Bittersweet Arrivals

As I reported yesterday, My Gay Husband and La Henna arrived last night.  

The past twenty-four hours have been INSANE, and I've only slept for three of them, so check me out in about eight more.  

China Town Bus

Yesterday I got home from the grocery store only to discover that Francois Philippe had a friend over.  This meant he, Justin, Dustin, and the friend were running around the basement my quarters, screaming, hitting, and shooting each other with various projectile objects.  The Skydiver asked me to come over immediately after I'd fallen victim to the Nerf gun.  Of course I said YES, PLEASE, HOW SOON CAN I COME OVER? LIKE NOW? GREAT!!!!

But this evening, while enjoyably awkward (as only The Skydiver can do), left me woefully unprepared for the FABULOUS duo of guests arriving today: My Gay Husband and La Henna.  You might remember La Henna from this post.  And you might remember My Gay Husband as pretty much every other sentence I write involves him in some way.  In true La Henna fashion, she called me this morning AS she was boarding the China Town bus from Boston to DC.  

Have you ever ridden the China Town bus?  I have.  This bus systems runs all over the Northeast.  Boston, DC, Philly, Baltimore, New York, etc.  The picks ups and drop offs are all in the China Town districts of each of these cities.  This means that you have to just walk around China Town and hope you're in the right place at the right time.  You'll see a throng of non-Asians, usually indicating a fast-encroaching pick up.  Thirty minutes later, a bus will back into an alley and everyone will rush forward.  The first time I rode from DC to Philly, it was packed.  People were standing in the aisles and, if memory serves, there was a chicken involved somewhere along the line.  When you reach your destination, the bus just stops in another alley and tells everyone to get off.  

Needless to say, it's the only way I travel.  And it's perfectly suited for La Henna, who is the definition of sketchy.  She never has a phone, so she'll just call you one day (like today) from a pay phone somewhere, telling you she'll be there in 10 hours.  

In other news, Dash and Trixie are currently pretending to eat baby angels.  I swear I don't know where they got an idea like that.  

Chrimah

I thought all the bloggers would be taking a break over Christmas, but it seems the holidays have only made everyone more prolific so now I'm feeling intense pressure to get caught up (the story of my life!).  I feel ashamed when I don't blog for long periods of time and I end up avoiding my blogger dashboard and blogs like Cat's and Catherinette's.  I pulled this same sort of shiz in college. If I fell behind in my classes, I would avoid that class (and professor) like the plague.  

N-E-Wayzzz I'm back in class today.

Did you know that all five Chirrens Garcia have been home since Monday?  I was initially excited; I had all these idyllic Christmas plans up my proverbial sleeves.  And then, well, there was reality, ready to donkey punch me in the teeth.  

One day les bebes and I went to a fancy (read: free) movie day at the library.  They were showing The Muppets Christmas Carol, one of my personal favorites.  As you might expect, we were the raggediest bunch there.  First of all, I had all five Chirrens plus one of Dustin and Justin's raucous friends.  Second of all, the movie started at 2pm, and they shut the doors and don't let anyone interrupt once it starts!  

This meant I had to feed the six of them and then politely recommend that the friend's dad come pick him up after lunch.  Then I had to rush out to Coco's office to drop off Francois Philippe and the twins so Bobby Habibi could take them to the shooting range (yep).  Ok, so it's 1:30pm at this point and we're doing good.  OH NO!  We don't have any snacks and this event is strictly BYOSnaxxx.  So we dash into the grocery store near Coco's office and I tell them to grab something Christmassy - they get 2ft tall Christmas tree cookies (they tasted good though, I can't lie).  We also grab a bottle of Sprite, which I would never ever allow under normal circumstances because I'm a bitch good nanny.  

1:40pm.  We're doing good.  We get in the car.  NO GAS.  1:50pm.  I'm literally biting my tongue, I think.  1:58pm. Dash and I are holding hands while I've got Trixie turned sideways on my hip like a football, sprinting through the library parking lot.  WE MAKE IT!!!!!!!  

Inside the movie room, other kids are lounging on their monogrammed fleecies and coordinated throw pillows.  My kids are sprawled out on my purple Wal-Mart coat.  As if this isn't bad enough, I can feel all the other parents judging me for the Sprite (it was diet, sheesh).  My kids are totally oblivious to these condescending stares and are having fun passing it back and forth like a frothy mug of beer.  ... and then Dash spilled it on the movie room carpet.  It was one of those things that happens in slow motion too.  

Honestly though, I wrote about this solely because I recognize it is a humorous string of events with which lots of people will be able to empathize.  But my day was far from ruined - I could not have had a better time with les bebes.  We love pretending we have a deadline and screaming at red lights "We're not gonna make itttttt!!!!!!!!!"  Like they wouldn't let me in?  Puh-leeze.  And I couldn't care less what those granola soccer moms think about my sprite and sugar cookies.  My kids were the cutest, funniest kids in the movie room and we ended the film with a dog pile tickle fight.  

So there.  Our team never loses.  

Awwww

I have so many things to write about today, but until I get them all finished (because I'm totally the type to write 40 incomplete posts instead of one complete), here's a picture of my nephew.  I look at this about 30 times an hour.  I mean this picture really has it all.  Sleepy smile, baby tie-dye, and protruding belly.  Oh wait, I guess you could say I've got all those things too.  I never realized how unbelievably cute I am!!  They should put me on calendars!!!

Blegh

It's 2:30am and I just threw up.  Blegh.  Why is this blog-worthy?  Let me start at the beginning.

Coco, Coco's mother (who is just as fabulous, if you can imagine), and I went to a party at our friend Andrea Louise's house tonight.  As promised, there was plenty of Jack Daniels & Diet Coke.  After the three of us were eventually kicked out, I honestly think I passed out in the nanny-mobile, sprawled out over Dash's booster seat.  I remember summoning everything within me and briefly perking up when Coco's mother says something like, "You have to catch a fox with a cage."  

"Wait, what??  How do you even know that??"        ... but then I was out again before I heard any story.  I'm sure it involved a fox, a cage, and a subsequent stole though.  

