Just another Memey Monday


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.

Best Present Ever


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?

Hawt


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

Boys, and how I love them



For this weeks Weekly Winners, I only have two pictures. The first one I meant to post on Thursday, but me and my scanner? Not the best of friends. Today I conquered that son-of-a-nutcracker.


Drunk-o-love


My Valentine. My valentine that was totally, seethingly jealous that I asked you all to be mine, too. My valentine who wouldn't drop it. My Valentine who asserted his Valentiney status by showering me with chocolate and flowers / calling me periodically throughout the day to woo me / making me a rad mixtape / coming home from work at some point that night.

I care not. I love this boy. I mean, look at him. He's cuuuuute.

This picture was taken oh, about 5 1/2 years ago in Buckhead, GA, just outside of Atlanta on what was and still has been the only thing even closely resembling a vacation/honeymoon/break from the kids in any small way together. We had 3 days, all by ourselves, in one of the most gorgeous cities I've ever seen. We drank it in. Literally. We are so freaking snot-slinging drunk in that picture that we barely remember taking it. We had 2 little little kids, he had a fancy new job that would eventually move us to Canada, we lived in Colorado Springs, our car had almost no brakes, and the rest is history.

Next, Luca. My other BFF (there are 3, in case you are wondering) moved to Costa Rica when I was 7 months pregnant with 3of3. She wanted to teach English. She wanted to sleep with surfer-boys. She wanted to get a tan already. She has always, ALWAYS, said that she was going to have little brown babies. Well, she moved all the way to Costa Rica, met a lovely native boy with dreadlocks who couldn't speak English if you paid him to, married him, got knocked up with him, and had herself the one and only native Costa Rican white baby boy. Day seven, and he's starting to darken up. Those Detroit genes she's got in her sure are some strong ones.

Anyway, much to my shock, she asked me to be Luca's godmother. Seriously, I did NOT see that one coming. So now, she's my babies godmother and I am hers, and the circle is complete. I can't wait to meet him. Hell, I'd settle for seeing him, just she's just entirely too busy eating his wittle toes to send pictures. I do have this one, though:

Luca


Dag, yo, technology blows my mind. Picture that with his momma's Robert Plant hair and his daddy's brown skin, and eyes that are blue-but-quickly-turning-green, and you have my godson.

My GODSON.

Dudes, I am dying over here.

See all of Sarcastic Mom's Weekly Winners right here.

Rate the Hate in a can

Yeah, yeah, yeah, it's week three with no recipe. I just haven't been in the cooking sort of mood, you know? It never fails to amaze me how long kids will go on Honeycomb and tacos. They don't smell great, but my big pots and pans have enjoyed their little siesta.

Anywho, I thought I could at least talk about food today, and so, without further ado, I offer you the list of foods I prefer, nigh, demand, from a can.

  • Refried beans. I used to work at this little diner in East Denver, and they made every-stinking-thing from scratch. Including their refried beans. They were really good, don't get me wrong, but you set me up with a can of Old ElPaso beans and a block of cheese, and I'm all good for a while. At some point, I may require a potty, but otherwise, I'm good.

  • Beets. I have a beet problem. I love them and crave them like a pregnant chick craves broccoli. What? Didn't you crave broccoli? Moving on...I always just get the canned beets at the grocery, but I decided to live on the edge a little, splurge on myself, and get the fancy ones in a jar. Um? Gross. My BFF Molly tells me that the restaurant my buddy Ryan just opened up makes a kick-ass beet salad, but until I try it, I'm sticking with the cheap ass canned ones.

  • Cranberry Sauce. I can whip up a cranberry chutney that will bring you to your knees. I make my own cranberry sauce all the time, because it's easy and good and brainless. But when it's just me, when I'm all alone and no one's looking, man oh lordy do I love nothing better than a big ol' spoon and a cheap can of cranberry sauce.

  • Tuna. Any foodie worth their salt has made, eaten or in some way danced around the subject of seared Ahi. It's all the rage with the kids these days. I would rather (insert colorful and perhaps biological comparison here) than let seared Ahi tuna anywhere near my body, let alone my face. A can of tuna + a package of crackers = a happy Mr Lady.

  • Pumpkin. My BFF Molly just died. Molly is a pumpkin baker. I am just a pumpkin eater. Honestly, pumpkins gross me the hell out. Chock it off to never having carved a pumpkin until I was, like, 27 or something. Anyway, I love pumpkiny food, and bake with pumpkin a LOT, but will only use the plain, unspiced variety of pumpkin goo.


I imagine this list will grow as the day goes on, but for now, that's really all I can think of. The question is, what are you cheap and lazy about?

This week in Haiku

I am one hot minx:

I think I passed a


kidney stone last night. Isn't


that SO romantic?


And sometimes, I swoon:

If there was ever


a reason to fall in love


This here would be it.


I am a really good mother:


My kid is ditching


school to go see a movie


with my permission.


And now I get a whole knew forum to test out my mad skilz of a momma:


A new little boy


born in San Jose Tuesday


calls me Madrina.


And my real family is about to grow:


My baby sister,


10 years my junior, is in


early labor now.


 

For you

Do you believe in fate?

We met so randomly, the way you meet a hundred people a day. Your path somehow crossed my path, and there is no reason at all that it should have been more than that. You could have been a guest, or the UPS guy, but you weren't.

I paused, for just a moment. You paused, too.

I have known you for so long now that if I don't think really hard about, I lose track of the years.

This thing that we have, this place we have come to, bears the sweat and the toil of a garden in rocks. We have never been easy, or quiet, or reasonable. There are so many points at which we should have stopped and walked away, and yet, here we are, our lives so hopelessly intertwined that we couldn't leave now if we wanted to.

You are the antithesis of me. You go left where I go right. You R & B, I Hip Hop. We have almost no common thread between us, at least on the surface, and we like it that way. What we will almost never admit to each other is that underneath the library and the iPod and the wardrobe, we are mirrors of each other. We believe the same way and trust the same way and fear the same way. We grew up in different universes, yet ended up adults with the same values and priorities and beliefs.

Sometimes I am left to wonder why you fight this thing, this us, as fervently as you do. And then I stop and think about it, and I am left to wonder why I push this thing, this us, as hard as I do. The answer I have come up with is that you don't push and I don't pull nearly as hard as we think we do. We were brought together; by biology, by electricity, by chance or by fate, by something that doesn't matter anymore. We were meant for this, this right here, right now, and it is beyond us. We struggle to force definition to it and to mold it and shape it, but we are helpless against it.

We, being the thinkers, being logical by nature, have difficulty accepting that.

Wanna know a secret? I totally accept it.

I look at these children, and this family, and how it has evolved and grown and become a force to be reckoned with. I look at the branches that have sprung from the roots of a chance encounter a life-time ago, and how many lives have changed because we each found the courage to say a small something to a stranger.

I believe in fate these days. I cannot deny what has come to pass between us, and through every hardship, and all the sorrow, and the doubts and the fears, I know that it is worth it. I know that for every down there are so many ups, so many quiet, subtle, perfect moments between us. They say the whole is nothing more than the sum of its parts. You came into my life and brought to it what are the very best parts of me. I know that your spark, that bit of electricity that fuels each human, passed from you to me one day and left a bit of itself behind so that it could find it's way back. You are forever part of me. And that is an honor I hope to truly deserve one day.

We, you and I, we are the music makers, and we are the dreamers of the dreams.