Promises, Promises

First of all, I beat that GRE like it stolt something. I'm about to start a Pumpkin Book reading marathon with Trixie, Dash, and Little Bill, but I PROMISE PROMISE PROMISE I'm going to write a ton of blogs tonight. I know it's been hard getting through your office job without something else to do on the internet. Here are some pics of my Halloween costume to hold you over. And yes, I'm wearing this all day. And yes, I have on a voice changer that makes me sound like an alien. And yes, my chirrens do think I'm on crack.

Absense

I'm taking the GRE tomorrow so I'm studying cramming.  Hence the lacking of posts.  But if I don't do well, I'm not going to tell anyone (but y'all you). 

Silver Lining

I have recently noticed a lot of fancy important people spouting all sorts of boring $$ talky shit.  I'm not really listening but I recently joined Bossy's Poverty Party because I keep trying to figure out what's going on here (she is also very important, but more attractive than Alan Greenspan, so I feel she's better equipped to explain this to me).  Where did all the money go?  And who exactly is poor these days?  Because I'm still having to run SUVs off the road with my even bigger SUV. 

What I'm trying to say is that while I love poor Americans, I love poor foreign people even more.  To help them out I'm having Trixie and Dash Trick-or-Treat for UNICEF this Friday night.  The idea is simple. Visit their website here and either order a little box (they're free) or you can print out the design and make your own!  This is great if you have kids (for obvious reasons) but it's also great for big kids (like My Gay Husband) who wish they didn't seem so creepy parading around the neighborhood in their Halloween costume.  Now you have an excuse to wear all that stuff you bought at the sex shop!!

Getting in the Halloween Spirit

Growing up in the Bible Belt, I didn't get to celebrate Halloween very much because my mom thought it was of the dark lord.  Instead we had to go to lame ass Fall Festivals at our church.  And while we were always country and poor, my friends and I always had plenty of spunk.  One year we all got into our parents' old college wardrobes and went as hippies (foreshadowing, huh?  Too bad we hadn't found our moms' wacky tobbacky stashes yet).  Another year we were all celebrities.  But we, of course, were not normal 3rd graders so I was Elizabeth Taylor, Dora was Alanis Morrisette and Bobbie Jean was Annie Oakley.  I guess this was also a little bit of foreshadowing as I am now pretty much a lardy hermit who sits around in ridiculous get ups and thinks she's fabulous and Bobbie Jean carries a (stun) gun around in her purse at all times.  

So yeah, now that I'm out of God's territory, I can finally do Halloween the right way.  I recently attended a MomGathering at which three neighbor moms and I planned a Halloween party for our massive brood of chirrens, ages 2 to 6. My kids are obviously the bad asses of the bunch so I kept throwing out great ideas (peeled grapes as eyeballs, cold spaghetti as worms) that the wussier moms kept shooting down. What the hell is a Halloween party if not even one kids shits their pants???

Anyway, two of the moms I like a lot. However, one of the Stepford-Wannabes in our neighborhood kept going on about her FABULOUS house parties and trying to make us feel inadequately informed about paper plates and flatware. Fortunately, T-Money, my tough mom friend, back handed her and got everything on track again.

I want to be an alien for Halloween, but my costume is shaping up more like a hooker on acid.  I guess that's okay too, it just somehow seems less kid-friendly.  I'm also really proud of the new Halloween tats I got.  Pictured below.  I'm such a gangstah nanny.  Love it.  

Another Day, Another Chance to Get It Right

Today is the first day of the rest of my life.  I know I say that every year month week day, but THIS TIME I'm really really going to do it.  

I want to gush about my new life plans (which currently include a move to Colorado + a medical marijuana license) to My Gay Husband but we are in a fight (which he doesn't know about yet).  So instead I'm text-gushing to My Older Man Friend.  He's not responding probably because he was asleep 5 hours ago (right after he had his Metamucil and Werther's Original).  I've never been able to truly explain the subtle nuances of our relationship.  My Older Man Friend is no gay husband, but he's pretty much as close as a vag-loving man can get (meaning he's old - and married - enough that he's asexual).  There are a lot of other reasons I love My Older Man Friend.  Like because he carries a gun.  And sometimes wears all denim.   And likes putting out my cigarettes because he knows a cool way to do it.  And loves talking about Project Runway and his fat ass and how nobody gets us because they're not as fabulous and/or funny as we are. I guess he's like an older brother except he was a high school accident and I'm more of a later-in-life accident (sheesh - you would think our hypothetical mother would have gotten the hang of birth control after TWENTY years). 