So flash forward to 2am.  I know I'm going to vomit, it's just a matter of when at this point.  When we got home a few hours earlier, I was able to at least partially get into pj's.  What this means is that my boots, dress, and bra are off, but my spanx and tights are still around my calves.  I peel those off and I'm down to just an oversized tee-shirt and my underpants.  Which is totally acceptable for pajamas ... if you're staying in your room, which I'm not.  

It is quickly apparent to me that I am not going to be able to just grip my pillows tight and get through this from the comfort of my bed.  So first I lay on my bathroom floor for awhile.  Then I get one of Trixie's small person chairs and just sit in front of my commode, waiting for the magic to happen.  I remember thinking this was a much less shameful position than head actually in commode, hands desperately gripping the sides.  My first foray out of the basement my quarters is sprinting upstairs to get a glass of water and a trash bag.  But all that sprinting makes me sicker so then I have to lie down in the guest bathroom upstairs.  

Now, on a typical night I would probably rest assured that I'm going to be roaming the house, hoping to vomit, in relative privacy.  However, I know that tonight Bobby Habibi is getting home from a recent oil-excavating trip so he is potentially a problem.  

But I get through this excursion Bobby-free, so now I'm just laying in my bed with the trash bag tied to my side table.  This comes in handy after about 20 more minutes of me crying and moaning "Maaammmmmaaaaa....." (even if my mother is 1000 miles out of earshot, it makes me feel better).  I finally puke.  

And here's where it gets really good.  Since I've done the deed in a garbage sack, I have to get rid of it immediately as I obviously can't let it sit anywhere.  But since Monday is garbage day, our big garbage cans are not in the garage, but out by the street already.  

After several minutes deliberation, I head outside in my snow boots, underwear, tee shirt and giant purple wal-mart coat.  Picture it. 

Happy Monday, y'all.  

**Incidentally, today's use of the word commode is in honor of my mother, who I believe is one of the last people on earth to use such terminology.  

Where The Fuck Is Her Nanny?

Can I just say that this is why my job is recession-proof??  You know what Trixie and Dash learned today?  This Little Light of Mine, not how to commodify their infant bodies.  Do I sound uptight?  I'm not.  I can admit this is cute.  But when you have kids (moms, back me up) you are gripped by this daily fear that every action, every word, every look, will have a profound effect on your child.  If I give in and let him eat that cookie, will I establish a pattern of disobedience and unhealthy eating habits??  If I don't give him that cookie will he be a lower middle class factory worker because he confuses following the rules with not thinking for himself??  I'm serious, sometimes I am paralyzed with such concerns. 

Anyway, enjoy watching a kid you're not responsible for. 

Birthdays are for Peoples

Happy Birthday to Cat!!!

I have a really hard time figuring out how old people are because I always think of people as falling into three age groups: too young to smoke weed, able to smoke weed, and too old to smoke weed (I know, I know, you're never too old to smoke weed - that's why they have vaporizers). I also call these: kids, the-category-I'm-in, and adults.  Numerically, these translate as: under 20, 20-60, 60+.  But there's a lot of leniency in all of those categories.  It all depends on the person.  

For example, my number one favorite person that has ever or will ever walk the face of this earth is my Uncle Ted (who is not my uncle at all, incidentally).  He's only 52, but I put him in the adult category (which the one just above the category I'm in) because he's more a role model/savior than a drinking buddy.  

And then there's my second favorite person that has ever or will ever walk the face of this earth, My Older Man Friend, who is 42.  Or 43?  But he falls into the-category-I'm-in.  And while I'm actually closer to age to Francois Philippe than I am to Coco, FP is definitely a kid while Coco and I are still in the same category.  

Anyway, happy birthday to my oldest (but still not old, thanks to Botox good genes) sister and my cyber sister Cat.  

Today's Legit To-Do List

We gots to get surious about this to-do shiz, y'all!!!! 

My to-do lists are mostly things I would do anyway such as sleep and eat and put on lotion so as to avoid being called ashy by all my friends Dora.  

However, today I have legitimate shiz that needs to get done!!  Today's legit to-do list:

Clean my room (yeah, the one I was supposed to clean last week)

Clean my bathroom

Collect urine for the next 24 hours (I ain't no perv - see yesterday's post)

Finish Christmas cards

Become a Virginia resident

Send my family's Christmas box to Mississippi (tears for my Holiday absence)

Lose 60 pounds

To further add to the frenetics (I think I made that word up.  In my head, it means frantic-ness), I have to get all this done by 10:30pm, my newly self-imposed bedtime.  I should add that to my to-do list too.  

**and yes, today's use of legit was in honor of my new best friend (don't be jealous, Dora, My Gay Husband, CoCo and Chocolate), The Other Maggie Garcia**

Blood Werkz

I got blood drawn today, which ended up being a two-hour process.  I made the mistake of grabbing a Woman's Day off the mag rack.  I teared up at every single story in there.  There were several about helping other people at holiday times.  Those always get me.  Anything about the army gets me too.  The one that really sent me over the edge: a dad AND daughter deployed to Iraq this holiday season.  So here I am, so beyond tearing up, now legitimately crying in the doctor's office, clutching my Woman's Day.  

My soft spot for holiday stories began years ago when my sister and I were working at a Christian book store (yep).  One of the (many) Pentecostal ladies who worked with us had been listening to Talk Radio again and heard a story she just had to tell us about.  Two poor (White Republican Christian was the subtext, if memory serves me) have a really sick kid on Christmas Eve.  They take him to the ER and get turned away, the doctors saying he just needs some OTC loving.  The next morning, the parents find the little 3-yr old curled up under the Christmas tree ... dead.  

It's not even that this kid dies.  It's that he's this little kid and you know how your body just aches so bad when you have the flu? Don't you imagine this itty bitty kid crawling under the Christmas tree, hoping Mr. Nutcracker or Santa or maybe the angel on top of his tree will provide some relief?  Gah, that's what always gets me.  And my sister and I talked about that story for years.  We still do, actually (hence this post).  

