On Tonight's Menu: A Big Fat Roast

For those of you who read this blog regularly, you may know of me. I won’t sugarcoat it -- I’m Mr Lady’s proverbial pool boy. A fresh-faced newbie daddy blogger when she first spied me through her lowball of Jameson, I was ceremoniously puked on and marked for greatness. Under her influence (and yes, you can get a contact buzz talking to her on the phone), my posts evolved from useful lighthearted anecdotes about the trials and tribulations of fatherhood, to booze recipes. Thank you, Mr Lady.

And now, I stand at the crossroads of my blogging career. I am writing the farewell post of 2008. On Whiskey in my Sippy Cup! Some would view this as an honor. I know better. Mr Lady wants to see me crash and burn. Because I have more followers than she does on Twitter. Granted, she still has twice the blog traffic than I do, but can you really count suspicious wives and perverts who Google “sunburnt boobs?”

All kidding aside, I am a lucky guy. Mr Lady is one of a kind. Not many people have the honor of being called The Other Redneck Mommy. When she first met me, she said I was a hot dad. Hey, at least she knows how to make a guy feel special. But then she blogged about how she wants to jump Drew Carey’s bones. Ok, so she appreciates a wide spectrum of the male species; that's cool. Then she posts pics of herself lip locking with other mom bloggers at BlogHer 08. Ok, evidently any cool, interesting person fans her flame. I can hang with that. And then this:

Ok, basically, I consist of solid matter. Which qualifies me as hot.


Yeah, I just proved to you that I graduated from the Mr Lady School of Blogging. As a fun exercise, I tried to count the number of times she has used that word in this blog, but my attention span fades after 200, which is why I also stopped counting the number of injuries her children have sustained while under her care. Thank the Flying Spaghetti Monster for helmets.

But over the past year and some months, Mr Lady and I have indeed become great friends. Since she has a boy who is just a couple years older than my son Fury, I have often turned to her for valuable perspective on parenting issues. Specifically, the perspective of At-Least-I-Ain’t-Done-This-Shit:

(helpful reference text added post-production by me)

And I like to think I've also helped her along the way. She has discussed with me her desire to get a job. Like any encouraging friend, I’ve told her “focus on what you’re good at.” It’s just too bad that Monster.com pulls up minimal results for “chain smoking" and "hamster killing."

Luckily, she is damn good at this blogging thing. I was fortunate enough make it to the BlogHer conference for one night this past July. And I saw firsthand how she made every person there shake their head and cry. I also heard that she read some post about depression the day before. (The envelope. I push it. Mr Lady has taught me well.)

Mr Lady, you are pretty damn awesome. You may have been raised to snuff out possessed Ziggy dolls, you may pick up "Throw Momma from the Train" instead of Martha Stewart Living when you find out your MIL is coming for a visit, your long lost siblings may be muttering “dammit, she found us. I told you MySpace was a bad idea!” and you may taunt me with your "I heart Backpacking Dad" pic in your sidebar as I write this, but I’ll drench myself with eau de toilet bowl cleaner and scoop dead leaves out of your pool any time.

And so would any of your friends.

Oh! Looky here! I happened to drag some of them along with me. This is your "We Are The World" star-studded moment. Enjoy:

Deb writes:

You know what I like best about Shannon? That girl can take a punch.

(and I have to include what she wrote when she sent me that because, well, it cracked me up: Okay, how bad is that? I don't even know if Shannon CAN take a punch! For some bizarre reason, that's the only thing that came to mind. I've never said that about anyone in my entire life, but it rose to the top for her.)

Miss writes:

When I first started reading WIMSC, I was immediately pulled in by MrLady's writing. It was fresh, it was honest, and at times incredibly funny. She's been praised a countless number of times, even bringing a room full of women (and those who watched the youtube clip later) to tears. I've heard, time and time again, from writers I aspire to be like, that they aspire to write like MrLady. Obviously, her blog is one I've always looked forward to reading. Except lately. She's gone totally MommyBlogger on me. May as well change the name of this blog to Milk in my Sippy Cup. *sigh* It's a damn good thing I have an unwaivering girl crush on MrLady. XO baby.