But I really don't have any use for either of these penis-having fools on this, THE FIRST DAY OF THE REST OF MY LIFE, because they are fucking downers.  Some people might appreciate brutal honesty, but frankly, I have never been able to figure out what's so appealing about regular honestly, much less the brutal kind.  I much prefer my friends to just politely nod and go along with my hairbrained schemes / diets / new life plans.  I mean, standing idly by while I flounder around is the least you can do.  Save that advice and mail it off to Oprah because I'm not having none of that shiz.    

... Annnnnd I'm back!!

... but not really.  I'm about to pick up Dash from the bus stop and then we're going to have Krazy fun all day because I haven't gotten to play with les bebes all week!  But THEN I'll really be back, so be on the look out for some late night posts (as if anyone would substitute my blog for late night booty calls) including (but not limited to) the following topics: Goldie & Chet, My Older Man Friend, Dash's Bus Stop, my new favorite Catherinette, plus an update of all the dirty things I've been doing this week.  

Adios, amigos.  

I'm Half the Man I Used to Be ...

To all six of my friends who read this:

I'm not dead or anything.  I just can't post until Wednesday or Thursday because I'm working 11 hours a day, supervising (and by supervise, I mean make out with) the hired help (and by help, I mean hot immigrants w/o shirts) who are changing Coco's house into a Winter Wonderland (and by Winter Wonderland, I mean Fucking Nightmare with Jingle Balls).  It's incredibly tiring and overwhelming. So I'll be back in a few!!  

Saturday Is For ...

I'm starting the day (at 2pm) out right today with Clean Underwears.  This is really exciting for me.  I hate having to fashion loinclothes out of my bed sheets to avoid doing laundry.  Sometimes you just have to bite the bullet and crank up the washing board.  Just kidding.  I wish we still used one of those wash boards and buckets like on The Little Mermaid (remember, her little crab friend gets wrung through it).  That would be so funny.  Well, I guess it would be so funny the first time I did five kids' worth of laundry with it.  But probably by the second time I'd be over it and it would just make me hate my life. 

I'm starting my day at 2pm because I went out with The Skydiver last night, which means I come home at 7am and then go to sleep in my own bed that doesn't include anyone snoring besides Independence Hall, our cat.  Here's her cutie picture:

Unfortunately, les bebes were already up and raring to go by the time I dragged my stinky self through the door (I did not have on clean underwears at this point in the night/morning).  So even though all the chirrens were with Coco and Bobby Habibi and I barricaded myself down in my lair, I couldn't get to sleep for the thundering and hollering going on above me.  I kept stuffing inappropriate shit into my ears, putting pillows over my head - nothing worked.  Seriously, I wasn't just listening to this stuff; it shook me to my very soul (or the hollow place inside where one would typically be).  So I trudged back upstairs to find Justin and Dash hard at work at karate kicks and Chinese fighty shiz  I don't really remember what I said, but the combination of my words, my bloodshot eyes, and my dragon breath must have made some sort of impression because no more indoor thunder.  Hence waking up at 2pm. 

I'm about to head to the gym (gross) with my clean underwears on.  I worked with my trainer Thursday and she recommended I do ab exercises every time I go to the gym.  I just looked at her with glazed (like the donut) eyes and nodded.  "Yeah fucking right."  Just walking into the gym is really work out enough for me, thank you very much.  

My other tasks for the day include cleaning my room, losing 60 pounds, picking up the pieces of my broken life, and sending a southern-fried gift basket down South to Bobbie Jean's mother.  Miss Shirlene is one of the County Supervisors of our world-famous Hog Wild barbecue festival (resplendent with all the toothless grins and muletted children you could ever want) and while sampling a particularly spicy pork sandwich, Miss Shirlene was overcome and down she went, breaking both elbows in the process.  She's fine; she's mostly upset that she can't roll her hair so she's had her two sisters coming over to take turns fixing her bouffant for her.  

This is what Saturday is for.  

Mavis the Mannequin

Coco got a big fancy mannequin in the mail a few weeks ago.  It's a long story as to why she received this package, but just go with me here.  As you might expect, after the package arrived, we just pushed to the side somewhere and pretended it wasn't there, covered it with dirty clothes and schoolbooks and promptly forgot it. 

Well, tonight the mannequin came out.  Not only is her face strikingly gorgeous, her legs are ungodly long, her ribs are poking out *just enough* and she's got $30 boobs.  When Coco was shopping around for a mannequin, she realized this particular model was $30 more because she has glorious tits.  Of course, Coco opted for perfect-tit girl making her a big plastic inferiority complex on a stick.  (Actually, I only suffer from superiority complexes.  I have ridiculously high self-esteem no matter what I look like -- I always think it's other people who have the problem.)  

