[N.B.: While this is a funny story, the core it discusses is very real and is described in brief at the end. If you consider yourself a friend of Cynthia and/or myself, please read. Given Cyn's uber-mama tendencies, our friends are kinda like our children....]
Kids, your mother and I have to talk to you--about us.
Now, your mother and I love each and every one of you, and that is not going to change, not now, not ever. But, you might have noticed the burning pile of tires on my end of the sofa two weeks ago, or that your mother found dead puppies in her shoes when she was getting ready for work. In my defense, they were stillborn, so it's not like I did anything that bad, but...
I'm sorry--go run to the potty, let your stomach settle, and then we'll continue.
Feeling better? OK, good. That's our first concern here. Ahem....
Mom and I had a talk, and we decided we still love each other, that we even like each other, and that we'd be willing and eager to date each other. But living together? That'd HURT.
We have decided we would have split custody of each of you, but that I'd find my own place for a while. We're not ruling out future co-habitation, but neither burning tires nor dog fetuses are signs of a healthy relationship, let's be honest.
Earlier today, your mother said that she liked me better when I was just a handle on an online chat room and an unusually flattering picture on my blog. I was hurt a bit, but then realized her point, and realized I liked her better when she was like that, too! See, we still have something in common! In fact, we spent a half-hour talking about our favorite chatroom logs, including the one that led to the conception of you, little Bubba Ghee.
Then we talked about Atlanta--how much we hated that city together, even while we had such a romantic and charmed time there, and realized we loved to go out together, hang out, cut up, snuggle and such, even still.
We even talked about how we've grown together, and have made a lot of progress on rescuing one another from our own screwed-up upbringings, things we've been careful not to repeat while raising you all, so that you become mature adults who are screwed up in your own unique way.
But let's face it, when your mother gets mad, she becomes a Level 27 cacodaimon from... um... what's that game you like? Pokemon? Still!? OK, never mind. All right, remember when I told you a couple months ago to stop calling your mother "T-Rex" because it wasn't nice? Well, it still was not a nice thing to say, but I myself was thinking she was like Godzilla--bigger, and able to spit electric fire at anything in her path.
And me? I'm a loner that hates being lonely. If I could, I'd be holed away and spending most of my waking hours making weird music that only a few dozen people might hear, and creating bizarre art that confounds the viewer, and writing twisted stories based on the actual truth so that people can be told the truth and laugh rather than cry or get angry. But that's been really hard to do. And, let's face it, my mood swings, panic attacks, depressions, manias, and frothing fits have not been good for anyone in this family to deal with, even after the "Bob" Pils.
So it sounds like it'd actually work better for us if your mother is allowed to work on her anger issues without my needs for either seclusion or affection, or my inability to keep an emotional state for five minutes, making her angrier; and, if I can work on being less of a loner and get my mood more stable. I think we might be looking into a bulk-rate therapist, too.
Also, I found out the "Bob" Pils were really "O"-Pils, so I'm taking extra "B"-Pils to balance things out. That's how I was able to run a devival and not have a total freak-out.
And you know something? That devival showed your mother that I'm capable of doing something without her assistance, or even necessarily her approval. I had to assure her that I could do it without spending rent or food money on it, and that she didn't have to do anything she didn't want to do. And I did it. She was really worried I was becoming too dependent on her--me too, actually--but this proved to us both that I can do things without leaning on her. And that's a good thing.
So do not worry about us. We love each other still and actually just returned from a date with a new favorite dish we share, and we'll probably be a lot friendlier to each other from now on. And, children, please--I know that some of you might have issues with me, or issues with her, and might want to talk about them since this issue came up. Please, talk to the one with whom you have the issue, and work it out with them. We're not having any trash-talking of each other. And if you insist on acting like a brat, we'll bend you over our knees and give you a spanking just like when you were three and demanded we buy you the pink Power Ranger.
We love you.
PS: No, really, this is "Ha, ha, only serious," as they say. Yes, Cyn and I will be legally separating. Yes, we are still on good terms--better, actually, now that we've decided to do this--and so it should not surprise you if we're seen together and having fun. And, very seriously, if you got beef with me, talk to me--and if your beef is with her, take it up with her, but do not bother trying to trash-talk one of us with the other. This separation is not your opening to try to wedge us while venting your own spleen, and neither of us will brook it.
PPS: When Cyn read this, she was laughing her head off, just in case you're wondering if it was OK to laugh.
PPPS: Anyone interested in a roommate? I'm pretty good about sweeping, mopping, handling the recycling, and loading dishwashers. MUST HAVE DISHWASHER.
PPPPS: Looks like, since I wrote this, I have found an apartment, in the basement above a lesbian bar. Cyn and I are going to have some fun dates.