But the best part of my day wasn't the umpteen billion tests they ran today.  It was my door prize.  This:

What is that?  It's the bio-hazard jug I get to store my urine in for the next 24 hours.  The worst part?  I have to keep it in the fridge.  So, instead of trying to warn Dustin and Justin (who I suspect have a secret lab somewhere in this house) about the hazardous acids they put in to react with the urine, I'm just sticking a post it on the top that says "Nanny's Pee".  

Just so Dora will stop checking ...

I'm working on a blog right now, but I have to do it in between, you know, actually nannying and shiz.  So more to come ... just after Tae Kwon Do probably.  

Blegh

Migraine today.  Posting tomorrow. 

You're Bleeding All Over Our Xmas Cookies!!!

As I was sawing through frozen burger patties for lunch today, I accidentally sawed through my left thumb with this:

I sort of love this kind of stuff.  I love looking at blood and especially scabs.  Francois Philippe had these scaly white bumps all around his mouth last week and I kept following him around with my high-powered flashlight, begging him to stay still so I could examine them.  

This was one of those gaping cuts, where the skin doesn't naturally reclose (like a slit cut would), so it bleeds way more (coooooool).  My initial reaction was to suck air through my teeth and then run to show Dash.  He's a boy, he's going to love this, right?  Wrong.  Dash turned pale and started yelling, "Help!  We gotta call somebody!  We have to go to the hospital!!!"  Okay, okay, maybe I shouldn't have gone over there with blood running down to my elbow.  

The thing about this sort of cut is that they take awhile to heal.  It keeps spurting just a tiny bit every few minutes. It's bled through all the paper towels and gauze I've wrapped around it so now I'm just letting it air out for a little while.  

... which is making the royal red icing I'm making for our Christmas cookies a little extra special.  

Advice You Didn't Ask For ...

... the best kind. 

I recently saw Four Christmases.  It was good enough that I watched the entire thing, but it was bad enough that if I hadn't been able to pirate the whole thing, I'd be okay with it too.  

I also saw Madagascar 2: Return to Africa.  Blegh.  First of all, I am of the generation that doesn't believe I have to pay for electronic media.  We only pay for things we respect and/or want to compliment.  I was okay with paying to see The Dark Knight three times in a row.  I was okay with buying a Dave Matthews CD.  But I am not okay with paying $24.50 for les bebes and I to go to a fucking matinee showing of a movie made up almost entirely of crude unfunny cliches.  And it was racist, which is like, the worst thing adjective I can mete out.  

However, I do have some good news.  Role Models was kick ass.  Seriously, it was so hilarious that I didn't start making out with The Skydiver until like 3 quarters of the way through.  

Also, Transsiberian was good.  Really thrilling.  Plus, Ben Kingsley.  Need I say more?  

In typical NannyGarcia fashion, the movies I've semi-reviewed are not even new, but hopefully I've saved you (or someone you know) a little heartache.  

... and repeat ...

I've been trying to clean my room for about a week now.  I have always found this task painstaking and arduous.  I grew up in a garbage heap, usually with a narrow walking path leading from the bed to the door.  Every few months, my mother would lock me in there and, after about three days of gnashing my teeth and beating my breast, I would emerge a changed (and clean) woman, vowing never to allow my room to get into such a state of disrepair again.  ... and repeat ... 

 In college, I would do my laundry and throw all the cleanies on my bed.  On the rare occasions that I slept, I would climb to the top of the clothing heap and just sink into the clothes, using a sweat shirt for my pillow and a hippie skirt for my quilt (hey, it was usually patchwork). The next morning (or the one after that, at least) I would extract some smushed up (but still clean!) outfit.  When I would finally get back down to my bedspread, I would know it was time to go back to the laundromat always promise myself that NEXT time, my laundry would be properly put away and I would actually use my sheets.  ... and repeat ... 

Before I left for Thanksgiving, I cleaned up my room in my version of spotless (meaning there was some shiz stuffed in boxes and thrown in my closet, but you couldn't see it so it didn't count).  It was vacuumed and dusted.  Two weeks later, I'm back to sleeping next to my mandolin and a tub of Vaseline. I ain't even lying, I just looked over to see what was on my bed when I wrote that sentence.  

But I'm really going to get it all fancied up again by the end of this weekend.  Les bebes love to play in my room and when my junk is all over the place, I get irritated when they're in there.  And I hate that.  I think it's disgusting when people are short with children.  I could see maybe snapping on Trixie because she can be evil sometimes, but Dash - never.  He is pure sunshine and puppies.  

Okay, well, I guess I've procrastinated enough and have to get back to the cleaning.  

XMas pt. II

Everything is going swimmingly in Operation Christmas Spirit.  Last night we had forced family holiday programming - Mickey Mouse's Christmas Carol.  Our janky basement Christmas tree is all decorated with homemade ornaments, and we've had a steadystream of Christmas cookies NannyGarcia baked with love from scratch.  Incidentally, "from scratch" is a sporting term.  I shit you not.  

But I've almost exhausted all my standard kiddo Christmas plans, so I've gotten a little creative.  And by that I mean, making les bebes do things that Dora and I would do anyway.  For example, anytime we see a Christmas tree in public (I had to add that last clause after Dash tried to break into a neighbor's house to get to their tree in the front window), we take a picture by it.  Currently, our collection consists of the tree in McDonalds as well as several trees in found in Wal-Mart.  Yeah, it's probably going to be a White Trash Christmas from here on out, folks.  

Oh, and by popular demand (meaning Cat), the pictures of The Wal-Mart Coat:

And here is the lovely hood:

But my favorite feature is this:

I found this tag on the inside and I keep it, just in case PETA mistakes me for an Olsen twin.

Wally World

One of the only secrets I've tried to keep from Coco is my deep-seated passion for Wal-Mart.  My hometown has the only Super Wal-Mart in the tri-state area.  For those of you who do not know, a Super Wal-Mart has tons of amenities like a McDonalds, a nail salon, a hair cutting place,  and is open 24/7.  The tri-state area I'm referring to, of course, is that magical intersection of Mississippi, Alabama, and Tennessee - here's a visual aid.  

