It’s a parent’s responsibility to embarrass his or her teenager.  Right?

I’m right, aren’t I? I’m almost sure I’m right.

This morning, all 5 of us pile into the car at 6:45AM to head off for our day. Three kids get dropped off at three different places, and then Bill and I go on to work.

The first drop-off is the teen, which is a good thing because she’s surly and I’m not sure I can take much more of her in the morning.

Especially this morning.

The other two are well rested, exuberant, and ready to play. There isn’t much to play in a Toyota Camry stuffed with five people, but we manage to start a game of Pink Tree Purple Tree.

Don’t worry that you don’t know this game – it’s an original, made up by a four-year-old mind. It’s loosely based on the game Yellow Car. Surely you know the game Yellow Car.  No? Well, that’s why Google was invented. Go look it up, I’ll wait.

So there we are playing Pink Tree Purple Tree when Bill (who is too competitive for his own good, I think) tries to call Purple Tree but clearly he’s fudging the game rules. The tree wasn’t purple at all. It was actually closer to burgundy.

Suffice it to say we get into a little tiff about the rules of Pink Tree Purple Tree and whether an almost-burgundy tree can possibly be counted as a point. (It can’t. I’m quite sure he’ll come around to seeing that my way at about 10PM tonight. Don’t ask me how I know this.)

By this time, we are approaching Sarah’s bus stop. She’s surly and doesn’t fully appreciate the game Pink Tree Purple Tree, or her exuberant little sisters, or her parents who are willing to debate just about anything. Poor girl.

We pull to a stop to let her out, so she can stand among her surly friends and wait for the bus with more surly teens in it. As she exits the car, she gets in a parting shot. “You two are WEIRD.” she says while rolling her surly eyes.

Bill looks at me and I nod. He rolls down the window and screams out (loudly enough for the surly friends to hear), “Don’t lick any cats today, OK, Honey?”  Then we drove off.

That, my friends, is MY definition of how to start your day off right.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

This is actually a piece I wrote elsewhere last spring.  This morning, I was admiring the trees all blooming and blossoming, and instead of reflecting on the beauty of them, I reflected on the morning last year when we told our kid not to lick any cats right there in front of her friends.

And I smiled.

Well, I think I want the world to know.

Maybe.  Probably, I do.  Sometimes.

I’m pretty sure.

This isn’t about my sexuality or anything.  If you’re thinking that this is going to be a Ricky Martin moment, you’ll probably be disappointed.  Of course, that was a little disappointing, too, I think.  I’m pretty sure Ricky lacked a full-length mirror in his closet.  Otherwise,  he might have seen what we all saw years ago.

It’s about my name.

You all know me as Linda, just Linda.  Or JustLinda.  (I used to be JustLinda, but now I’m just Linda.)

You might be surprised to know that I have last names.  Three, actually.  I have the one I grew up with.  Let’s say that was Smith.  Linda Smith.

Then I got married that first time and I was Linda Jones.

After my divorce, and as I was establishing my career, I kept it as Linda Jones because I had a couple of little Jones kids and plus Jones was so easy to spell and pronounce.  (Not like that old German name Smith – people were always messing that up.  Z? They would ask.  Smith with a Z?  Yes, thankyouverymuch, there is a Z in my last name.  Deal with it.)

Eventually, I remarried and the new guy wasn’t hip on me choosing to stick with the last name of the estranged Mister Jones.  Plus he and I knew we wanted more children and I figured my name would have to match Set 1 or Set 2 but couldn’t match both.  Well, it could have if I had been able to convince my new husband to take my ex-husband’s last name and then give that to our children, but he wasn’t too keen on that idea.  So, long story short, I became Linda Miller.

Linda Smith Jones Miller.

With a Z.

I know, I know.  It’s enough to make a person dizzy.  It’s very confusing, right?  So when I started my blog, I was just Linda.  Or rather JustLinda.  Whatever.