Here's a picture of Mavis' (I had to give her an ugly name at least) freakishly human face:

Assembling the skank took way longer than it should have.  It seems like, as humans, Coco and I should have been able to just look at these 8 plastic body parts and easily piece them together. But not so, my friends.  We finally solved the mystery of her hands by looking at her thumbs (e.g. your left hand has the thumb on its right side).  Prior to our Sherlocking, we

 kept asking ourselves why they sent us a mannequin that was cupping its perfect $30 breasts.  

We get the mannequin all set up and nudie (except her wig, courtesy of NannyGarcia) and Coco has A FABULOUS IDEA.  We face Mavis towards the garage door so when Francois Philippe, Justin, and Dustin come in from football they will react hilariously.  I'm not sure if we were expecting them to shriek with fear or fall at Mavis' perfectly arched feet and worship.  

It was a good idea.  But Coco was crouching behind the garbage can as conspicuously as possible (imagine her head + camera on top of the big green dumpster) so the boys (who I guess are pretty much acclimated to their whacky mother household) basically said:

 "Nice tits.  What's for dinner?"  

Get That Shiz Posted, STAT!

I have to post this video immediately because it is just too funny!!  Dora sent it to me, which makes it even funnier because this is exactly how she conducts herself at Crabtree & Evelyn.  Actually, we're both kinda of like this so when we're together, it's like MEGA OVERLOAD on the acrylic nails and attitude.  You can imagine. 

Too Funny!!!

Potty Humor

I must have done something right in a past life because Little Bill's mom, T-Money, just took both of les bebes over to her house for an all-afternoon playdate!!!!  This leaves me FREE until the big bois get home at 4pm.  Well, I say free in a mom-relative sense.  I still have to vacuum, wash dishes, clean the kitchen, go to the grocery store and tackle laundry ... but now at least I can do all that with my iPod on.  Plus I can spend any extra time brushing my hair and teeth and putting on real clothes. Well, actually, I'll probably keep my gym shorts and tee shirt on, but I'm definitely putting on a bra!!!

I need all this extra time to adjust to my life in the suburbs because in my natural state I am either a country bumpkin or a burned out hippie (it depends on the weather).  The other day, Dusty wasn't ready for football practice in time so I told him to just grab his pants and he could change in the parking.  But his suburban ass wasn't having none of that.  So I'm all, "What?  You're too good to change clothes in a parking lot?  I peed in a parking lot just last night!"  Dusty was horrified, but allow me to explain myself.

It was Sunday night, almost midnight, and it was a metro Park-and-Ride lot.  So nobody was even around, plus I'd been on the Metro for an hour and you know those homeless-phobic stations don't have any facilities.  I didn't think it was a big deal to pop a squat, but My Gay Husband was outraged.  He kept insisting that it was illegal but I don't believe that.  How can it be illegal to urinate outdoors?  It's not like I went into somebody's house. My Gay Husband just doesn't make sense to me sometimes.  People are supposed to urinate outside.  Toilets are the weird thing here.  

In other potty-related news, Dash asked me what a bark was.  I explained that dogs talk with barks and then spent several minutes barking in different octaves.  "No, not that," he said.  "One that sounds like [insert farting noise] and it's like making a bubble with your [points to ass]."  

Fun. 

The Circus, Revisited

As you may have heard, I took all five kids to the Circus on Monday and it was surprisingly enjoyable, as far as my children were concerned. No one was bored, no one tried to escape, no one attacked their sibling with a broken beer bottle.

And believe me, I know bad days with kids. When I was still new on the scene, Bobby Habibi was out drilling oil somewhere and Coco had run off to Vegas with her friend Juanita from Spain (not making this up). Then Justin went missing and Dustin punched a hole in his bedroom wall and while I was making pizza, Trixie spilled scorching hot pizza cheese on her leg (still not making this up). While everyone was screaming and/or crying all I could do was run downstairs and curl up in the fetal position on my bathroom floor (really and truly not making this up). But then everyone went to bed and I drank beer and watched Welcome Home, Roscoe Jenkins with Francois Philippe and Mo'Nique + alcohol cheered me up (and please click on that link - even just the intro to her site is so great).

As the Great Bard would say, all's well that ends with Mo'Nique.

Fatty, Fatty, Boom-Ba-Latty

Today I am starting a diet.  

I say this pretty much every other day.  But I'm really going to do it this time, y'all.  I can feel it in my bones big fat thighs.  Coco is doing it with me, which is great because I predict that in just a few months, we're going to be so distracted by our supermodel bodies and hot new Latin lovers that we're not even going to notice the five children screaming around us (I hope our Latin lovers bring earplugs).  