Dora and I began fostering an unhealthy fascination with the Wal-Mart somewhere around 7th grade.  We would spend the night at the Wal-Mart.  We would sleep outside and jaw about our post-high school pipe dreams which included road-tripping across the entire country, going to concerts and visiting a Wal-Mart in all 50 states.  I swear to fucking God.  That was our big huge dream.  A cross-country tour of Wal-Marts (preferably Super Centers).  

Imagine my chagrin on my first day in Suburbia when Coco drives me past the Wal-Mart and shudders.  "I have to take a shower when I leave that place," she scoffed.  

"Oh, heh, yeah, me too... " I awkwardly replied.  

But I guess there's good reason for Coco's disgust.  The only times she has ever graced The Wal-Mart with her patronage is in pursuit of "throw-away clothes" to send off with the boys to camp.  During one such mission, Dustin and Justin kept horsing around, but in a terrible way.  So at the checkout, Coco grabbed their arms.  Now, in Suburbia, you can't even make angry eyebrows at your kids without somebody calling the police.  So when Dusty shouted out "Oh no, Mommy, please don't hit me again!!!" Coco was petrified.  She froze, awaiting the certain onslaught of concerned stares and possible Child Services personnel.  But, as she was at Wal-Mart, no one even so much as glanced over. 

So this catches us up tonight.  Well, almost.  Y'all, it's fucking freezing here.  And I have spent the last month floundering around in this cold shiz, putting on leg warmers over layers of leggings all under a big brown nanny jumper (usually accented with some stray bolt of brightly-colored fabric).  

NOW we're caught up to tonight.  After yoga I hit the Wal Mart to browse for cheap kiddo presents (I mean, shit, I've got five of them.  You have to buy in bulk.)  And then - our eyes met across the crowded aisle - a bright purple slicky coat that goes to my knees complete with faux fur hood.  All for $40.  I obviously bought that shiz.

And now I'm hiding in my basement, furiously ripping out all the tags so Coco won't tease me in the morning when I go to the bus stop in my purple Wal-Mart coat.  Oh Wal-Mart, thy beauty and fashion sense is too much for this upscale suburban world.  

Last Night ...

... Bobby Habibi and Coco hosted a surprise 70th birthday party for Bobby's mother.  I was initially apprehensive because surprise + 70th bday = ???  but everything turned out really fancy.  Actually, Bobby and Coco are probably the fanciest people I know.  When I went home for Thanksgiving I kept thinking, "Gah, I can't wait to get back to my fancy family with their name-brand peanut butter and refrigerator that has ice and water in the front door of it!"

Coco and Bobby always make a point of inviting me to these things and I'm always like, oh but wouldn't you rather I do something with chirrens that involves more Spongebob and less awkward social mingling?  Seriously, I'm one of the top ten most nervous, anxious, awkward people on earth (other people on the list? My Gay Husband, My Older Man Friend, Dora, and Francois Philippe). That's probably how I ended up with this job - I find children soooo much easier to interact with than adults.  

But the party was actually super fun, I mean, after I'd had one Jack & Diet Coke (I never let my glass get empty so I'm technically always drinking on the same one).  At some point following a few refills, Francois Philippe texted me "I'm upstairs getting a makeover."  WTF?  NannyGarcia clearly must investigate.  What did she find?  Francois Philippe upstairs in Coco's bathroom with his 13yr old buddy and his 15yr old sister .... who had cut FP's jeans and put eyeliner on him.  Then this little pierced punk starts showing me pics of her 16yr old boyfriend ... who is HOT.  This encounter made me feel confused.  On the one hand, I'm thankful because ugh, who wants to be a teenager again??  But I also feel old b/c 16yr old boyfriend is HOT and it's illegal for me to think that.  To add to my confusion, as I'm going off about the stupid cuts in his jeans, I'm sloshing my drink around and slurring my words.  

After the party I took a little nap on my bathroom floor and eventually crawled to my bed.  

Reflect This

 I went to Francois Philippe's 7th grade band concert tonight.  When I was in 7th grade (10 years ago) I would have totally shown up with my band of friends plus two Zimas stolen from somebody's grandparents' garage and some Jolly Ranchers.  Then we would have beat up all the kids from the trombone section and stolen their lunch money.  

But seriously, as I was sitting in this middle school auditorium, taking stock of my life, I decided this is simultaneously the lamest and the coolest thing I've ever done.  

I'm a nanny, for fuck's sake.  I stay up all night baking instead of binge drinking.  The only drugs I do are Children's Advil and the only strangers in my bed are Trixie's dolls.

But, at the same time, Trixie is a hot-tranny-mess and wore her sunglasses to the band concert.  Her pink, cat-eyed, sparkly sunglasses.  Now that's badass.  This week I started a new phonetic approach to teaching Dash how to read and watching him get it is pretty fucking cool.  It's fun playing frisbee with Justin and Dustin because they're still young enough to want to roll on the grass and put some theatrics in their throws.   It feels good to have a 13yr old be sincere enough to tell you they like being your friend.  

Maybe my college friends will read this and think I'm losing my edge.  I know they all get surprised that my nanny stories are so tame.  But maybe Maggie Garcia isn't nearly as cool as Nanny Garcia.  And I don't think I've lost my edge at all.  You've got to be somewhat of a badass to keep five kidz alive and in line.  I just think The Chirrens Garcia are the coolest damn munchkins on the motherfucking planet and if you disagree I will beat you up and steal your lunch money.  

Still don't believe I'm cool?  Check out my nanny notebook were I keep all of my lists.  

XMas pt. I

Well, the Christmas gods are simply not letting me get through this season without a veritable cornucopia of trials and tribulations.  I have started every day this week with some sort of idyllic Christmas plan for les bebes.  ... and that fickle mistress Fate (in the form of Little Bill) has consistently foiled my festive agenda.  