And that was my evil plan for keeping my anonymity on the big, bad Internet.  “Muhahaha – no one will find me!  I am just one Linda in a SEA of Lindas.  I am safe and anonymous, and I can tell lie after lie after lie.”

Only that’s not how it worked out.  Somehow the name Linda Miller, through the voodoo of Google algorithms, got associated with my little corner of the Internet here, so anytime someone would search for Linda Miller, the first result in the search return would be my blog.

Sneaky, huh?  Hiding in plain sight like that?

It was okay, though.  I really wasn’t planning on telling any sort of lies so the fact that people could find me was okay.  Whatever.

Add to that the advent of Facebook where I am clearly Linda Smith Jones Miller, right out there in front of God and country.  (And country, and country, and country, ad nauseam.)

Then there is LinkedIn where I am Linda Jones Miller.  Oh, and on Twitter, I’m @LindaInDisguise.

It’s starting to get hard for me to keep up with who I am supposed to be.  I have to take a Sharpie and write it on my arm for those times when I get confused.

So the people on Facebook don’t know about my blog or my Twitter account.  Well, I didn’t tell them.  Some of them know how to use Google and were born with a modicum of curiosity so they found me that way.  But I don’t post my blog links on my Facebook account.  Or on my LinkedIn account.  And I don’t post my Facebook account on my LinkedIn account, but I think I have my LinkedIn account posted on my Facebook account.  I also don’t post my Twitter account on Facebook or LinkedIn.

You can see how I might be running out of room on my arms, plus my Sharpie is almost out of ink and I’m feeling addled and confused.

I’m pretty sure I could spend all my time social-networking just amongst myself.  While that would perhaps be entertaining (for ME), it will never get me rich and famous.  (Unless, of course, someone rewards that choice monetarily because it keeps me out of the way of everyone else who would prefer I not tinker in their social networks.) (And if that is the case, my PayPal account is linda@justlinda.net – small, unmarked bills only please.)

People, I’m just tired.  I’m tired of trying to keep it all segregated.  And frankly, it is all just barely held in place by some duct tape that’s losing its stickiness and expired Elmer’s glue.  It’s all held apart with only the most tenuous of walls separating one section from another.  It’s probably this close to collapsing into one big ol’ Web two-point-oh pile, anyway.

Whatever.  Bring it on.

I look around and I see Heather Armstrong, Alice Bradley, Eden Kennedy, Allie Brosh, and other bloggers I follow all using their last names and nothing bad has happened to them.  No Internet mutants have eaten their children.  (Well, possibly that did happen with Allie.  She claims not to have any children, but how do we know she didn’t used to have one that got eaten by an Internet mutant or maybe a zombie?  Perhaps said mutant zombie is the inspiration for some of her drawings.  Ever-think-of-THAT???)

Anyway.

What would happen if I told you all my last name?  What would happen if I posted my blog link on my Facebook account?  My Twitter name on my LinkedIn account?  My LinkedIn name on my … oh, never mind.  You know what I mean.

Would the world keep turning on its axis?

Would they stop playing those incessant Full House re-runs on Nickelodeon?  (Please?  Because then I’d do it in a heartbeat!)

Would my family disown me?

Would my employer fire me?

What?  What would happen?  Why am I unsure and hesitating?  I’m practically OUT anyway – only hiding behind the thinnest of flimsy veils.

That’s it.  I’ve decided.  I’m pretty sure.  I think I can.  It’s time to boldly step forward.  Here I go.  Right now – I’m going to do it.

Hi, I’m Linda Smith Jones Miller.  You know me as JustLinda.

Nice to meet you.

Whew, that feels good.  (Not as good as topless sun-bathing, mind you.  It’s a different kind of liberating… a fake deceitful kind of liberating, I’d say.)

DAMMIT!  Why can’t I do this?

OK.  This time I mean it.

Linda Banana-Hammock Pederschmidt.

Oh, never mind.