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.
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.
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!!!
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.
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.
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.
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**
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".
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
... 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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?
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".
... 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).
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.
I have a degree in cultural anthropology and I'm currently employed as a live-in nanny for five crazy/beautiful children in the DC suburbs. Actually, I'm more of a glorified sidekick for the fabulous French woman I work for, Coco Roshambo. And, underneath all these other titles, I'm a story teller. So that's what you'll find here in my blog, zany stories about me, Coco, her kids, her husband (Bobby Habibi), and a whole slew of other characters I encounter along the way. I'm from the Deep South (Mississippi) so everything's written with a twang. Keep checking up on me and I promise to keep you entertained, if not enlightened as well. And, just a warning: I do not know if there is a stereotype for nannies, but if there is, I am sure I do not fit it.