Kim at Jogging in Circles, who is by far the hottest stalker alive, tagged me for this.

Tomorrow, we’re going to discuss night terrors, dehydration, and how my kids cannot help but ruin my plans every stinking time I have a hot date. Seriously, I put TWO shades of purple eyeshadow on this morning, and here I sit in my sweats, watching Discovery Kids, and listening to green snot getting sucked back in through red noses.

Today, however, we are going to address Marge’s meme challenge for the week. Marge has decided to single-handedly revolutionize memes as we know them; when Marge does something, you would be wise to follow her lead. (Thank you, Mommytime, for the refresher course in the proper usage of the almighty semi-colon. I hope I get a passing grade today.)

Anyway, meme.

TOPIC: In raising you, what did your parents do right? What did your parents do wrong? If you are a parent, what are you doing differently?

I am not even going to touch the what did my parents do wrong? part. Procreating is what they did wrong, but I must admit that it worked out fairly well for me in the end. And the question of what I do differently? I basically take everything I ever learned about parenting from my parents and do the complete opposite. Turns out, the inside-out version of my parents is a damn fine version, indeed.

What I can talk about today is what they did right. It is a very short list, and short lists make for good blog-fodder. I have thought about this all week, and my goal was to find three things they did right. And it took me a whole week to figure that out. Here they are, in no particular order:

1. My parents are both brilliant musicians. And by brilliant, I mean brilliant. Freakishly so. My mother’s singing voice sounds almost exactly like Emmylou Harris, and my father plays a guitar at a skill level that would make Jimi Hendrix say, “Well, damn!” Music has always come naturally to them, and they definitely passed that onto us. Maybe we didn’t have food every day, but we had two player pianos in the house. I fell asleep to band practice, I spent my Saturdays playing roadie to the band, putting together the drum kit and wiring the amps. The stereo was never not on. My childhood, however unpleasant, has the best soundtrack in the fucking universe. Every minute of my life was drowned in four-part harmonies. They taught us to love music, to really listen to it, to hear the subtleties and hidden details and to visualize compositions. It was a beautiful way to grow up, and no matter how many bad or painful memories I will have of my childhood, every one of them will be trumped by the memories of the sounds.
2. They gave us religion. Of course, they gave us the entirely wrong religion, but still. I have learned through watching my children that the mind of a child is constantly reaching outward for something to touch. They want to know, they want there to be more. Children have perfect faith. They have to; they are helpless but for their parents. Raising my own children while being an atheist is truly a challenge for me because I want them to have that thing, that place in my heart that I had as a child, that love and comfort and peace that I felt simply because I believed in something larger than myself. And so, I give my own children religion. I give them all the religions, though, and I know that is not the same. Being raised in a really, really reclusive sort of cult, we were so indoctrinated in our belief structure that we could not see past it. Although I do not in any way approve of that sort of brain-washing now, I do understand why some people are drawn to it. It is a big, cozy, warn blanket under which you feel totally safe and loved. At my depths of the darkness in my life, I never once felt alone. I had belief, I had an absolute, and I am so grateful that both of my parents gave that to me.
3. They were the model divorcees. My parents divorced when I was 6. My brother was 8; my younger brother and sister were 3 and 10 months. My parents had one single fight over custody which resolved itself in a day. My father gave my mother everything in the house, respecting that she had the children and therefore was in slightly more dire need of a washer and dryer than his bachelor self. They agreed immediately on visitation times, and never, ever once wavered from it. They only spoke to each other when it was absolutely necessary, they never talked about each other in front of us, in either a good or bad light. I think they were both just so damn happy to be rid of each other that when the opportunity struck, they glided through it with grace and ease. They respected each others roles as our parents, and they never undermined each other. Separated, they were better parents than they ever were together. They were united, they weren’t so angry, they were a stronger front. The very best thing my parents ever did for us was break up, and we always knew it.

With that, I have officially said more nice things about my parents than I think I ever had before in my whole life. Thanks, Marge, for making me stop and think about this one. It actually was sort of nice.

If you’d like to share some of your stories, too, just go drop Marge a little comment and then post away.

Piper of Love tagged me for this meme a few weeks ago, and, um, gah. I have done this in some variation so many freaking times I can’t count them all. Every time, it has been a stretch of Gymnastic Proportions. Dude, I am so very very boring. As luck would have it, though, I totally missed my lusciously awesome friend Marge’s birthday last week, as I do every stinking year, and then she totally bitch-slapped me for even doing these memes in the first place. Really, click the link. She’s, like, the stinking funniest person ALIVE. Also, there are lemmings. LEMMINGS. Did you know I love lemmings? Like, they’re my favorite animal ever.

And so, in some sort of twisted making-it-up-to-her-ness, I am dedicating this weeks’ meme to Marge, without whom my life would be a sad little shell of an existence. Whom I do not deserve, in any small way, but who has stuck by me faithfully for 16 long years now, through thick and thin, and who is beautiful and cherished and rare and glorious. Baby, I love you. So bad.

