cotton they pack in there. It tastes gross and is very uncomfortable.

Oh, and the cavity is on one of my back-most molars, and in the past when I’ve had one of those filled, I’ve had to have my mouth clamped open with weird plastic bits covering everything. I just remembered that friendly little contraption right now. Boy, sounds like a big party, doesn’t it?

At least I’ll get an hour or so of child-free time. A little holiday for mom, if you will. Not quite as good as other famous “mommy time” events such as grocery shopping alone, or having my annual pap smear…but I guess it’s one thing to look forward to.

Field Trip

On Tuesday I went through yet another parental rite of passage — I went on a field trip.

It was Gal Smiley’s JK class. They went to Saunder’s Farm, a local farm that specializes in Halloween activities (you can read an excellent review of it on DaniGirl’s blog). Sir Monkeypants went with Captain Jelly Belly last year, so this year I got to have a turn.

I thought I’d get to blog about all the fun and wonder and moving mother-daughter moments. My own mother came along for exactly one field trip with me, when I was in kindergarten. We went to the apple orchard, and I had a little red apple-shaped name tag and my mom had a big green apple-shaped name tag. The fact that I can still remember details of that trip — possibly my earliest accessible memories — tells you what a big deal it is when a kid’s mom comes along for the trip. I remember being SO excited that my mom was there, being so proud to introduce her to all my friends.

And not that my trip with Gal Smiley wasn’t fun, but JESUS, it was COLD. Barely above freezing, with a wicked, strong, bitter wind whipping around our heads. On top of that, it was pouring rain.

Definitely the kind of weather that makes me think, “Boy, I’d love to go to a farm right now and do outdoor activities for an hour and a half!”

Here’s what I was wearing:

  • jeans with double-layered splash pants over top
  • extremely thick, heavy wool hiking socks
  • winter boots
  • a shirt and a fleece
  • my winter coat
  • gloves
  • world’s dorkiest toque with ear flaps

And I was cold. And wet. Very COLD AND WET. Some parents were just wearing fall jackets, with running shoes. Most didn’t have hats and some didn’t even have gloves. I felt very, very bad for those parents but they were getting my dork-hat over my dead body.

So it wasn’t really the magical time I had envisioned. I don’t have any cute anecdotes to relate. I don’t even have any pictures — I was too afraid of the camera getting soaked and also, I was definitely not in any kind of mood to be removing my gloves. I think Gal Smiley had a nice time and she was happy I was there and everything, but most of the time she was too focused on survival to notice the activities or my presence. She does like the little baby pumpkin she got to take home, though.

The only really interesting thing that happened was that one of the other moms there had a baby carrier hiding inside the front of her jacket, and inside the baby carrier was a four-week old baby. We were all pretty amazed that she was brave enough and healthy enough and alert enough to even be vertical with the baby, let alone at a farm during a hurricane. So I came home and told Sir Monkeypants about this amazing Amazon woman, and the first thing he said was, “Was it Shelly?”

Oh, you mean the wife of your good friend from work? Who just had a baby four weeks ago, and who has a daughter in JK at Gal Smiley’s school? The one I’ve been hearing stories about for years and the one who I have actually met on a few occasions? That Shelly?

Hm. Now that you mention it, yes.

Sometimes I am socially stupid. I guess I could always claim that my brain was frozen.


So. I’ve joined the PTA.

Actually here in Ottawa they call it the “School Council” but I think that’s a silly name. It makes me think of kids running for school president and Reese Witherspoon being all Tracy Flick. I’ve seen too many movies featuring SuperMom Cliques drunk with power and shutting out the slouchy mom character to not call it the PTA. So PTA it is.

I’ve been thinking of doing something more productive with my time than surfing Etsy and following the details of Angelina Jolie’s life (not that they are not noble, noble pursuits), so I thought this was a good way to get involved in something my kids are doing. It didn’t seem like an unreasonable amount of time would be required. I was kind of afraid of the SuperMom Cliques but Sir Monkeypants thought that if I started now, and took a low-level peon kind of job, and worked my way up, then by the time Little Miss Sunshine is a student there in three years, I’d be running the show.

Turns out it wasn’t really that hard to infiltrate the ranks. You show up to the meeting, and everyone pretty much falls all over you with gratitude and begs you take on a job, any job. The only really disappointing thing was that there weren’t any squares. Where were the squares? You want to recruit moms, you need squares, dammit!

Next time, I’m bringing squares.

I figure by this time next year, I’ll totally be running the show. No one can deny the swaying power of squares!

I’m not too sure I really want the job, though. The vice-president position is actually free, which, if I took it, would practically guarantee my acclaimation to the top spot next year. But sitting through last night’s meeting — last night’s LOOOOOOOONG meeting, I am SO out of practice at listening to people yammer on in a meeting-type environment, and you know what would have really helped pass the time? SQUARES — made me wonder if I really have the energy for all this. Members of the PTA are expected to plan, set up, and run any and all school events, and I envisioned all my lovely, lazy Saturdays spent taking the kids to museums and going for long walks in the woods replaced by running the dunk tank at the school fair. I thought I’d just have to send a few emails, maybe give up a few evenings making giant stars for the Grade 8 Enchanted Evening dance.

Little Miss Sunshine is still small, and still VERY BUSY, and some days it’s all I can do to keep everyone alive and at the minimum subsistence level. I’m not sure I really want to be talking budgets and organising bake sales with the precious free time I have.