Kelley writes:

I heard that Mr Lady was being considered for the lead role in Angelina Jolie's life story 'I am hawt. You are not. Now give me all the chillen' but alas, they saw her choice in footwear and were all 'Hellz No!' and went with me instead.

Burn those Crocs baby. Oh and PANTIES PANTIES PANTIES!

Loralee writes:

Just taking a look at Mr. Lady's blog title would give you a subtle hint that she is a bit fond of the "Demon liquor". Yup, Mr. Lady loves Jesus but she drinks a little. Except leave Jesus out of it. And realize that "little" is more like a Hummer is to gasoline consumption.

That's probably a little bit more accurate.

Just ask anyone who went to BlogHer.

Mr. Lady is to sober conference attending like Brittney Spears is to acting. Or like Busy Dad is to having hair.

I mean, one minute you're standing there, minding your own business and munching on bacon-wrapped scallops off a doily-clad plastic plate in a nice hotel in San Fransisco and the next you're being tackled by a hot blonde Canuck with piercings who's trying to bribe you with offers of a hand job down by the docks in exchange for your cocktail tickets. At that point the only thing you can really do is offer a quick make out and then run like hell to make your escape.

Then go get therapy. Lots and lots of therapy. Good thing you can call and ask Mr. Lady who her therapist is so that you know who to avoid.

Seriously, though. I love Shannon. She is someone I click with, who has been there through some icky stuff and who I can talk to on the phone without having a complete anxiety-ridden breakdown. I loved meeting her. I knew I would LOVE her. And I do. I really, really do.

Hugs and a thousand kisses babe. Roasting you was a total honor. Love your freaking guts.

Sarcastic Mom writes:

I've always said I love Shannon's writing, but if I'm going to be completely honest, I really just keep showing up on the off chance that she'll mail me her tits again. Sorry Shannon, the truth had to come out.

Matt writes:

I have two trees in my front yard that a landscaper wants a bundle of money to remove. I ended up just calling Mr Lady to take care of them for a couple of months and they totally withered away. Saved $1200.00!

Won't remove black nail polish thats been on her fingers since Halloween but will spend three days making some weird-ass log.

Secret Agent Mama writes:

When I was first contacted by someone calling herself "Mr. Lady" I was almost convinced that this was some deranged man, coming at me from the basement of his mother's house, while eating greasy pizza, and watching porn in between stalking sexy bloggers.And still I continued to take Mr. Lady's advances.My blog, Cre8buzz, MyBlogLog, and more.Then I dared her to give me her number to text her, and we've been the best of bloggy pals since. Thankfully she was not a deranged man, coming at me from the basement of his mother's house, while eating greasy pizza, and watching porn in between stalking sexy bloggers.Although, I'd watch porn with her any day of the week.I'm honored to be friends with Shannon. She's one in a million and I'm totally keeping her in my little black book!

Momo Fali writes:

When Jim asked for some assistance in roasting Mr. Lady, I was all…hell no! What has she ever done for me? The last time she and I corresponded I spent the evening sitting on my living room floor with my laptop, surrounded by empty beer cans, and my own tears.

But, then I got to thinking. She's more than just another whiskey drinking Mommy who makes her friends cry. She's the kind of woman who sucks you in with prophetic keynote speeches that leave you with a rock in your throat and goosebumps all over your body. You feel her. You think, I'm going to read every single thing this woman ever writes, because she can move me with her words. This chick is pure genius.

And then? You go to her blog to read more greatness, and find a picture of her kid chewing on bubble wrap.

OHMommy writes:

Mr. Lady is like the older sister I always dreamed about having. More then once she has guided me and taught me. From the first day we "met" to our first embrace in San Fran, she has proved that really awesome women can be classy in a pair of crocs.

VDog writes:

We all know and love Mr Lady, right? But here's the thing: STEREOTYPICAL BLONDE. Ahem.

Mr Lady is SO blonde, bitch don't even know how to take birth control correctly.

Mr Lady is SO slutty she has to keep track of which bitches she made out with by posting them on her website.