MONDAY

The plan: Make ornaments for the Christmas tree in the basement using craft supplies and stuff we found around the house.

What actually happened: TMoney calls to say Little Bill is Jones'ing for some playtime with les bebes, so of course I tell her to send him over.  It turns out that Little Bill doesn't want to make Christmas ornaments so he whines until I'm about 3 seconds away from saying "I will cut you"  to a five-year-old.  Les bebes turn against me and I'm left making ornaments by myself.  Crappy snowmen made out of old cork board are cute when a 4yr old makes them.  Less cute when the artist is 22. 

TUESDAY

The plan: Go to the library to pick out Christmas books and movies.  Learn Christmas carols.  

What actually happened: Little Bill comes over to gloat about the AWESOME Christmas ornaments and decorations he made when he went home yesterday.  My eyes scream "What the FUCK??" at him.  I take les bebes + Little Bill to the playground.  We're the only people there so we run around for a couple hours.  I am reliably designated the monster or evil queen.  We pull into the driveway just as The Beatles' "Let It Be" comes on the radio so I make them sit in the car with me and listen to the song.  Little Bill refuses to go home or learn Christmas carols.  I fume at him silently.  

WEDNESDAY

The plan: Decorate the Christmas tree in the living room.  Go to the library to pick out Christmas books and movies.  Learn Christmas carols. 

What actually happened: Somehow, Little Bill winds up at our house again and, after putting on about two Christmas ornaments, decides he is over that shiz and builds a les bebes army to go play in the basement.  I wind up putting up the ornaments while listening to Christmas music ... alone.  

THURSDAY

The plan: Bake Christmas cakes and cupcakes.  Go to the library to pick out Christmas books and movies.  Learn Christmas carols.  

What actually happened: This was the worst of all.  It's a long story, but TMoney whisks les bebes away and I end up making holiday baked goods alone.  Except it is the first time I'd used my new silicone cake molds so I grossly overfilled them.  So I spend the next hour cleaning up my holiday mess and scrubbing the oven.  However, I salvaged one good cake and made it look like this:  

Want to know what's up for tomorrow?

FRIDAY

The plan: Hide from the housekeeper by eating at Subway and going to the library to pick out Christmas books and movies.  And then lock les bebes in the car (parked in the garage) to practice Christmas carols so no one (Little Bill) can call us, come to the door, or see us in the driveway.  

What actually happens: Little Bill rains on her Christmas parade once again and Nanny Garcia goes all batshit and is found the next morning frozen solid, wearing a holiday sweater and clutching sheet music for "Away In A Manger". 

Whoops

... sorry about that whole not-blogging-for-a-week thing.  I've been very busy making lists, which always gives me a false sense of control over my life.  My to-do lists are absolutely massive because I like to put stuff like wake up and change underwear so that i have several things I can easily mark through, thus making me feel more productive.  My mama always told me that everyone lives in their own reality (yeah, she's a hippie too) and in my own reality, I am hard-working and productive (and skinny).    

N-E-Wayzzz

Does anybody still remember that tired old Thanksgiving shiz we pulled last week?  If you haven't already moved on to Christmas, I am happy to report that I had a gay old time (only less gay, more old) in Smalltown, Mississippi.  I went to The Wal-Mart one day and this is what I saw in the parking lot:

Oh yeah, that's right.  And then I walked inside The Wal-Mart and saw this:

... and I thought how good it was to be home.  I can't even find a ham hock to make decent green beans up here (just kidding ... I don't cook.  But if I did, I wouldn't be able to find a ham hock)

But I mostly spent my T-Day with My Little Thug Baby Nephew.  I had to wear a mask when I first met him just to get past his security detail (apparently The Chirrens Garcia are little germ farms):

... but I didn't care.  Hell, I should probably wear a mask all the time to protect the world from my foul mouth.  

And then my brother-in-law brought me Thanksgiving lunch a day early and it was awesome.  You could taste the butter in every bite (which actually is how I cook on the rare occasions I do):

And over the course of Nanny Garcia's Mississippi Homecoming, I was able to force feed My Little Thug Baby Nephew enough formula that he got his first (of many, hopefully) baby double chin!!!!!  Please see below and then write obligatory comments about how cute he is.  Thanks, The Management. 

North American Genocide

I'm not celebrating Thanksgiving today.  I'm commemorating the genocide of Native Americans.  Both Dora and Bobbie Jean hate that I'm saying this because they think I'm being a "downer".  Yeah, that's true.  Genocide is always a little glum ... especially people who get smallpox blankets from their "friendly" pilgrim neighbors.

This has been a common dilemma for me since graduating college.  I'm always trying to poke, prod, and lure people into meaningful discourse. But nobody ever wants to talk about murder at breakfast.  

Radio Show

Yo yo yo. This is your gurl Magic Garcia coming atcha LIVE from Da Dirty Dirty!! We're doing it BIG in the Crooked Letter Hump Back state, getting down with our little thug baby (more about him later).

I have always wanted my own radio show. Growing up, one of my sisters and I would talk into the whirring blades of a hand fan (I realize this sounds weird, but try it out and you will see that it sounds like you're on the radio!! Just don't get your lip too close to the blades. We still call my sister Slingblade behind her back.)

And when I was in college I dated this guy who was a tad on the quiet side (can you imagine????) so to fill the silent air, I spent many a Saturday afternoon taking bong rips and "broadcasting live" from our dorm room. The Boyfriend's contribution to my imaginary radio show was pulling his car up to the parking spot nearest our dorm, opening all the doors, and blaring music in between my shoutouts (because y'all know we didn't own any other radio at the time).

The Skydiver recently revealed that, in addition to a PhD in Electrical Engineering, the equivalent of a 5th degree black belt in skydiving, a private pilot license, and a nasty divorce, he also has his amateur radio license. After much research (meaning I bombarded The Skydiver with questions for approximately 10 minutes) I have discovered that this means he can broadcast on a frequency that is somewhere between Rick Dees and late night trucker conversation lines (Breaker, breaker, 1-9, this is Sweet Judy Blue, looking for love in all the wrong places, somewhere along I-10, any rest stop buddies this evening??).

