For those of you who got the earlier, unedited version of this post, my apologies. Apparently I don’t know the difference between “publish” and “preview.”  Lucky you.

I had dinner with friends on the weekend.  Not the same part of the weekend where Marc consumed a cask of scotch and spent the following day scratching his head over why he felt a little off, another part.  It wasn’t reallly like going out, since we stayed in, and it was more of a gathering than of “going out for dinner” and there was homemade soup and homemade crackers (I know), and cheese and knitting (more on that later.  Just when you think you know a person…) It was delightful.

It’s funny the way men gawk and point when women gather.  Two made brief appearances that night, retreating quickly.  I’m sure they feared we would start measuring our labia or discuss just how long six inches really is.  We did neither.  This time.

It was during one of those cameos that Steph (our dear host) referred to her husband as Captain Fancy-Pants (hypen? no hypen?).  Allie, one of the fine women in attendance, asserted that “Captain anything is the best term of endearment evah!  Really?  Evah? This really got me, I mean we have butterflies, buttercups, sweet peas, honey bees, princesses, darlings, Simon-saurs, Kate-o-sauruses and sugar pies in our house, but alas, no “captains.”  I pondered what this meant for my nearest and dearest – if Molly’s correct, have I unwittingly robbed them of the greatest of all endearments, have I stolen from them the truest form of love by failing to refer to them as “Captain Fancy Pants?”  

Since there’s definitely no fancy-pants-ing in our house,  I didn’t spend much time worrying about that diminutive in particular, but I knew we had in us, I knew we were captains. 

Ah-hem.

Marc is definitely Captain Can’t-pick-up-your-fucking-towel-after-having-a-shower-EVEN-THOUGH-YOU-KEEP-SAYINGYOUWILLBUTCAN’TSEEMTODOITEVENTHOUGHYOU’REALAWYERANDAN-ENGINEERANDHAVEMOREEDUCATIONTHANMEBUTICANPICKUPMYTOWEL-so-there

wet towel on shag, beside dog bed, 2009

Okay, I think there might be a few unresolved issues there.  Moving along.

Kate: Captain Cries-every-24.2 minutes-unless-everyone-reads-your-mind-and-does-exactly-what-the-inside-of-your-brain-says

the reality is too harsh, something divine instead

Simon: Captain Refuses-to-eat-and-only-wants-to-watch-youtube-videos-that-involve-cars-being-hit-by-trains-because-your-daddy-thought-it-wasn’t-that-bad-anidea

Okay okay, they don’t always drive me crazy, and when they don’t, rainbows shoot out of my eyes.  Sort of.

For Marc, who will go to the Harbord Bakery to get me my favourite coffee cookie at 8am on a Sunday morning when no one is dressed and sleep is still crusted in his eyes:

Captain Mandelbrot

pistachio = better, almond = what's left

For Kate, who makes up songs while she dresses her dinosaur in tissue and turns a piece of foam into a swing that she ties (I told you) onto the window blinds:

Captain Imgaination

t-rex on foam and blinds, 2009

And for Simon, who is just so damn happy all of the time

Captain (wait for it) Fancy Pants

cropped to remove our full street address so my mother won't have a hissy fit worrying that someone is going to abudct simon which anyone could do anyway, but you know

Thanks Allie, we’re better now.

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