We didn’t celebrate Christmas when I was kid, so I never really understood the whole ‘believing in Santa’ thing.  All I knew was that we were under strict orders to not be the jerks who ruined it for everyone else.  We were never to tell.  I don’t know about my brother, but I never told a soul.  One day, just no one believed anymore, and that was that.

I have to admit that I LOVE my kids believing in Santa, and I’m overly sad that it’s going to end soon.  I always swore I’d never lie to my kids like that, that I’d never teach them about something as stupid as magical, chubby dudes and flying reindeer, that I was a bigger person than all that.  The reality of it is that I can’t get enough of it.  There’s something about it that I just find gorgeous and beautiful and meaningful.  Maybe it’s just that I never had it, I don’t know.

What I do know is that something happened this year that just bought me a hell of a lot of time, and the story is right this way….

Hey, it’s summer at Kelley’s house.  Shut up.

It started snowing an hour before the kids got out of school for break two weeks ago.  It almost hasn’t stopped at all since.  The piles of snow in front of our houses in my neighbourhood?  Taller than I am.  “It doesn’t snow in Vancouver” my fat white ass.  I meant to take pictures, I really did, but I wasn’t blogging and you know how that goes.  And now the gorgeous snow hills are the same shade of gray as death and just look less gorgeous and more dirty-icebergish.

So we spent the majority of Christmas break running out early to buy the winter pants and boots that Santa fully intended to bring a few days later, because damn him and his deadlines that have nothing to do with the actual weather outside, hanging out at home, playing outside, sledding and pelting each other with snowballs.  And shoveling, oh the shoveling.  Good thing I’m the only person here from Colorado; I smoked those bitches asses at shoveling the street.  That Dirty American isn’t so aggravating anymore, is she?

*ahem*

And then it was Jesus’ birthday, so we opened some presents on his behalf (which was fine with him; he hasn’t worn a kids’ size 12 coats in ages) and ate some food.  Okay, we ate all the food.  I cooked for five.  Thousand.  It was epic, and then it was New Years, and tomorrow the kids go back to school.

The rest are slowly being added to FlickR.

And tomorrow, I tell you what this picture is all about.

See all of Lotus’ Weekly Winners here.

So yeah, I suppose I’m back and stuff, but here I sit thinking “Oh crap, who can I get to keep writing this thing for me?”  I’m just not feeling it yet.  Alas, I am determined to get all the boob shots of my main page (thank you for that, Mr Lin; you’ll get yours, mister) and so there has to be something going up.

I got to thinking about all the things I was determined to do on my time off, all the ways I was dedicated to being the new, improved Mr Lady this coming year, and how already, 12 hours into it, I’ve managed to fuck it all up.

I’d decided to get back on my little diet that I so thoroughly trampled upon over the past two weeks, and so naturally I started the morning of January 1st bent over the kitchen counter with a cup of coffee in one hand and a bowl of Cheese Whiz in front of me and a fistful of Saltines in the other hand.  Apparently, it only takes me .056 seconds to catch sympathy pregnancy.

I thought it would be a good idea to get my kids eating more diverse, nutritionally balanced foods including more than Frosted Flakes and apples with peanut butter, and after two weeks of cooking seriously divine food 24/7, they started their New Year by requesting Ramen noodles and english muffins with jam for breakfast.  And I obliged.  Because I suck.

I was determined to not be 80 years old, and to stay up in New Years Eve until my husband got home from his 14 hour day at work to bring in the New Year with a bang in the interest of being a better, more trampy aggressive wife this year.  And I actually made it until the 1:45 in the morning he came rolling in, and I indeed got my New Years bang.  Of my head.  On my pillow.  What?  Snoring, drooling chicks are dead sexy.

I wanted to take my time off honing some of my other skills, to rediscover Shannon’s interest and not just Mr Lady’s, and after two long, glorious, deadline free weeks of doing whatever the hell I wanted to, I still can’t figure out how to get the stupid ball to turn around in BiiBallLite.  And it’s making me fucking insane.

I bought a book to read, because when I’m not staring at a laptop all day, I suddenly have the urge to read literature.  I bought the new book by one of my favorite authors, sat down on the couch, curled up with a blanket, and dreamed of days squandered on the couch basking in words on pages.  And then I devoured that sucker in less than 24 hours.  I hear they make a cream for that.

And, of course, I totally cleaned my house while I was gone.  That was kind of the whole point of the hiatus.  By yesterday morning, you could eat off of all the floors.  You could see your reflection in the walls.  And of nothing else, I was determined to keep this up.  There was never laundry in the baskets in the morning, the dishes were clean and the sink was empty every morning, and I can’t tell you how happy I’ve been about the whole thing.  And then one day, ONE DAY we have plans to go somewhere, and of course I run 30 mintues late, and right now there are grapes smashed into the kitchen floor, I’m a day behind on laundry (which, shut up, there’s 5 of us and one of us is at the tail end of ‘wiping her own ass’ training’ and there are 13 things on top of my coffee table that have no business not being in the trash, on someone’s foot, in a coat pocket, tool box, or kitchen sink.  Which is full.  And starting to smell funny.

And here I sit, writing on my blog.

Thank god I didn’t bother trying to quit smoking.

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.

Bygones.

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.

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.