In other news, I just got off the phone with my best friend Dora.  We were talking about some random guy and she says, "Oh yeah, I thought he was a rando."  "Rando?"  and then she says:

"Yeah, rando.  Like, random.  I like abbreve-ing because it saves so much time when I talk.  Except for all that time I sometimes spend explaining my abbreves.  But it usue (usually) averages out. "  Of course, I have reason to believe she was a little distracted at the moment (read: high as a fucking kite).  Dora also told me that at Crabtree and Evelyn (at which Dora is the Chief Bow Maker) they have an official form they have to fill out to report any celebrity sightings in the store.  Do that many celebs go into Crabtree and Evelyn?  If so, for what?  News Flash: If you're a celeb, you really shouldn't be getting your mother saran-wrapped lotion gift sets for her birthday.  

Tactical Defense for Childcare

I have been pressuring My Gay Husband for years to marry me (in a legal sense; we're already married emotionally) so we could then team up and be famous anthropologists. And since I clearly think we're two of the most brilliant people on earth, I also think he should drunkenly impregnate me so we could raise a whole slew of brilliant anthropologists. We'd be like Margaret Mead and her special friend (read: lesbian lover) Ruth Benedict, only more fabulous, attractive, and funnier.

But My Gay Husband objects to basically all of that. He doesn't want to be a famous anthropologist because he doesn't want to be poor for the majority of his life. He refuses to raise children with me because I'm a vehement supporter of spanking children, a practice he finds "barbaric and trashy." This is usually when I draw penises all over his car windows with white shoe polish and then leave a note on my fancy stationery that reads "Who's barbaric and trashy now, biatch??" And then he replies: "Still you, Maggie. Still you."

When Bobby Habibi and I were in the preliminary talks of nanny-hiring, I mentioned that part of my childcare doctrine is that I don't spank other people's kids. Bobby replied, "Oh, of course not. We never hit our children." I didn't know what to say. In my head, I was saying "Uhhhh ... Maybe you misunderstood. I entirely expect you to spank your children, I just won't do your dirty work for ya!" As a side note, even if Bobby Habibi and Coco were to flee the country and will all their children to me, Dusty would be the only one I would even need to bend over my knee because the other four are absolute-cutie-pie-angel-darlings (I will pause here for a moment for you to experience your own disbelief/jealousy).

So NannyGarcia does not spank. She also does not yell because it desensitizes children to loud voices. So when you really need to yell (for example, when they're about to walk in front of a bus or spill kool-aid on Coco's white carpet), it means something and they pay attention.

Since I refrain from these two staples of childcare discipline, I have developed my own form of discipline, based entirely on shock-and-awe. My kids often have to eat fruit before they get to eat nasty junk food (that I love with all my heart and soul) and one time Trixie threw her banana in the garbage while I was in the next room with Dash. But my super strength Nanny-Hearing detected this and I went into the kitchen, fished out said banana, and gave it back to Trixie. I didn't actually make her eat it, but I made her think I was going to make her eat it. Or if the kids have a toy in the backseat of NannyMobile and they fight over it or hit each other with it, I grab it and throw it out of the window. This not only shocks my children, but also the people driving near me. Flying legos aren't terribly common around here.

Poverty Party

Maybe you've noticed the recent addition of Bossy's Poverty Party badge.  You can click on the badge (or her site here) to read about what she's doing, but since I've got the badge, I want to say just a few words about the economy.  

Let me preface all this boring $$ talky shit with this brief and somewhat irrelevant anecdote.  In my Senior Anthropology Seminar, we all had to write a thesis, reviewing the anthropological research in a certain field.  I chose childbirth because I love all things vaginal.  One girl in this class was a professional mute. When we read each other's theses, Chocolate and I were very surprised to read the mute's Krazy and poorly-written diatribe about how America deserved Sept. 11 and how we were all going to hell because we called someone "primitive" one time.  Soo... I won't be writing a Krazy diatribe because I still want to be friends with you after you read this.  However, I will say that perhaps the Western world will learn valuable lessons from this economic situation (I refuse to use the word crisis)

N-E-Wayz....

As a nanny, my area of expertise is the chirrens, so here is my big piece of advice: CHILDREN ARE SUPPOSED TO BE POOR.  That's what childhood is all about: poverty.  Growing up, Dora and I LOVED being poor.  We would delicately cut our Cheetos in half, sharing and savoring each morsel.  We didn't have extra room in our house for sleepovers, so those took place in the bathroom (ok, I'll admit it; we had the room, Dora and I just loved sleeping in the bathtub).  

One of our favorite games was "Ghost Dog."  This involved luring over the neighborhood dog (that's how poor we were; the whole neighborhood had to share a dog), a golden retriever named Rusty, and then getting him to lay down.  We would then cover the poor beast in dirt and throw a tennis ball far into the horizon.  When Rusty sprang up and chased after the tennis ball, the dirt would fly, leaving a ghostly trail behind him.  

