9:00am this morning
Intrepid was at school. Geekster was taking Gutsy to preschool. Spawnling and I, who awoke at 6:30am (after 6.5 hours of solid sleep, mind you) were snoozing happily on the couch with the television off and nothing but the hum of the world outside.
Suddenly, I open my eyes to see a man's head outside my livingroom window. This wouldn't be terribly shocking, except that the bottom of our livingroom window is about eight feet off the ground (we live in a bungalow with a half-sunken basement). The man isn't looking inside, but rather facing the street. I can only see the back of his Montreal-hair-band-of-the-80's-mullet. Our dog, Taylor, whom we should have called Spaztik, starts freaking out. It's one thing to be 10 pounds with the mind of a two-year-old (I think that's pushing it when it comes to describing her intelligence) and dealing with average-sized people, but to be presumably guarding the house against a nine foot giant was a bit too much for her. She took off to the bedroom with her tail between her legs.
As it turns out, the nine-foot mullet monster is, in fact, a paver on an asphalt machine. And he would have got away with it, too, if it wasn't for those meddling kids.
After nearly eight years our driveway shall be paved. This is a glorious occasion! Do you know how tiring it is to shovel two feet of snow and gravel into a pile? More importantly, do you know how annoying it is to pick the rocks off the side of the lawn in the Spring and throw them back onto the driveway so the lawnmower doesn't turn into a torpedo-launching machine of death?
Also, we'll finally be able to put the kazillions of pieces of sidewalk chalk to use without worrying about our annoying neighbour in his silver Saturn "sports car" barrelling down the street and hitting one of the kids. He's always thumping the worst music, too. What's with losers who put more money into their cars than their homes and insist that everyone wants to hear The Best of Ace of Base blasting out of their subwoofer? Is your penis that small?
Why aren't you answering?
Oh... gotcha.
Anyway, prior to the pavers showing up, I was entranced by a performance from The Wiggles on Canada AM. I must say, they're a friendly bunch. We don't watch much Wiggles around here, but I did enjoy their interview post-concert. Mind you, I was a bit shocked that some of them appear to be in heterosexual relationships and have actually produced children from their loins. It's just not what I expected, that's all. Is it wrong that I presumed they were... well... gay? Only two of them claim to have kids, though: Anthony and Captain Feathersword. That leaves the other three up for grabs. Oh, and I have questions about the dinosaur, too. I wonder if she enjoys the company of other femalosauruses. After all, she tours with all these strapping young men and I haven't heard anything about them hooking up in the tabloids, have you? Makes you wonder...
Now, before you get all offended and tell me that pirates, dinosaurs and men in coloured turtlenecks are allowed to love whoever they please, you should know that I agree with you. Generally, I really don't care what someone's sexual preference is. It's not at the top of my 'things I need to know about other people' list.
However, when I'm forced to endure a half hour of Wigglemania (a rarity, thankfully), my mind isn't exactly focused on the great music. Fruit Salad, yummy, yummy starts to turn into 'Are they really singing about fruit salad?' which turns into 'Who writes this crap?' which turns into 'Did you see the way Murray looked at Greg? That wasn't just a friendly smile. That was more of a 'Hey, want to go get some tofu pizza back at the hotel after this performance, baby?' kind of smile' which turns into 'But didn't he just smile at Jeff like that during the last song? What a slut!'
You can see how these things happen. You can't expect me to watch something that will turn my brain to mush and not allow it to fight back by doing self-preservating exercising like guessing people's sexuality. It's just not fair.
A few months ago, one of my favourite conversations with other moms would start with this question: If you were on a deserted island with the entire cast and had to pick someone, what Wiggle would you sleep with?
This is usually followed closely by: No, you don't have a vibrator.
And then by: No, no sex toys at all. They were lost in the shipwreck, sorry.
And finally, sometimes by an exasperated: Jobthingy, I said NO VIBRATOR. Freaking pervert.
So anyway, the thing is, picking a Wiggle to copulate with is not as easy as it seems. Great questions often take great thought. Can the entire Wiggles cast be taken into consideration, or is it just the original four? When the rules include everyone, I generally go with Captain Feathersword (who has a 21 month old son, by the way, yar!). When it's only the hot boy band itself, I tend to lean toward Anthony, although I suppose Greg would do if he'd seranade me on that guitar of his.
Who says being a stay-at-home-mom doesn't provide you with interesting conversation topics?
Next time: what Jobthingy and I really think of Dora.