And finally, Mr Lady is SO hot that I didn't even mind that she used my photos on her blog without my permission. Because she's THAT DAMN GOOD. (Okay and maybe it was a teensy bit to my benefit as well.)

Damn blonde bitches. They'll get you every time.

Backpacking Dad writes:

When I fourth met Mr. Lady I was finally inebriated enough to find her interesting and memorable.

Man, that chick is persistent. See, when I second met Mr. Lady she sidled up to me and smiled a half-smile, another blonde in a sea of blonde bloggers, and she tried playing the hurt-guilt card with me:

"What do you mean you don't remember me? Dude, I was undressing you with my eyes for half an hour last night and I gave you four business cards with my picture on them and wrote "Call me. Seriously." on the backs of all of them and tucked them into your pockets and belt."

"Yeah, but you just kind of look like a lot of other people. Do you write for Seattle Mom Blogs? No? Why are you punching me? That's cute."

"You'll remember me next time. You wait."

She was half right. When I third met Mr. Lady she sidled up to me and smiled a half-smile, another blonde in a sea of blonde bloggers, and she asked "Do you remember me now?"

And I blanked. Because seriously. All mom-bloggers look alike. Especially to a married guy who can't check out your rack or ass. All I have to go on is eyes and hair, and frankly if you're a blonde in a sea of blonde bloggers all I'm going to have to go on is your eyes, and if you are constantly winking one of them at me then that's like having one eye closed at all times, which means I only have half of a pair of eyes to go on to distinguish you from everyone else, and that's just not enough information.

But I did remember someone, a blonde blogger in a sea of blonde bloggers, standing shoulder high on me, playing the hurt-guilt card the night before. And because I was walking around with a brunette in a sea of blonde bloggers and I didn't want to let on that I didn't actually remember this forgettable little leprechaun with one eye, thereby tarnishing my "charm/smoothness" record I stole a quick glance down at her nametag (and in no way ogled her goods) and effused: "Oh, of course I remember you, Shannon. You have the same name as my sister."

And she ate that shit up. She followed me around, hoping I'd catch her closing one eye at me, or that she kept sneaking into photos I was taking of myself standing with my left arm crooked around my invisible friend, Tammy Awesome, who was the only person there totally checking out racks and asses. She got in between Tammy and the camera at least twice. One of those pics is over on the sidebar now. Persistent AND presumptuous, Mr. Lady is.

So when I fourth met Mr. Lady I actually did remember her. She was the blonde in a sea of blonde bloggers with no rack, no ass, one eye, leprechaun-high, who reminded me of my sister and who had thoroughly pissed off Tammy Awesome, my imaginary friend.

Which I suppose is a better notion of her to have than when I first met Mr. Lady.

Because when I first met Mr. Lady, and she sidled up to me and smiled a half-smile, another blonde in a sea of blonde bloggers, I thought "Oh great. 'Whiskey In My Sippy Cup.' Yet another mom-blogger making the booze-parenthood joke. How in the hell am I supposed to remember this one?"

All of that aside, I'll never forget her now.

Redneck Mommy writes:

I have nothing other than the fact she is a shorter hairier fatter version of the original Tanis and I can out wit, outsmart and out flirt her any day. That said I am so glad to have met her and she is fucking adorable. For a creepy American doppleganger of me.

* * * * * * *

Mr Lady, I hope you enjoyed being put through the churrascaria. I was honestly nervous as hell when you asked me to finish 2008 for you, but it turns out you are great blog fodder. And our mutual friends proved that they can step up and fluff a post when need be. To all of Mr Lady's readers and fans, thanks for indulging me. I know there are many of you who deserve to throw in a jab or two, and if I missed you, it was not intentional. Either I am intimidated by you don't know you that well or just plain blanked (I blog at night. I drink at night. They overlap). Feel free to leave your loving insults in the comments section.

A Post For Revenge?

I'm Chris, the guest blogger of 12/30.  I cannot begin to describe the amount of trust the Queen Blogger is displaying by giving me the wheel here.  It rather makes me wish I wasn't in the habit of deleting emails...