Bobby Habibi & Coco bought Justin and Dustin a Wii for their birthday.  It's been played with approximately five times ... by me.  But on Friday les bebes and I spent all afternoon playing with a fucking $3 bungee cord.  I know y'all want to give your kids everything.  But in the absence of toys, imaginations develop unfettered.  This morning I was trying to bribe Trixie with a dollar to make Dash's bed.  She said: "I don't need a dollar! What do I need a dollar for?"

Oh, from the mouths of babes. 

Columbus Day

Maybe you've heard that Monday is Columbus Day.  In honor of this Italian tard, all the schools in our suburban district will be closing.  Now, I'm from the country and we didn't get out of school for anything except Robert E. Lee Day (which is what Martin Luther King Day is called in Mississippi) and Opening Day of Deer Season.  

I think this school cancellation is fucking stupid for two reasons.  

1. Christopher Columbus is a big racist douchebag. 

2. I'm going to have all four of my kids all day long!!  What am I supposed to do with all of them??  

My original plan was to go to the Wal-Mart and let them run wild and call a CODE ADAM every fifteen minutes and let the employees chase them around.  But then I felt bad because the Wal-Mart employees are already disgustingly exploited by The Man without The Chirrens Garcia giving them extra heartache.  

So my new plan is The Circus and I am beyond excited.  I have only been to The Circus once before.  I was a freshman in college and I ate several hits of acid before I went so I spent my entire time under the Big Top convinced I was an Indian Warrior (Indian as in Columbus' Indian) on a spiritual quest.  The elephants added a really great touch to this hallucination.

I'm planning on skipping the LSD this time around, but I'm sure having all four of the kids will land me in the fetal positional anyway.  

Affliction

I cut short my morning luxuriating to google "tongue infections," "kid nasty tongue," "fucked up nasty shit on kid tongue," because my Sugah Britches, Dash, has a janked up tongue.  Seriously, it looks like Dash accidentally picked up a prop tongue from the Thriller set.  Little Bill's mom, T-Money, checked it out yesterday and said it looked like canker sores caused by too much citrus. This makes sense as Dash consumes only a few foods: strawberries, apple juice, and Mexican food.  

But this is the worst thing that could possibly afflict Dash because his #1 favorite 

hobby is eating.  He looked absolutely devastated when I told him he had to lay off the strawberries and apple juice for a little while.  I really have to fix this.  The whole world goes dark when Sugah Britches cries.  I've already contacted my personal favorite actress-turned-activist, Susan Sarandon.  If anyone can heal Dash's tongue, it's her.  So answer my phone calls, Susan!!!!

 

I'm a Lady, Ya Greazy Bastard!

Today I would like to pay homage to Biggie Shorty from the movie Pootie Tang.  This movie blessed us not only with quotes like "Sa da tay," "Kapa chow," and "Cole me on the panny sty," but also with the great theatrical heroine Biggie Shorty, played by Wanda Sykes.  

Check out her best scene below.




This line pretty much sums up both me AND Biggie Shorty:

"Just cuz a girl like to dress fancy and stand on the street corner near some whores, you automatically think she's hooking?  I'm a lady, ya greazy bastard!"

Punkins

Yesterday, Trixie, Dash, and I went to the grocery store and bought three little white pumpkins.  Today, Little Bill came over after school to eat lunch.  I was trying to get him out of here before they all spotted the pumpkins, but no luck.  Little Bill watched my kids grab their pumpkins and asked me in his Little Bill voice: "Do I get a pumpkin too, NannyGarcia?"   "Ugh, yes," I answered.  I was super disappointed though because I had been mentally designing my pumpkin all morning!!  I hate being self-sacrificing.  Since we're working with paint pens that stain (aka kill), I made all the kids take their shirts off.  So now I'm just sitting here, glaring at Little Bill working on my pumpkin and hoping nobody walks in here so I don't have to explain these three naked pumpkin painters.  

Big Mac

I just got a MacBook!  The MacBook pictured above is gold-plated (clearly, it belongs to Coco and not me).  I've had my old laptop for about 4 years and it was in a sad state.  The metal piece of the charger was broken in half, with part of it permanently stuck in my laptop.  I had to delicately place the other half of the charger on it, sparks flying all the while, and then support it with a nasty crumpled tissue (my computer could sense if it was a fresh tissue and then wouldn't play along).  This was okay, except sometimes the sparks would catch the tissue and start blazing (and not blazing in a good way).  

I still couldn't justify getting a new laptop while my old one still worked.  So I finally just left it in the driveway and let Bobby Habibi run over it and then I ran outside screaming "What did you do??" with Visine tears streaming down my face.  