So my newest endeavor is going to be getting a radio show on one of these frequencies. In between Grateful Dead and gangstah rap I will be answering y'all's questions about y'all's chirrens. Email them in at nannygarcia@live.com.

Lay On Your Side, Gurl, You'll Get Through This

One time I mercilessly teased My Gay Husband for quoting an IM session in an academic paper.  This, however, is not an academic paper and I write whatever the hell I want.  Dora celebrated my birthday by getting trashed and has been texting me hungover complaints all day.  Here is what I've just been IM'ing (instant messaging, for my mom) with her:

Me: Hey gurl

Me: I'm glad you got on here

Me: it's so much easier than text b/c my laptop is balanced on my gut while my cell is plugged into the charger, forcing me to roll onto my side to text you

Dora: Aw shoot

Dora: you wanna hear what I ate today?

Dora: just for dinner I had a can of spaghetti-os, two packs of mac and cheese, and then i went to kroger and got the stuff to make rotel 

Dora: now i'm moaning ... too much cheeesee!!

Me: oh man, this is serious b/c you didn't just consume a high volume of food, you ate a whole bunch of junk

Me: i know the feeling all too well

Me: lay on your side, gurl, you'll get through this

Birthday Recap

Well, The Skydiver met the Chirrens Garcia.  And surprisingly, no one vomited on him.  My Gay Husband accuses me of trying to keep The Skydiver at an obscene distance.  I didn't really believe him until The Skydiver pulled up in front of our house and called me to ask "Um, can I come to the front door or should I wait outside or should I come around back?"   Whoops.

Anyway, The Skydiver totally made my birthday loads of unmentionable fun and now I'm in love with him from afar again (he still had to leave through the nanny door this morning, but I gave him a hug before).  

I think the evening got off on the right foot because Coco was around.  She doesn't allow people to be shy, awkward, or uncomfortable around her (and being with The Skydiver is usually all three).  She'll just keep talking joking putting on a show until you succumb to the wonderment that is Coco Roshambo.   

My birthday was also awesome because so many people posted on my facebook wall.  Yeah, I'm like that.  One friend wrote on my wall "Happy birthday!  Go do what you do best!!"  What does that mean?  Smoke weed and laugh while I make other people feel awkward?  Because that's what I do best.  

Now I'm totally focused on going home this weekend.  I love Mississippi for several reasons.  First of all, the winter air isn't PAINFUL so I can go back to wearing psychedelic socks and Birkenstocks under my hippie skirts.  And people are much nicer down there.  Well, I mean, they're much nicer if you're white ... and straight ... and Christian ... and wear a polo shirt.  

Below is a picture of one of the several FABULOUS gifts Coco gave me.  She actually gave me the shirt sweater off her back.  It's not just beautiful.  She's had it since she was in high school.  I don't know if this picture captures how it glistens because it's made out of the hair of angels.  

And Then It Hit Me

Today is my 22nd birthday and it is also the first day of the rest of my life.  I say that almost as much as I say the f word, which is quite often.  But seriously, this time I'm gonna get it right.  

This new found resolve was inspired by a phone call I had with Chocolate the other night.  She called from Albania and it was like 4am her time and she was stressing about the language class she had in just a few hours.  I, of course, was encouraging her to skip - I mean, she's not even taking it for a grade!!  But she reasoned that she couldn't miss because she would be missing later this week for a panel she's been asked to sit on.  

And then it hit me: In ten years, we will likely be doing the same thing.  I'll be sitting in someone else's basement listening to the Grateful Dead, eating peanut M&Ms and watching shit blow up on the internet while Chocolate prepares for a PANEL in ALBANIA.  

She's so important that she's asked to sit on fucking PANELS (because trust me, this is hardly a first for her).  The only panel I've ever been asked to be on was something about the legalization of marijuana.  It wasn't until I showed up and realized I would be sitting in the "pothead exhibit box" that I regretted thinking my patchwork skirt seemed "fancy" and "business-like" (I believe I actually said those words).  Hey - it wasn't floral or anything.  It had varying shades of blue, which included navy blue, which I believe is a very businessy color.    

Ok, enough with the self deprecation act.  That's not really my style. 

N-E-Wayzzz ... today is the first day of the rest of my life and lots of things have been happening.  My oldest sister gave birth to a 7lb 5 oz boy ... FOUR hours before my birthday!!  But it's okay, because you know for every birthday for the rest of his life, I'm going to mention those four hours. 

When my parents got to the hospital, my kook of a father bolted across the parking lot and left my mom behind.  And in a very Garcia-family move, not one damn person at the hospital had a camera.  AND I'm going home Saturday to see him!!!!!!  

Please stay tuned for NannyGarcia's Mississippi Homecoming.  

Embrace the Lame Birthday Plans

Did you know my birthday is Wednesday?   I will be 22 years of age.  Which freaks me out because sometimes I think some of Francois Philippe's friends are cute and then I remember I am an old womern now and I feel creepy.  

For the past several years my birthday has been memorable and out of control.  This year, my first year as an old womern, I'm going to the movies with The Skydiver.  At first I didn't want to include my birthday plans on this post because I thought everyone you would silently judge me for having lame birthday plans.  

But you know what?  I don't even care if you judge me, Cat.  It is lame.  You know why?  Because I have ZERO friends.  No, I take that back.  I have four friends here in the burbs: Coco, Bobby Habibi, The Skydiver, and The Tattoo Guy.  But it's okay because having five kids is like having all the friends you could ever want (awwwww).  