While I haven't been in Mr Lady's life for long, I do have the pleasure of being in the room while the song "Whiskey In My Sippy Cup" was written and recorded.  I also had the pleasure of meeting her son T while doing laundry.  He was golfing down the basement hallway and asked me for change for the soda machine.  I gave him some quarters and then we golfed.

T is the ulitmate wingman.  And T is how I met Mr Lady:

Back when she smoked, she and her children spent ample amounts of time on the apartment stoop (stoops are a wonderful thing, by the way).  I could never get past the stoop without interacting with them.  One day, T was telling some crazy story about running really fast and then Mr Lady responded with, "Next kid, less crack."  I honestly thought she was serious.

Six years and one kid later, I still suspect she was serious although I'm not convinced she held her promise. :)

But anyways, since this blog is about...parenting...and whatnot I feel I should say something about what I've learned about it from Mr Lady.  But understand that I'm only a parent to a dog, Lucie, and she's more of a roommate than anything.

Mr Lady's kids are awesome.  I love them.  I have their pictures in my wallet, and I helped them win a Pinewood Derby and a Raingutter Regata and taught them how to play Grand Theft Auto.  From them I have relearned how to imagine.

When I met them they lived in a 900 sq. ft. two-bedroom basement apartment with security bars on all the windows.  It was very cramped for four people and very depressing.  Their playground was the sidewalk -- I often heard people in the building talk about how sad it was they had no place to play.  They attended school in the worst district in the state.  You wouldn't think a scenario like this would yield three kids that are kind, respectful, incredibly smart, and academically focused.

But what they do have is a father that puts tremendous effort towards providing for them, and a mother who anchors the household as firmly as any I have known.  The house is always clean (or being cleaned), a home-cooked meal is always prepared, and there is always a schedule.  They have a set bed time and a prescribed time carved out for TV and video games -- after homework.

When I compare Mr Lady's household with others, single-parent or not, and privileged or struggling, what I see is that the homes with schedules and good meals always have children that are a pleasure to have as friends.  The homes with no structure always have children that are nothing but birth control for guys like me.

Now that I'm an uncle, I am enjoying the opportunity to confirm my theory about schedules.  Whenever my sister and brother-in-law stray from the schedule, I hear reports about the rough days that followed.  I also get to see how challenging it is to keep a schedule and that it takes more effort than probably anything else in Life.

So if I'm ever lucky enough to talk a girl into going on a date with me, and then charming enough to get her to alope to Las Vegas for a Buddy Holly wedding, I'm going to make sure at least one of us is an anchor for the family.  We'll have bedtimes and a daily schedule that trumps anything, including colds, vacations, movies, puzzles, visitors, and Sunday dinner with the grandparents.

And maybe somebody will enjoy having my kids as friends, just like I enjoy B L and T.

Mr. Peabody's WABAC Machine*

Mr. Lady once referred to me as her high school sweetheart. Make of that what you will. Suffice it to say, we go back a ways. Supposedly this week Mr. Lady is enjoying a sabbatical and her laptop is powered down and tucked away in a little box under the bed ... and the Easter Bunny and Santa really do exist. Also, I have a fine ocean-front property for sale right here  in Colorado. Ahem, so despite compelling pleas from my inner demon, I've opted to be on good behavior. I know where she hid the bodies but I ain't tellin' - at least not this time around.

Since the advent of  Marge In Real Life, I have made the occasional reference to the CLF. I've said once or twice that maybe one day I'll explain just what that is but then I never got around to it. Why? Well, because the whole story hails back to an era in my life that is sometimes better left alone. Incidentally, it's an era that owes its finest memories to its main characters - not the least of which would be Mr. Lady, or God'o'Editors as I was fond of calling her in those days. So, I says to myself, what better opportunity to tell the tale than right here on her blog?

************** (page break made fashionable by Gnillips)

According to the great and sometimes fallible Wikipedia, the term or acronym "CLF" may refer to any of the following:

  • Conservation Law Foundation, a legal environmental advocacy organization

  • Church of the Larger Fellowship

  • Chlorine monofluoride(ClF)

  • Clear Sky Lodge Airport's IATA code

  • Cleveland-Cliffs Inc., a business firm specializing in the mining of iron ore.