6 Random Things

(about Marge)

1. She is the most clever person. Ever. Period. She gives the very best birthday presents in the history of birthday presents. Like, she makes you shit. For example, one year she made me a heating pad. Sounds average? It’s not. It’s got this funky fabric, and is totally all-natural, and still smells awesome after God only knows how many years. Another year, she made me an herb garden. The Donor promptly killed that herb garden while I was in Durango, but still…she made me one. And then, there is this.

Why one Earth would someone give another someone a box of sugar packets for their birthday, you ask? I’ll tell you. Marge and I have a small collection of sugar packets. Each time we had a meal out together, we’d write each other something terribly clever and/or witty on a sugar packet. Turns out, we were both saving them. And then, this one year, she gives me a puzzle all on sugar packets. Like, 2/3 of that box is just plain old sugar packets, but some of them are numbered, and in the right order, they form a message. A secret message. A tale of our love. I don’t even want to think about how many days it took her to pull that one off.

2. She is cloaked in mystery. Marge is not what Marge seems she is. If you ever met her, she’d be in a business suit. She’s got just the right amount of handshake. Her heels are never too high. Her hair is always done, but not so done you think she’s arrogant about it. Do not be fooled. Marge? Rock and rolls all night. Parties like it’s 1999. Her milkshakes bring all the boys to the yard. Also, she’s, shall we say, mechanically inclined?

Note the greasy hands. You should see the collection of Jeeps that she and Homer have. Oh wait, you can. This post right here is just about her boring old day, like any other day, replacing her fucking brakes on her car. I think I’m pretty tough because if I absolutely had to, I could fumble through changing my own oil.

3. She’s Random. The CLF. The Colorful Liberation Front. Without revealing too much, in the interest of protecting the innocent, let me just say this…high school, blank sticker sheets, Sharpie’s, one pissed off principal, and an uncredited legacy that stands to this very day. Someday, Marge will tell you more. If she chooses.

4. And she just gets more random. Along those lines is Marge’s penchant (do you even do this anymore) of renaming bodies of water. Many a morning saw us up before dawn, scowering our corner of suburbia, searching for some remote, untouched body of water, and giving it a proper christening and a worthy name. This is how it goes: You steal (you must steal them, or the magic is lost) a few liquid coffee creamers from some unsuspecting 7-11. You then find a body of water. You search the shore-line for 3 perfect rocks, perfect being a subjective thing here. You stand at the edge of the water and spill out your coffee creamer in a perfectish circle, some of the circle in the water and some of the circle by your feet. You then announce the NEW name of the body of water (for example, the Atlantic Ocean was once renamed Lake Cretan by a 19 year old Mr Lady at Wildwood.) In some order I can’t rememeber, you throw each rock in the water, each one symbolizing something grand and serene. And that’s it. God damn it, we are dorks.

5. Her mother was right. Just because it will never not crack me up, I’m going to mention this one. When I met Marge, she was, well, psycho-Christian. Not your normal Christian. I was, too. Bygones. Her mother was afraid of me and her other friend, Josh. Because we listened to Sonic Youth and Genesis. (PS, I love her mother like I love few other things. I’m not talking smack, it’s just FACT.) Anyway, this is only relevant because my dear Marge, my friend in Christ, somehow managed to have a kid, out of wedlock, and is now currently living totally in sin with Homer. Maybe your mom had a point about us and our evil influence, dude.

6. She puts the Oy in Loyal. You know how you go to high school, and you suffer through it, and then you leave and you never, ever look back? Like LOT never look back? Not Marge. Marge is still, 15 years later, totally BFF’s with the same group of people she went to high school with. I am lucky enough to be lumped in with Josh and Turtle and Eddi and Janna and Molly, who are all some of the most amazing, talented, flat out wicked cool people you’ll ever meet. She is the glue that has kept us all together. Heck, Josh and I weren’t even friends anymore, by a long shot, but Marge did what Marge does and now I have my friend back, and I think he doesn’t hate me too much anymore. :)

So, Marge, I am sorry that I suck so very much and that I missed your birthday, again, and that I am a sheep who does memes, and I hope that you will find it in your heart to forgive me someday. Because, without you, I’d be something very sad and very different. In my very best weepy Tom Cruise voice I say to you, dude, you complete me.

Yours in Christ,

Mr Lady

Well, you all rock. I asked for memes; you delivered, hardcore. Today, I have a lovely little pile to dig through. There were two that were totally fitting for Valentine’s week, but I went with this one due to a looming birthday post to come on Wednesday, provided I can find the right words. From OhMommy, my classiest friend, comes the Bloggy Meme.

How long have you been blogging?

3 years, one month and 21 days exactly. I have moved this blog 4 times in those 3 years. I think I should research adult ADD more in-depth.