So today I would like to share a moment of silence in respect for my jank old laptop.  May god have mercy on its poor porn-ravaged soul.  

Mean Girls - PreK Version

Today I dra(u)gged myself out of bed at 7:19am!!  As I've posted before, I like to wake up about 7 every morning, then lounge in bed for about 3 hours.  Waking up early doesn't feel good to me. It makes my faux-diabetes act up. 

But since I was up already, I took Trixie and her friend Little Bill (if you've ever seen that show, this kid has the EXACT same voice!!) to preschool.  Trixie's been coming home from school complaining that nobody is nice to her, so I wanted to check out these bitches myself.  I decided to pop into her classroom and I immediately spotted the tricks.  About six of them were all camped over at one table, dressed alike and giggling about something stupid.  Anyway, long story short (meaning I'm cutting out all the parts where I kick a bunch of 4-year old asses), we decided Trixie was way too good for that table and parked her with the kid with Transition lenses (those indoor sunglasses) and the Japanese girl.  I'm pretty happy with our decision because you could just tell he had already made peace with his Transition lenses so I'm guessing he's really funny and cool. 

When Trixie came home today, she pumped her fists and shouted "I love, love, love Transition Lens Kid!!!!"  Mission accomplished, Nanny Garcia. Now I've got to go make my "angry eyebrows" at les bebes for coloring on the floor with markers.  

Regard Your Good Name

Fifi is making me change her name on my blog to Coco Roshambo.  In case you don't know, Roshambo is a French phonetic spelling of Rock-Paper-Scissors.  It also refers to the act of kicking a man in the junk.  Coco adds that she would only do this as a last resort.  We got Trixie to say it a few times in her baby voice, which was cute, but we really want her to punch one of her brother's in the crotch and then say it without being coaxed to do so.  (Only as a last resort, of course.)  But kids don't ever pick up on your subtle suggestions.  Trixie loves to run around or jump off stuff while heralding herself as "Super Girl!!!" so I keep trying to get her to call herself "Tawanda" when she's in that mode, but the next day she's always back to that lame Super Girl routine. 

Fifi (or Coco, I should say) was SO serious about this so I guess I have to do. I'm scared of her (which is saying something).  But this at least gives me something to do while I'm waiting for My Gay Husband to call me and dish about this text he just sent me: "Had the best sex of my life lst nite. 4 times over. He wants me 2 sport a blk calv klein thong he just gave me. details 2nite."  

Sounds promising!!

Bobbie Jean Does Broadway

My childhood friend Bobbie Jean moved to Manhattan after graduation and I recently visited her for a long weekend. Hilarity ensued.

Bobbie Jean lives in a swank Greenwich Village apartment complex, complete with a linguistically indecipherable and racially ambiguous doorman. "He looks like he should be black," she kept insisting. This confused me. I explain to her that there are several types of dark skin each with its unique undertones: black from Africa, olive from Europe, brown from the Middle East, and yellow from Asia. This is, of course, TOTAL bullshit I made up on the fly, but I think she buys it. It doesn't really matter what nationality he is because he adores Bobbie Jean. All the doormen adore Bobbie Jean. Actually, pretty much everyone in Manhattan adores her.

There are plenty of reasons to adore Bobbie Jean. First of all, her hair. Homegirl's hair is huge to begin with, but she still sets it in hot rollers before she goes out, giving her perhaps the most endearingly Southern hair in all of New York.

I would love to recount wild tales of taking NYC by storm, but our most exciting venture was probably scouring Brooklyn for Velveeta Cheese (we didn't find any - it's apparently been banned throughout NYC). We spent most of our time in her apartment, which was fine with me because Bobbie Jean told me stories about her mother. Let me preface this by saying Bobbie Jean's family is another great part of her story. Bobbie Jean is the opposite of country. Her family, however ... And there are so many of them!!! Bobbie Jean has about 20 cousins living within the same county, about half of them barefoot and pregnant.

Anyway, Bobbie Jean's mom, Miss Shirlene, is one of the most blatantly racist people I know. She doesn't exactly say stuff with hatred, it's like she's just repeating in public what she's heard everyone else in Mississippi say behind closed doors. If possible, it's endearingly horrifying. For example, she hosted a yard sale at her house and warned Bobbie Jean that, if met will hagglers, "don't let them Jew you down." What does that mean? Is Jew a verb now?? Once, as her family enjoyed a Sunday lunch, Miss Shirlene announced to the table, "Well, in just walked a bunch of ni**ers." She didn't say it with disgust, more just making a benign observation.

