I took this life on 2 weeks’ notice.

Let’s back up. Summer of ’01. Happily swinging single guy meets party girl visiting the USA on business. They have an incredible time for 3 weeks. An incredible time because when you know it’s all going to end before your next rent check is due, you don’t waste time with games, with what ifs, with real life...

It was good. Then it was done.

Until the ulcer. The ulcer that somehow made party girl feel nauseous whenever she smoked. The ulcer that became a growing concern for party girl and swinging single guy as they ran up their overseas long distance bills. The ulcer that had other ambitions. Namely, “I’m gonna hang out for, oooh, about 9 months or so, and then after that, render your life unrecognizable.”

Two weeks. That’s all she had to pack up her belongings, say goodbye to her friends and family and start a new life halfway across the world. Two weeks. That’s all he had to clean up the apartment, say goodbye to the black book, and start figuring out how to build a family with this girl from halfway across the world.

And that’s how I ended up here. Bruised, bloodied and punch drunk at the hands of fatherhood. I had no coaches, no sparring partners, no high-altitude training camp at Big Bear. Self-taught and winging it, with no professional training. But at least I can say I'm experienced.

The question is, am I William Hung or Jimi Hendrix?

They call me Mister Lady:

Ten years ago, my husband and I had a baby.

Correction: Ten years ago, one of us had a baby and the other sat around and watched. Guess which one I am? My name is Mr Lady, and I am the token Mommy Blogger over here. I think I'm supposed to make the dip or bring my hot friends or something. Um, I have three kids. My hottest friend is that chic on the Big Comfy Couch.

I am something of an expert in the father department, truth be told. I mean, I had one. For, like, a long time. And then I made some poor kid be one. And I'm a girl, so I know everything anyway. See? I am SO qualified to be here.

I have been married for almost ten years. To the same man. We have three kids and the stereo-typical 1950's June Cleaver family. He goes to work every day and brings home the bacon. I clean *ahem* and cook *achoo* and wear high heels and little aprons. We even have side-by-side twin beds. I call him Mr Mr Lady and he calls me Mother. Of course, we only do those things when we're sloshed drunk, but still.

In reality, I am a lousy homemaker and that acronym that spells SAM with an H in it. I iron twice a year, cook but never wash up after, make my poor kids scrub the toilets to earn a measly dollar that couldn't even buy them a song on iTunes, I can't sew, I don't own on stitch of lingerie, and I only shave when I have to. See? I'll fit right in here.

Welcome to Stark Raving Dad, where we really love our kids. They're just making us nuts is all.