No way, man. NPH wouldn't do that!

Oh, but he did do that.

And incidentally, I've been dying to use that Harold and Kumar quote for a legitimate reason.

Undoubtedly moved by my post about the Wiggles, Neil Patrick Harris, lovingly known to many in my generation as Doogie Howser M.D., has come out of the proverbial closet and announced his sexuality to the world.

Actually, he was "lanced", according to Lance Bass' incredibly hot boyfriend. I love it when someone comes up with a new term like that. Good on you, Reichen.

I bet he feels better. I know I do. I had my suspicions as he generally plays womanizer roles these days, which gets my gaydar a bleepin'. It's like guys who spend hours upon hours with their cars, like the silver Saturn "sports car" neighbour up the street. Or women who aggressively push cosmetics for a living, striving hard to earn enough sales points to get formally invited to the yearly company gala and buying big, puffy, pink outfits for the occasion.

Life would be so much easier (and less Best of Ace of Base would be played loudly by annoying neighbours driving at top speeds up the street) if people could just be themselves from the getgo without fear of retribution from homophobes. With three boys, I think about this often. Spawnling, for example, is two thirds more likely to be gay than if he didn't have two older brothers. Don't believe me? Check out this study. It's done by a Canadian, so it's obviously correct.

People have asked me what I would do if one of my sons ended up being gay. One of those 'what if' conversations mothers have with other mothers when they're supposed to be out discussing anything but the kids. It's a ridiculous question to ask if you know me at all. I wouldn't 'do' anything. Nothing changes. I hope he falls in love, I hope he get married and I hope they have kids, if those are things that he wants out of life. I hope he's incredibly happy and is surrounded by people who love and support him, his dad and I being two of those people.

This whole 'OMFG SOMEONE IS GAY CAN YOU BELIEVE IT?!??!?!?!?' stuff is becoming a thing of the past. The more Lance Bass' and Neil Patrick Harrises that come out, the less of a big deal it will become. It's like my personal goal to normalize breastfeeding. I nurse everywhere and anywhere because my doing so will hopefully make it easier for the next mother.

And what's up with that, anyway? People still suggest that mothers should nurse in public bathrooms. Um, ew. Once upon a time, when I was a young, easily intimidated thing, I used to sometimes take my baby into the restroom when he got hungry. One day, I realized how disgusted I'd feel if I had to bring my restaurant food in with me into the stall and proceeded to feel like an idiot for feeding my child in there. Funny how such obvious things go right over my head a good deal of the time.

In the last three weeks, I've breastfed pretty much everywhere and anywhere. If I've received any dirty looks or negative comments, I've been completely oblivious to them. Maybe I've been fortunate. Or maybe, just maybe, people are wisening up and becoming more accepting. Less stupid.

And maybe, just maybe, I'm actually 130lbs and a Swedish sex kitten. And while we're dreaming, I live in a really big house and the (sweet but not very attractive, especially to my husband) nanny plays with the children while I get paid to blog for a living.

Wow, that fantasy was almost better than sex.

Speaking of drugs and things you might see on them, my mom, AKA The Madre, is sick once again. The poor woman can never catch a break with those lungs of hers. She's on some pretty heavy-duty narcotics and steroids right now and everything is really, really funny.

Hmm...Come to think of it, that's probably why she likes my blog so much when she's ill. She could probably read something about the declining number of Pacific Salmon and find it hilarious right now.

I took Spawnling over last night to visit with the sick Madre, The Sister and the rest of the crew that made The Maven who she is today (I can't figure out if they deserve thank you notes or death threats. I go back and forth.)

Before we got there, my sister said to my youngest brother (he's 17 and has Down's Syndrome) "Michael! Jackson is coming over!"

To which Michael replied excitedly: "Michael Jackson is coming over?!"

The visit nearly drove The Sister insane. Every time the baby would make a face - any face at all - my mom would demand that my sister look at him. 'Look! Look! Oh my god, you're missing it! He's SLEEPING!' and 'Take a picture! Hurry! He's making a pouty face! Look at those hands. THE HANDS!' and 'He's LOOKING AT YOU and you're IGNORING HIM!'

This happened about thirty times. My poor sister showed incredible retraint. Huge props to her for knowing how to deal with the stoned.

The Madre also spent a good deal of the time holding my baby, burping him and telling me how gassy he was. Thanks, mom. Hadn't noticed. I've only had three kids so I'm kind of new at this parenting thing still.

House was good last night, but sad. Stupid House. Love that show, hate the sadness.

Well, the Spawnmeister just woke up, so I suppose I should go parent. Maybe I'll bring him over to my mom's so she can show me how to change a diaper. 'LOOK! LOOK! Aww, he's peeing on everything. Hurry! Get the camera!'

Wiggle it, just a little bit

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.