What inspired you to start a blog and who are your mentors?
3 years and 3 months ago I had no idea what a blog was. See, I am skeptical at best about the internet, even still. A few years ago, I met this chick. I met her son, honestly, and her son introduced me to her, in email form. She wrote an education blog and wanted to ask me some questions about my public school. I started reading her blog, and was crack-whore addicted in, like, 5 whole minutes. A few months later, I had my own. A School Yard Blogger was totally my Blog Momma. I started the blog just to document my kids lives, with no hopes of anyone actually reading it. But she read it. And on Wednesday, I will finish that story. And then, somehow, somewhere, I came across The World Wide Rant. Andy writes a blog in Denver, and again, I had to have it. Every day. Andy is totally my Blog Daddy. Through him, I met David and Stephen and Mr. The Retropolitan, and they made me want to be a better blogger. They are my Blog Trysts, for sure.

Are you trying to make money online, or just doing it for fun?

Trying to make money? No. Expecting to make money? No. Care whether I do? No. Running ads anyway? Hells yeahs.

I have those ads, and I ONLY have those ads because the kids godfather would not shut the hell up about me not running ads on my site. I respond well to condescending nagging. I ran them, and I am glad I did, because I think BlogHer is a rocking rad organization, and, well, I wrote a whole bit right here about why the money might not be great, but that’s not why I run them.

What 3 things do you love about being online?

1. Giggling. I really like to giggle. And you people? Crack me the hell up.

2. Having something of substance to do. Most of the time, this blog is absolute nonsensical ramblings, but even I can admit that every now and again, I get it right. I get it right, and someone out there is touching or moved or able to relate to something, and that is a wonderful feeling.

3. My typing skills are VASTLY improving. This should translate nicely into the real world. At some point, Mr Lady is going to have to be gainfully employed.

What 3 things do you struggle with online?

1. Spreading myself too thin. I struggle with this in real life, too. The more I read, the more I find and the more I want to read. I worry that I don’t read people’s blogs enough, and I worry that I don’t comment on them enough, and I worry constantly that some backhanded remark I made somewhere offended someone. I forget that I have a very defined sense of humor, and not everyone gets it.

2. Not whining all the damn time. I have a hell of a lot of stories under my belt from the past 32 years, and some of them are not pink and rainbowy, and sometimes they come out. I aspire to be the person who finds either humor or purpose in everything thrown my way, preferably both, but sometimes, it just comes out all emo, you know? I forget sometimes that a few other people read this, and that it’s not just a diary anymore, and that maybe I should have a cut-off line on certain topics. I am working on it, though. Enter, the Totally Inappropriate Haiku category. For when I’ve got nothing but the Eeyore’s.

3. Anonymity. This little site is slowly getting around the family circle. It is also slowly getting around the internet. For 2+ years, it was just, like, 15 people that I love reading it. Now, the Mommy Mafia has come over (hearts!) and The Donor peeks in (hi baby!) and any day now, someone is going to send this link to my mother in law (edits!). I liked the anonymity, because I could honestly say whatever the hell I wanted to, and god knows I did, and now I am losing some of that. I am worried that it will change what comes out. Also, I have this eencie teencie* little issue with social anxiety, and yes, it totally transitions itself online. I am seriously, cripplingly shy, and my natural defense to that is to start saying really personal, inappropriate things. That doesn’t exactly help in the whole “Super Stealthy Secret Blogger” department, you know?

And that’s it. Do I tag people? Has anyone ever not done this thing already? Dude, I hate tagging people, but I am totally tagging Molly, because I’d like to hear her answers, and Leslie Dillinger, because I miss her and she just quit smoking and this should keep her fingers busy for a half an hour or so, and Alison, because dude? Have I ever tagged you before? It’s so totally your turn.

*Eencie Teencie in the exact same way that the Golden Gate Bridge isn’t.

Today is the big day. THE day. Some lucky readers get to be my Valentine today. About your entries? Dag, yo. Y’all are hilarious. Also, some of you are really screwed up. Some of you will be getting referrals to therapists. A few of you, however, are getting presents. Let’s start, shall we?

~Before we begin, I have a dilemma on my hands that I need your help with. In the interests of fairness, I kept this thing totally anonymous, you know? Well, here’s the problem.

My totally awesome friends, Diane and Darla, have been reading this blog since, oh, DAY ONE. The were my only readers for, like, a year. They were the only commenters for, like, TWO years. I would not be here today were it not for them. (no joke) The Double D’s (as I call them when it’s just me) entered and entered and entered this thing. They embraced it. They WERE the contest. And what does bitchy old Mr Lady do in thanks? She totally fails in every way to pick their entries. Because I suck, that’s why.

So, readers (and blog-hoppers *What Up*) I need you to decide for me whether or not to give them the award anyway. I could just go do it behind your backs, but that’s not how I roll.

Choose wisely.

more at twiigs.com…

And now, onto the show….

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