N-E-Wayz, here is my birthday wishlist this year:

• a phone call from My Older Man Friend ... Last year he forgot my bday and it made me feel empty inside - Incidentally, he is now in love with Catherinette but is scared to comment on her page about how in love with her he is - Catherinette: he's a total babe)
• earlier bedtimes for my chirrens ... Do you know how annoying it is to have to wait until 930pm so I can creep into the backyard to smoke?  Seriously - who are these little people and why are they cramping my style??
• a blood sugar tester thing ... This would greatly cut down on the panic attacks I have at night when I think my faux-diabeetus are acting up.  And then I realize I have to pee because I've been chugging cranberry juice all day to clear up that unfortunate UTI.  Or that I'm incredibly thirsty because I just poured a pound of salt in the form of canned spaghetti-o's in my mouth.  Or that I can't feel my legs because I don't have any pants on and I sleep with the window open.  Late night faux-diabeetus realizations are always profound.  

But my number one wish for my birthday is for my oldest sister to give birth on my birthday.  Well, NannyGarcia, you don't seem the type to want to share your birthday.  This is true, but let's think about this for a moment.  Either I share my birthday or the little thug's birthday outshines mine for the rest of my life.  The choice is clear to me.  

Equality for All Americans

FIRST THINGS FIRST: A SUPER NannyGarcia shoutout to my fabulous friends, Smachel Crooks and Yorn Gnarlsson for joining me in the March Against Prop 8 in Washington, DC.  About 5,000 people showed up yesterday and Smachel and Yorn braved the rain with the rest of us.  Thanks, y'all.  

AND NOW allow me to (briefly) be perfectly honest.

I LOVE:

• protesting
• civil disobedience
• sticking it to the man
• rioting
• revolting
• marching
• standing in place
• sitting in 
• loving in

I will basically do anything that will stir shit up and/or result in tear gas being dispelled.  I support gay rights, but yeah, I could basically be marching against cigarettes (which I smoke) tomorrow and I would be just as excited.  **disclaimer: I don't do anything Republican, that's my limit**

Yesterday I not only totally got off from walking with THOUSANDS of people from the Capitol to the White House, chanting, screaming, holding signs above our heads for hours.  I truly believed in what we were marching for.  Even My Gay Husband, who once said that he never wanted gays to achieve equality because then he would lose his edge was out hooting and hollering on the Mississippi streets.  

It freaks me out that people try to ban gay marriage.  That's like saying Jews can't marry or people with one arm can't have kids.  What is this, China??  So if you haven't done something to stand against Prop 8 (or similar hateful legislation), go to jointheimpact.org and check some of their shiz out. 

She Died of BEDSORES? Is That Even Possible??

I am so lazy that it negatively impacts my life.  Seriously, it's 2:30am and I have been laying immobile for hours.  Not sleeping, just laying in my bed with my laptop balanced on my gut.  And I just realized the low point I had hit when I kept ignoring the impulse to pee, assuring myself for a gross amount of time that I could make it till morning.  But then, of course, paranoia sets in and I start imagining my bladder busting, infecting all my other innerds and striking me dead by morning.  Death by urine.  So I finally dredge myself out of the bed to go to ... the bathroom.   

Enjoy Cholita eyebrows.  Thanks, Michael K.  

Thunderin' Thursday

The thing about being a live-in nanny is that you can't ever call in sick just because you're hung over.  I mean, it's not like Coco and Bobby Habibi didn't meet all my friends last night and then let us drive their car into Da City (DC, get it?).  And it's not like they didn't hear me come in at 3am and immediately put my head into the guest bathroom toilet.  And it's not like Bobby didn't make coffee for my hungover friends so they could drive back to Mississippi today.  It's not like they're a fuddy duddy boss you can give a few fake coughs to.   

What "it" IS like is this:

You CAN wear your pjs all day when you're a live-in nanny.  I'm sitting at the bus stop in the freezing rain in my stinky pajamas and flip flops, with just a big gray sweater thrown over it all as if that makes it all better.  It doesn't.  

What DOES make "it" all better is an upper angle + my supah-famous fabulous head tilt.  See how much fancier it makes every situation:

Now we're back at the house and Little Bill is over here and I'm looking up rainy day activities.  We could do a scavenger hunt, but I don't have a prize.  I just have an empty shoe box.  And let me clarify that I'm not actually doing any of these great rainy day activities; I'm just reading about them on the internet.  Did you know you could make a boat of an egg shell?  

But les bebes + one don't even notice that I'm being a total slacker nanny.  They are currently sitting on top of each other and watching Spongebob.  I feel a little nanny guilt but I'll do Storytime later and absolve myself.  

Gay Husbands Make the World Go Round

I really can't say enough about how important My Gay Husband is to me.  I would not be NannyGarcia without him, considering he dressed me the day Coco and Bobby Habibi interviewed me.  He would have never let me out the house with my tie dye tshirt and dread locks.  He even made me shave my legs!  This was a big deal because I had not shaved my legs in about 4 months, and the hair on my legs was so long that I could feel the breeze blowing through them when I wore shorts jorts.  It sounds gross, but it was an interesting feeling for a girl.  ANYWAY: Gay Husbands intuitively know when to let their fag hags wives look a hot mess (like me, 29 days of the month) and when to put their gay foot down.  

So look at this picture (which I believe is originally from Design Sponge):

I don't know this lady, but she is very pretty and fancy.  But you know what's missing from this picture?  Her Gay Husband.  If she had one, he would have pulled her aside and said: "Gurl, I know it's your wedding day, but your hair is looking fug and you clearly need some help.  But don't you worry, gurl, cuz I am going to take care of you." And then he would have whipped a flat iron out of his murse and fixed that fried thing on top of her head.   

Ok, so if anyone knows this pretty and fancy lady, tell her to get a gay husband before her next wedding. 

Make A Wish

Today is Francois Philippe's 13th birthday.  He's soooo old, but I wish he was older so I could have gotten him his first joint.  (My mom's going to freak when she reads that, by the way. Oh, how I suffer for my art.)  But I'm sure by the time he's 16, that drunkard Bobby Habibi will have already bought him his first pint.  

While writing that last sentence, I ran upstairs to ask Coco and Bobby if "sod" was an endearing term for a drunkard.  "Um ... no."  

Wino? "I mean, yeah, that's affectionate ... if the drunkard in question is homeless."  