After regaling me with stories of her mother, Bobbie Jean and I did what we're best at: sit on an air mattress in front of the TV and order in Chinese. Before this, though, we hit up the local Blockbuster and grabbed our favorite movies. Everything was going great until the guy rang us up, then announced to the entire store: "Okay ladies, Fried Green Tomatoes and Waiting to Exhale are due back next week." The subtext of this announcement was "Would you like a tub of ice cream to go with the estrogen fest you just rented? Because one of y'all clearly just got broke up with."

I could go on for dayz with Bobbie Jean stories (Bobbie Jean accosts Jewel at Restaurant, Bobbie Jean Snatches Weave Off Lady in Central Park, etc), but I have some nannying to get back to.

Peace, y'all.

Some Nannies Ain't Right in the Head

After a GLORIOUS Saturday, I'm spending my Sunday like any good nanny: eating ice cream and watching The Hand That Rocks the Cradle on the Lifetime Network. I've seen this movie about a million times but I just realized that the opening scene is Krazy-Racist. This stupid white family goes all Nutz because a black man is in their back yard. Mom drops a coffee pot full of orange juice and then the dad (played by 90s hottie Matt McCoy *) rushes out, guns blazing. Of course, they soon find out he's just a harmless tard there to build a fence. In addition to mega beard hottie, this movie also features the original Suri Cruise, Madeline Zima.

But the best part is that this movie is fucked up on not just one, but so many different levels. Repeat showing later tonight on Lifetime. Check it out.

*As a side note, my favorite Matt McCoy movie is definitely Rent A Kid. Check it out.

La Henna

**A lot of my friends have said they couldn't follow this post so I won't be horrified if you skip over it.

My friend La Henna is Nutz. She's from the North (bless her heart) and she's pretty much the strangest/most fabulous person I've ever met. She is homeless as well as autodidactic (the latter means she can teach herself anything like a character on Heroes). Well, she used to be homeless and then she worked at McDonalds, got a chin job, and got some old man to pay for her to go to college. Fortunately, she ended up down the hall from my dorm room.

So she just sent me a 2am email and I would like to share an excerpt with you. It's crazily written, but rewarding. If you can follow this shiz, then you should definitely stick around. It only gets better from here:

i went to the state fair today and watched people tapdance with kathryn.
the state fair in mississippi was very different from the fairs in the north
because it has this one kind of exhibit that we dont, which is the oddity
exhibits. we went into one that had loudspeaks announcing that a woman's body
had been hideously transformed into that of a snake. i really liked the sign and
the speakers especially. then these 2 ladies came out and were likE OMG I SAW
THE HEAD BUT I DONT UNDERSTAND HOW THIS HAPPENED TO HER. and i was like whut did it look like tell me i do not have a dollar!!!~!! and she was like I DONT KNOW and i was like did it talk? and she was like YEAH BUT I LOOKED UNDER THE TABLE AND I COULD SEE HER BODY REALLY IS A SNAKE. HOW DID THIS HAPPEN? and i was like holy fuck kathryn find me a dollar and then the crazy lady gave me a dollar. so i went in and there was a snake wrapped around and in the middle a womans head, and i said hello are you a snake? and she did not answer. and i said oh. well...how are you? and she was like good. and then everyone was like HOW IS THIS POSSIBLE so anyway the story ends with me running out screaming ITS MIRRORS ITS MIRRORS.

UPDATE:

I know y'all (and by y'all I mean all six of ya) were as upset as I was over My Gay Husband 's telecommunicative drought (see post below). I HAVE GOOD NEWZ!! My Gay Husband got a new phone!! Perfect timing too as I was already sending out mass texts to boys whose names I spell T-R-O-U-B-L-E. It was also just in time for him to relate to me the following story:

My Gay Husband's favorite thing to do is hit it and quit it, to divide (the butt cheeks) and conquer. However, he has recently been struck by what the Jonas Brothers call "the luv bug." This penis pursuit has got him head over heels, acting a damn fool. All of his typical tactics have failed him and, confidence shattered, he has been left a mere shell of his smug self. On this particular evening, he left campus with the honest intentions of returning home. Long story short, he FOLLOWS this guy he likes in his car. Follows ... as in STALKS.

I should add that while My Gay Husband was telling me this story, he was soaking luxuriously in a freshly drawn bath, lights dimmed, tub alit by scented candles ... because that's just how MGH rolls on a Friday night.

So this is why I love My Gay Husband, as well my friends Dora, Chocolate, and Bobbie Jean. It's not simply because they are as crazy and pathetic as I am. Everyone is crazy and pathetic. Everybody has weird shit going on their lives. I love these people because they are willing to admit it, to laugh about it, to blog about it, and to embrace it as ironicly divine&pitiful human nature.

Such is life, y'all.