Intrepid was at school. Geekster was taking Gutsy to preschool. Spawnling and I, who awoke at 6:30am (after 6.5 hours of solid sleep, mind you) were snoozing happily on the couch with the television off and nothing but the hum of the world outside.
Suddenly, I open my eyes to see a man's head outside my livingroom window. This wouldn't be terribly shocking, except that the bottom of our livingroom window is about eight feet off the ground (we live in a bungalow with a half-sunken basement). The man isn't looking inside, but rather facing the street. I can only see the back of his Montreal-hair-band-of-the-80's-mullet. Our dog, Taylor, whom we should have called Spaztik, starts freaking out. It's one thing to be 10 pounds with the mind of a two-year-old (I think that's pushing it when it comes to describing her intelligence) and dealing with average-sized people, but to be presumably guarding the house against a nine foot giant was a bit too much for her. She took off to the bedroom with her tail between her legs.
As it turns out, the nine-foot mullet monster is, in fact, a paver on an asphalt machine. And he would have got away with it, too, if it wasn't for those meddling kids.
After nearly eight years our driveway shall be paved. This is a glorious occasion! Do you know how tiring it is to shovel two feet of snow and gravel into a pile? More importantly, do you know how annoying it is to pick the rocks off the side of the lawn in the Spring and throw them back onto the driveway so the lawnmower doesn't turn into a torpedo-launching machine of death?
Also, we'll finally be able to put the kazillions of pieces of sidewalk chalk to use without worrying about our annoying neighbour in his silver Saturn "sports car" barrelling down the street and hitting one of the kids. He's always thumping the worst music, too. What's with losers who put more money into their cars than their homes and insist that everyone wants to hear The Best of Ace of Base blasting out of their subwoofer? Is your penis that small?
Why aren't you answering?
Oh... gotcha.
Anyway, prior to the pavers showing up, I was entranced by a performance from The Wiggles on Canada AM. I must say, they're a friendly bunch. We don't watch much Wiggles around here, but I did enjoy their interview post-concert. Mind you, I was a bit shocked that some of them appear to be in heterosexual relationships and have actually produced children from their loins. It's just not what I expected, that's all. Is it wrong that I presumed they were... well... gay? Only two of them claim to have kids, though: Anthony and Captain Feathersword. That leaves the other three up for grabs. Oh, and I have questions about the dinosaur, too. I wonder if she enjoys the company of other femalosauruses. After all, she tours with all these strapping young men and I haven't heard anything about them hooking up in the tabloids, have you? Makes you wonder...
Now, before you get all offended and tell me that pirates, dinosaurs and men in coloured turtlenecks are allowed to love whoever they please, you should know that I agree with you. Generally, I really don't care what someone's sexual preference is. It's not at the top of my 'things I need to know about other people' list.
However, when I'm forced to endure a half hour of Wigglemania (a rarity, thankfully), my mind isn't exactly focused on the great music. Fruit Salad, yummy, yummy starts to turn into 'Are they really singing about fruit salad?' which turns into 'Who writes this crap?' which turns into 'Did you see the way Murray looked at Greg? That wasn't just a friendly smile. That was more of a 'Hey, want to go get some tofu pizza back at the hotel after this performance, baby?' kind of smile' which turns into 'But didn't he just smile at Jeff like that during the last song? What a slut!'
You can see how these things happen. You can't expect me to watch something that will turn my brain to mush and not allow it to fight back by doing self-preservating exercising like guessing people's sexuality. It's just not fair.
A few months ago, one of my favourite conversations with other moms would start with this question: If you were on a deserted island with the entire cast and had to pick someone, what Wiggle would you sleep with?
This is usually followed closely by: No, you don't have a vibrator.
And then by: No, no sex toys at all. They were lost in the shipwreck, sorry.
And finally, sometimes by an exasperated: Jobthingy, I said NO VIBRATOR. Freaking pervert.
So anyway, the thing is, picking a Wiggle to copulate with is not as easy as it seems. Great questions often take great thought. Can the entire Wiggles cast be taken into consideration, or is it just the original four? When the rules include everyone, I generally go with Captain Feathersword (who has a 21 month old son, by the way, yar!). When it's only the hot boy band itself, I tend to lean toward Anthony, although I suppose Greg would do if he'd seranade me on that guitar of his.
Who says being a stay-at-home-mom doesn't provide you with interesting conversation topics?
Next time: what Jobthingy and I really think of Dora.