  • Clifton Forge (Amtrak station)'s station code

  • Contingency Logistics Flights - Space Shuttle missions STS-131 and STS-133

  • Common Log Format - A standardized text file format usually associated with web server logs.

  • Contactless RF Front End (also called NFC)

Sadly, it neglected this important possibility:

  • Colorful Liberation Front

If you ask him today, my good friend Joshman will likely deny any and all involvement with the genesis of this movement. In truth, it was his idea but he certainly never intended it to become anything real, much less a creature of cult-like proportions. Math class was boring and we were passing a note filled with our usual mindless banter which came to the conclusion that our school was colorless and mundane and it should be the mission of (spontaneously invented) Colorful Liberation Front  to do something about it.

In the days that followed, I would commit many a misdemeanor as I defaced school property and recruited others to do the same. My friend Steph was insanely organized and all of her class notes were color-coded on neat little note cards. I thought she was super cool and before long I had my own little obsession with colored markers. And a new-found use for them. In my shamefully abundant spare time, I designed possibly hundreds of brightly colored, often nonsensical, always whimsical little stickers.


And slowly, but surely an almost imperceptible change began to come about. On locker doors, the underside of stairway rails, inside text book covers, on table legs and chair backs, windows and even smack-dab in the middle of Mr. Bunge's classroom clock. Ok, that one wouldn't go unnoticed for long. And when the stapler-throwing, eraser lobbing English teacher did take notice, he simply requested an explanation. The details of the confession are a little fuzzy but when he heard the premise behind the little sticker, he actually didn't think it was all bad and the CLF badge was allowed to remain.

clf-003 clf-002

My morning ride to school was an early one and as I sat around the study area of the second floor watching the sun come up, I cranked out more and more stickers. My little army of rebels did their part too. Soon I was discovering the CLF mark in somewhat unexpected places. One day, as I was walking back through the parking lot with some of the trench-coat clad smoker crowd (no, I wasn't one of them, I just had friends in every clique), we noticed a car with the window rolled down. Pressing a sticker to the back of the rear view mirror was a small and satisfying act of vandalism.

After two years of this craziness, the powers-that-be reviewed my progress and determined that I had just barelymet the criteria to receive my diploma. I'll admit it, I'm a dork, and to prove it, I painted CLF in large letters on a bandanna and attached it to the top of my commencement day cap for all the world to see.

clf-cap  laketoddcolby

After a summer of cheese-keeping and fun in Lake Todd Colby, I entered the adult world of responsibility, employment, and flying airplanes  with nary a thought of the old CLF save for a small collection of undeployed stickers which I plastered onto a cardboard tube for a pencil can on my desk. 


It must have been at least two years after graduation that I heard through the grapevine of a friend that was at a Front 242 concert at a popular local venue and discovered a CLF sticker in the bathroom. What the....?! I wanted to believe it but it seemed too bizarre until I began to hear that the torch was indeed still lit and had been carried by other students at the school. To this day these rumors remain unconfirmed and I'm sure with time the legacy faded away. I'd be willing to bet there are still some relics of the great CLF lurking where one might least expect to find them.

And that, gentle readers**, is the Tale of the CLF. Now let us never speak of this again.


* Mr. Peabody's WABAC machine
**It's a Rudyard Kipling reference. C'mon.


I know I said I was going to be good but then I was down in the crawl space - you know, where the bodies are buried - and I ran across a few gems.

that's Molly on the left

I had yet to learn to take flattering pictures back then

yes, that's a blue-haired troll


Did you know that today is my day to post?

Well, I had completely forgotten until just a few minutes ago.

Which means I feel like I've been caught with my pants down, which - while a bit of a turn on, truth be told - means I suck.  Seriously suck, given the guest blogging your lovely hostess did for me back in the days of my now defunct blog The World Wide Rant.

So, since I've nary a post prepared, perhaps I'll just throw out some bullet points of interest, if only to me:

  • Hey, you know all those great handmade items you like to buy for your kids because they're not full of Chinese lead? Kiss them goodbye on February 10, 2009.