Coping

I continually battle to keep my chin up, look on the bright side, stay away from the Valium, all that jazz. But this week has been particularly hard because My Gay Husband, who still lives in Mississippi, dropped his phone in a toilet. Thus, I have had to live without our daily 4 hours of chat time (the worst part is I am not exaggerating by very much).

This is just awful as My Gay Husband functions primarily to reel in the Krazy. Without him, my Krazy starts peaking out all over the place. The last time my Krazy got the best of me I ended up dating the Moroccan guy who plays Aladdin at Disney World.

But the upside of all this is that we will have so much to talk about when he gets a new phone. Usually our phone calls revolve around things what we've most recently eaten, bought, or slept with. But since we are both so obsessive, we end up talking about the same biscuit, blouse, and boy over and over again (don't act like you don't love biscuits and blouses too!).

So if you see My Gay Husband, let him borrow your phone for a few hours, will ya? I can't come home with anymore boyfriends or else Coco is going to have to get me another closet.

For Whom the Bell Tolls

I wake up at about 7am every morning. I physically get out of bed at about 10am every morning. In between I drift in and out of sleep and fight an incessant war with my alarm clock who makes unrealistic expectations of me. Rather than allowing me to awaken at my leisure, my alarm clocks goes off at 5-minute intervals for 25 minutes. After that, it makes no more suggestions, thrusting a neon-lettered "Wake Up Call" in your face. This last buzzer is immune to the snooze button and can only be turned off after the sleeper gets up, does a few jumping jacks, and recites the alphabet backwards.

Waking up should be a 3-hour process though. That hazy space between asleep and awake is where I do my best work. I sleepily bat around ideas that of course seem high-larious at the time. Awake, they seem more like something my best friend Dora would come up on her lunch hour at Crabtree & Evelyn. This morning I kept laughing to myself about how much everyone was going to love reading about my new snooze button, which a piece of construction paper would relabel the "shut the fuck up" button. Fortunately, my alarm gave me a "Wake Up Call" before I posted that shit.

Childish Profiles

In addition to being a disciple of Coco Roshambo, I am also a nanny for her five children. I am not exactly a typical nanny, but this is not a typical family and these certainly are not typical children. Below are profiles of "All my Children" (does that count as a pun? If so, pun intended):

At the insistence of Coco, her eldest son, Francois Philippe, has no nicknames. He has been trained to respond only to his full title. At thirteen years old, Francois Philippe recently sprouted several extra appendages including a cell phone (growing out of his ever-texting thumbs), some sort of game system (in case there's ever a slightly under-stimulating moment in his over-stimulated world), and a book of French he keeps in his sagging back pocket. He often refers to this last item to look up phrases to impress "the ladies." Francois Philippe is my #1 thug-4-life because we both think I'm incredibly cool and love Lil' Wayne. As luck would have it, Francois Philippe's best friend is also named Francois Philippe, but fortunately, people just call him Frank.

Just 6 months after Francois Philippe was born, along came a set of twins, Justin and Dustin (it doesn't make sense to me either). Justin is the good twin and I guess you know what that makes Dustin. Justin, or as I call him, J-Baby, is a gifted pianist and terribly funny. I say terribly because he specializes in puns and knock-knock jokes. His teachers might disagree, but I am convinced he is some sort of genius. He really gets my lectures. Sometimes I talk about weird stuff I learned in Uncle Ted's philosophy classes and Justin jumps right in with his own theories. It's great. Dusty, on the other hand, is slightly more difficult. He refuses to practice the piano, terrorizes his siblings, punches holes in the walls, and worst of all ... sasses me!! I mostly ignore Dusty and try to convince Justin he thinks I'm as cool as Francois Philippe does.

Dash, six, is the sweetheart and athlete of the family. His favorite place in the world is the dentist's office. He keeps trying to have his birthday party there. His favorite hobbies include EATING, smiling, laughing, playing baseball, signing autographs, and grinning. He's so charming he even melts my old bitter heart and I can never bring myself to put him in time out so he gets away with pretty much anything. Which is fine because he lets me call him Sugah Britches. He also loves food, but not food in general, just the following: meat (any kind), strawberries, blue berries, french fries, and taquitos.

Dash and Trixie are often referred to as les bebes ("the babies," for you hopeless Americans). Despite being the youngest, Trixie is by the far the toughest person in the household. She eats nails for breakfast and last week I had to pull her off a ten year old boy who took her swing at the park. She is a miniature Coco. She will stop women in the mall to compliment their shoes and often scolds me for not matching my purse to my top. She changes clothes about four times a day, each outfit a little more sparkly than the last.

So this is your formal introduction to my glorious chirren. Consider yourself warned.