Pisshead? "Uh, that's like the opposite of affectionate."  

Alcoholic "Nah ... that's like when you get beat-your-kid drunk."   

We couldn't come up with anything that affectionately refers to someone who drinks a lot.  Then Coco offers, "Well, when I was growing up, I only knew one drunkard and I called her Mom." 

So there's that.  

My oldest chirren is now a teenage boy ... and smells like fucking curry.  I'm serious.  He reeks.  Coco kept telling people to buy him deodorant for his birthday.  Besides the smell, the faux-party with the fam was fun.  Except Francois Philippe totally thought my presents were lame.  I got him The Audacity of Hope and Flowers for Algernon.  And, of course, I wrote a sappy inscription on the title page (Francois Philippe, the times they truly are a-changing and it's an exceptional time to be young and hopeful).  Which he read out loud.  Which was awkward.  And then Coco took a picture of us and I'm all MAGGIE GARCIA'S TRADEMARK HEADTILT + TOOTHY SUPAHMODEL SMILE and Francois Philippe is all YOU FAILED ME, NANNYGARCIA. YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO BE THE ONE WHO GOT ME A REALLY COOL PRESENT, LIKE A BONG, AND THEN YOU HAND ME THIS BAG FROM BORDERS?  WHAT.THE.FUCK??

God, I feel old.  

Showing Off Them Panties

Ok, that title has very little to do with this post, but I am nothing if not salacious, so there ya go. Also, this is a scheduled post, but only because the time on my blogger is all fucked up. So I wrote this forever ago, but when I tried to enter the correct time, it went all crazy and kept yelling at me that they would publish my post when they damn well pleased. Damn you, Blogspot!!! But my fancy friend Vuboq is a big fan of scheduling posts, so that pacified my anger. Now I'm rolling with the scheduling.



The point of all this is ... I recently got off the phone with my friend Georgia, who is a MAJOR.HIPPIE. Seriously, I consider myself to have some hippie tendencies, but this gurl is a true-blue, no-shoe-wearing, dropping-outta-school-to-follow-a-band, using-Jerry-Garcia-as-a-spiritual-advisor (ok, I do this too ... all the time), HIPPIE. And I LOUOUOUVE talking to her, but I had to hang up because I simply couldn't hear her over the racket from the 9 and 10 yr old in the car with her. You might ask why my friend Georgia was travelling at midnight on a Friday with two young chirrens (I sure as hell asked). She and her friend SuzyQ (the mom, another real-life HIPPIE, obviously) were taking the kids on their first crystal-mining experience.

Now, I consider myself a "cool" nanny. And my kids consider me "cool" too (because when they don't I put them in a headlock and tickle them until they fall to the floor in convulsions). But I'm prob not taking The Chirrens Garcia crystal mining anytime soon. I've been doing this hippie schtick for a while now, and I know there are a lot of cool things hippies do in fields at night, but they somehow strike me as less than kid friendly.

Of course, I ain't judging. I don't never judge. And I'm sure that when I have kids that legally belong to me, I'll probably name them all after Grateful Dead songs and take them into fields too. But NannyGarcia just don't play around like that with other folk's chirrens.

In other news, my (allegedly) racist sister just sent me a late night text:

"Remember when I used to make u get me
ice water but wouldn't let u touch the cubes? I made u use a spoon."

I texted back:

"Um, are you fucking kidding me?
Your cruelty haunts my
every
waking moment."

Shoop

Dora is flying into NYC this weekend to stay with Bobbie Jean and, for reasons I'm *not* bitter about, I'm unable to share in this joyous occasion.  But, in honor of two of my dearest friends gathered together in one place (hopefully reading my blog and basically spending the entire weekend discussing how awesome I am and how the sun just doesn't shine as brightly when I'm not there), I'm posting this video: 

And then for reasons that only they will understand, I'm posting this video too:

Okay, so now y'all have to talk about me for at least four minutes.  Good job insinuating yourself into the weekend, Maggie.  

Rat-a-tat-tat

It seems to me that one of the great injustices in life is that we are given just one freshman year in college.  My only comfort is knowing that I lived my freshman year to the fullest.  I'm reminded of this fact every day when I look at my tattoo.  Actually, my tattoo is on my right foot and I don't get down there that much, but I guess I look at it every time I put on socks.  

I spent several nights of my freshman year sitting in my friend Georgia's SUV, parked in our dorm's lot, with her and our boyfriend.  The three of us would be in there for hours, listening to hippie music and tinkering with herbal remedies.  On one of these nights, we were listening to Widespread Panic's song, The Waker (listen to it here), in which a verse goes:

My name is Treetop

And I'm higher than you'll ever be.

I'm married to my roots here

Still I feel like I am free.

We all looked at each other like, "Man, that's fucking deep.  That's like, uh, poetry."  So off to the tattoo parlor where I wrote this in Sharpie and they traced it onto all of our right feet.  Well, Georgia doesn't come around so much anymore, and our boyfriend moved to China w/o telling us (it's a long story), but since it was my handwriting, I like to think I leave my mark on people.  Anyway, my tat has been gradually fading for the last three years until it looked like this last week:

 

But I recently had it restored to its original glory and I LOVE IT all over again.  My foot looks much cleaner too.  

So here's to freshman years ... 

Blegh

I'm sick.  I think I caught something from Little Bill, but I don't have any proof of that  ... yet.  

My mom assures me that I only have a cold, but I always get incredibly paranoid when I'm ill.  Okay, actually, I spend much of my day fretting over my faux-diabetes and all the other diseases ravaging my poor body.  Of course, WebMD doesn't help my hypochondria at all.  So when I knew I had a fever last night, of course I freaked.  It took everything I had to avoid the internet.  I can only imagine what horrible things a fever signifies.  Instead, I just repeatedly called my mom, going "Ughhhhh .... I'm in so much paaaaaaiiiiinnnnnnnn ... are you suuuuuuuuure I'm not dyyyyyyyyinggggg?'  I realize I might sound like a big baby, but I don't care how old you are, when you're sick, you just want your mama.