  • For lunch today, I made a turkey curry and for dinner beef carbonnade. Yum!

  • The Republican National Committee is a gift that keeps on giving. I can't believe I voted for these yahoos as often as I did. I don't do drugs, but I think someone could hold up my voting record as evidence to the contrary.

  • Another of my youthful dreams crushed. Yeah, I know, it's real mommy blog material. I mean, it's not like she took a picture of herself wearing just Crocs boots or anything.

OK, I'm tapped out.

What's on your mind?

And, are you losing weight? You look fabulous!

Merry Sleep Deprived Christmas

So, I am the third-in-a-series-of-I-don't-know-how-many ghosts of Christmas past that are visiting Mr. Lady's blog this week. I'm Molly, author of Soapy Water, progenitor of The Kid, who named Mr. Lady "Mr. Lady" (more out of expediency and attempted formality than gender confusion, I promise). I've had the distinct pleasure of knowing Mr. Lady since my sophomore year of high school, which is totally just a few years ago, it can't be anywhere near something like 17 years ago, can it?

So, being handed the keys to her blog, my mind has raced at the ability to humiliate her with pictures of high school or tell stories about our debaucherous past. Then, I realized I cannot locate any pictures from high school, let alone the one in particular I'm thinking of in her red homecoming dress looking just like the future MILF you all know and love, and most distant past stories contain proximity to debauchery more than actual participation therein (like the time we were the only two sober girls at some wild, outdoor rave in Boulder when Mr. Lady was dating this one dreadlocked dude named Slinky or something), and our more recent tales of wildness, well, a real lady just never kisses and tells, if you know what I mean... (elipses added for Eddie, Merry Christmas)

The thing that has made Mr. Lady's and my friendship cement so fully is our shared love of parenting, something I think somewhere in our little high school selves we knew we would do together, in some place in our subconciouses, but never to the degree that it's played out in reality. This is a blog, afterall, about surviving parenting, kinda.

So. Here's my current parenting quandary. I really, really, really, really want to tell The Kid The Truth About Santa Claus. He's driving me crazy.

Going to bed on Christmas eve is a chore I dread every year. It's an anxiety-ridden spaz-fest. The following questions were posed to me this morning within the hour The Kid awoke:

  • Is the flue open for Santa to come through the chimney?

  • What if he gets stuck?

  • Mom, are you going to bed right when I do, because if he skips our house because you are still up, to the moon with you!

  • What if I haven't been good enough this year?

  • Do you think Santa would be mad if we gave him eggnog instead of milk, or would that be a nice surprise?

  • Do you think Santa will like our cookies?

  • Will you give me some valerian root tonight so I can sleep?

  • Are you sure he won't come if I sleep next to the tree?

  • Have any kids lived who have seen Santa in their homes?

  • Are you SURE you opened the flue?

And so on...

Come bedtime, I will give The Kid a warm bath, a nice warm glass of milk, valerian root, 5Htp, melatonin and have a dose of benadryl waiting in the wings. If past years indicate, I will be giving him that dose of benadryl somewhere around 11:30 pm. He will still be as alert and awake as a skitterish 10 pound dog in a house full of cats, with fireworks going off outside. I will lay down with him, try to rub his back and calm him down. I will drift off to sleep with him, jolting awake somewhere around 2am, slip out of bed, do the santa thing, and get back to bed around 3am with enough adrenaline pumping through my body from not getting caught in-Santa-flagrante that I won't fall asleep until 4am.

I mean, at what point does this whole thing become all a little, um, stupid?

It does feel kinda worth it, the morning after. The Kid is an appreciative joy to be around when he's opening presents, with the "thankyouthankyouthankyou's" and the "I always wanted a _______" and the "Santa really knows what I like, isn't that amazing's?" But, dude, it's killing my excitement, this whole Christmas Eve Hurdle.

So, readers of Whiskey in my Sippy Cup: What to do? Have you told your kids? How did they find out? How did you find out? I need advice, yo.

Also, Merry Christmas, Happy Hannukah, etc. Blessings to you and yours, peace on earth, good will to men, and eat plenty of fiber.