But I’ve joined now. It would be really wussy to back out. Plus, they clearly need some help in the squares department.

I think I’ll spend this year being a “Member At Large” which basically means, I get to attend the montly meetings and vote on stuff, but I don’t have any other real responsibilities. If it works out, I’ll take over next year.

Bwah hah hah hah!


Someone I know is turning 40 years old this year, and other people I know are planning a surprise party for her. Well, they were planning a surprise party, but I have been quite bitchy about it. I absolutely HATE surprise parties, I’m morally opposed to them, and of course, my opinion is the only one that counts. We all know that.

Surprise parties always require so much work for so little payoff. The person closest to the Birthday Girl (BG) has to be completely committed to the plan. He has to create elaborate fabrications designed to convince BG that she needs to keep a certain day and time completely free — and he needs to remember which lie he told when. The planners need to make secret plans and do secret shopping and take secret phone calls, which results in the BG either guessing what’s up, or getting pissed off that no one is available on her birthday.

Plus there’s the political problems. Maybe the organizers don’t invite Judy from work, and BG has lunch with Judy every day, and now it’s awkward because BG can’t talk about it at work because Judy wonders why BG’s family have never heard of her and didn’t invite her. Or maybe, some other invitee suggests inviting Kathleen, and it turns out Kathleen is a good friend of the invitee but a mortal enemy of BG, and there’s issues, and OH THE DRAMA.

And sometimes you’ll be having the party on a day when the BG had a tough day at work, or didn’t get good sleep the night before, or else hates surprises SO much that she turns on her heel as soon as everyone yells “Surprise!” and stomps off, never to return. I won’t name names, but you know who you are.

Seriously, is all that crap worth it just for the two second look on BG’s face when she walks in? I think not. It’s not like I expect the Birthday Girl to make up a guest list, and a menu, and pick a theme for the decorations, and book a hall, and maybe make a few party favours. We’ll do all the work, there will still be wonder and surprises and exclamations of delight, just let BG know the day and time so there’s no sneaking around, and also, give her some guest list input. That’s all!

Anyway, last night I was talking about this to Sir Monkeypants and warning him that he should never, EVER, consider throwing me a surprise party. He got this guilty look on his face and said, “Um…too late.” And I was all, “WHAT THE HELL?” and he said, “I already invited a bunch of people and they’ll be here in about five minutes. You should probably put some pants on.” Then I punched him.

He went on, however, to tell me all the fabulous famous people that would be dropping by. He invited the creators of Etsy, he said, and they were coming by both with gifts from my favourites list and a job offer. He said Shannen Doherty of 90210 would be able to make it, just as soon as she was done her dinner theatre engagement over in Carp. I suggested he invite Jennie Garth too, because maybe then there would be a catfight, and all the good parties on The O.C. always had a catfight.

Sir Monkeypants also said that Ken Jennings would be coming by, and I admit I actually squealed with excitement, such is my love of the KenJen. And Brett Favre and family would also be able to make it, so I better wear my cheesehead with my party outfit.

He mentioned that Anna Maria Tremonti and Lucy van Oldenbarneveld from the CBC would probably be able to make it, and later we’d be seeing Kristen Bell and Enrico Colantoni trade daughter/father witticisms just like they used to on Veronica Mars. Joss Whedon was a maybe, but Angelina Jolie would definitely be coming by so that we could all bask in her glory. (I told Sir Monkeypants it was okay if she needed to bring the kids. We’d get KenJen and his wife to watch them — they’re all responsible and stuff.)

Then Sir Monkeypants asked me who I would invite — famous people only — to his imaginary surprise party. I told him I’d invite Aaron Sorkin and the entire cast of The West Wing. Sir Monkeypants said that would be fine, but only if we could yell out the names of each West Wing actor’s character as they entered the party — just like we used to over the opening credits of the show each week.

I knew Lance Armstrong was in for sure, and there were probably some other cycling dudes whose names I don’t know who would hover with Lance over the snacks table. Randy Moss would be dropping by — but only on the condition that he keep his hands off Angelina, who would also be attending Sir Monkeypants’ party, having had such a great time at mine. The quarterback of his favourite team — Tavaris Jackson of the Minnesota Vikings — would be invited, but that was only so that Sir Monkeypants could kick him in the shins when he arrived, then make him serve drinks all night like the goat that he is. Sir Monkeypants liked that idea.

I told him I’d get Tegan and Sara to come do an accoustic set in the living room. The members of the Barenaked Ladies would arrive later, and once slightly sloshed, would probably jam with T&S to hilarious effect. I also offered to invite the founders of Google, so Sir Monkeypants could convince them to give him a really great job that involves him getting paid tons of money for working about 10 hours a week, all from home, and he said that would be fine, but that there was no need to invite Linus the Linux guy because Linus would probably just feel awkward, or else get preachy once he got a few beers in him.

Oh, and arriving late at the party would be a few super cool poker players, like Brad Booth (since he’s Canadian and all), Antonio Esfandiari (again, only if he keeps his hands off of Angelina), Barry Greenstein, Phil Ivey, Phil Laak (feel free to bring Jennifer Tilly along with you), and, if he isn’t too whiny, Daniel Negraneau. They’d play a few hands around the dining room table while Tavaris Jackson brought them beverages.

Who would you want at your imaginary surprise party?