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.  

Have You Heard The News??

As many of you may have heard, there's this hip cat named O.Ba.Ma who was trying to do a little thing called become President of the United States.  Fab-o-lous, right?  Except he's black.  Oh yeah, and a little bitty libby.  And our country is still racist.  So, in case you didn't know, this was a BIG. FUCKING. DEAL.  And despite a couple of whatever the opposite of a silver lining is, yesterday was a joyous occasion.  

I have been talking with Dash and Trixie about the election for several weeks and they entirely get it.  Dash has been rooting for The Blue Team ever since Kids Picked the Prez.  Trixie pointed out Obama on the cover of a black power mag in the grocery store (it wasn't Ebony - I got a subscription to that shiz).   And then they got all excited about voting yesterday while Coco and I made last-ditch efforts to smoke the Republican out of Bobby Habibi (...aaaand I'm going to get an email denying this in 3, 2, 1...).  

Since they were out of school for Election Day (which is redonkulous), I took les bebes up to the polls to check it out for themselves.  Luckily for us, the nerdy teenager working the door was charmed by my 3-day dirty nanny jorts and gave us a tour of the entire voting station, complete with I VOTED stickers.  I also picked up a sample Democratic ballot for a kiddy keepsake.  When we got the car, I immediately started lecturing about the historical significance of this election, saying things like, "When you're older, you can look back at this important election and know that you were part of it," while choking back tears at a) how cute my chirrens are, b) how awesome Obama is, and c) what a great nanny I am (duh - you didn't see that coming?).  I valiantly brushed my tears away and turned around to help with a seatbelt and presumably gaze into hopeful, patriotic eyes ........ and Trixie was chewing up her "I Voted" sticker.  And then Dash goes, "So ... we were really good in that place.  You think we could go to Target?"

When all the major news networks agreed that Obama had won, I was lolling about in my bed.  But I GOT UP OUT OF MY BED and literally jumped while thrusting my fists in the air.  And I immediately missed my friend Chocolate.  She's in Albania, but we had made plans (or so I thought we had) to stay connected via the webz.  It was only logical, as Chocolate and I spent much of our college career single-handedly double-fistedly solving racial injustice.  Well, Chocolate did more of the actual programs and stuff while I just got really red-faced and yelled at everyone who didn't agree with us.  Anyway, Chocolate was too busy being coquettish with a guy named Black Moses over in Eastern Europe, so I didn't get to talk to her until this morning. 

But of course I wanted to share this moment with someone, so I called my mother, Mama Garcia, because she's pretty sweet and I knew she and my kook of a father would be watching.  So while I'm jumping around, my female parental figure goes, "Well, you know, JFK was the first Catholic president and that's not really a big deal anymore."  WHAT. THE. FUCK?  This is my first cognizant historical event and my own mother is belittling it.  I get it.  She's a little bit the opposite of young, so she has already seen a bunch of crazy shit.  But I've spent my entire life in Mississippi and I'm still a little baby so this is HUGE to me.  But when I related my discontent, she totally played along, which made me feel better.  And then I called My Gay Husband, and he was crying, which made me feel a lot better (it's all about the hype with me).  

And then this news reporter thought it would be funny to narc some folks out.  That's very bad weed karma, dude.  Remember that next time you're toking in your dorm room and the RA comes a'knocking. You brought this on yourself.  

I've got a lot more to say about this election, so I'm officially back to the blogosphere.  But in other really exciting news, Amy Winehouse's hubby Blake is out of the Pokey.  This is basically the posthumous reunion of Romeo and Juliet.