Bake Me a Cake

Tomorrow is my Nanniversary!!  

A year ago, I was tripping acid with some of the greatest friends on Earth.  We had to go for a 5-day trip just to make sure I did enough drugs before I became a nanny.  I did.  

I moved here 5 days after I graduated from college.  The weirdest part was there was not one ounce of apprehension in me when I set out on this journey.  I think part of that is in my nature - I am forever plunging into one kooky plan after another.  

Don't get me wrong - my plans don't always work out.  I was going to Africa this summer ... and then I realized I had no money.  Whoops.  I was going to move to Austin ... and then I looked at a map and realized it's in the middle of buttfucking nowhere, TX.  Whoops.  I was going to go to medical school ... that one cost me $2000.  Major whoops.

But I think the point of my life (I ain't gonna talk about yours) isn't to have every single plan work out.  I think my life is more of an exploration, which is helped by the fact that I'm passionate about every idea that pops into my head ... even the ridiculous ones.  

You gotta give an idea the chance to bloom before you can call its color.  

But this kooky plan worked out wonderfully.  I can't imagine life without the Chirrens Garcia and Coco is really one of my dearest friends. (Not to be left out - Bobby Habibi throws great parties.) 

N E Wayzzz....

Somebody said something the other day about my tanning bed habit.  It pissed me off, mostly because it's so irrational.  Nobody says anything about the fact that I'm morbidly obese, or that I alternate between starving myself and stuffing my face on a weekly basis, or that I smoke like a chimney, or that I grossly overmedicate.  Nope.  It's the fucking tanning bed everyone goes after. 

Let me tell you something, I'm going to be dead of heart disease long before any of these freckles turns cancerous.  Go get your own fucking parade to rain on.   

Change in tone?  Change in the weather.  

Seriously?

In addition to being Coco's nanny/sidekick, I also get to work at her office sometimes.  I fancy myself something of a catch-all personal assistant, but what I mostly do is just sweep everything off her desk into the garbage can and then pose in front of the freshly "organized" desk saying:

"Voila! All your worries are GONE (never mind to where)!  Nanny Garcia can do it all!"

But seriously folks, Coco owns a pretty swanky bidness.  So imagine my surprise when a company memo concerning dress code went around and BARE MIDRIFF TOPS were mentioned.  

My first inclination was to protest.  When secured with a neon scrunchie, "middies" are tasteful and refined, the perfect compliment to a nice denim skort.  

But I really just wanted to know who the fuck wore the middie to work.  I need to shake their hand.  Maybe borrow their glitter chapstick. 

You Never Slow Down, You Never Grow Old

I'm a fucking big ass kid.

For the past few days, Trixie has been climbing on tops of various things and then proclaiming, "Look, Nanny Garcia, I'm so high!!" And, being as mature as I am, I just laugh my ass off (after making her get down to safety, of course). That's so funny to me because as anyone who has ever smoked with me knows, my favorite high thing to say is "I'm so high!" with "I feel like I'm in a movie" coming in at a close second.

But there are some times when I manage to take the high road (pun intended). Last night, for example. Justin had posted something about being hyper on his Facebook status update. Then, some little punk posted commented to the effect of 'nobody likes justin'.

I obviously had to get all up in this mess so I commented:

"Uh, whateva, (name of little punk). Justin is sooo the cool sauce."

And then My Gay Husband, who is also Facebook friends with Justin, commented:

"Yeah, COOL SAUCE."

And then I commented:

"Yeah, we love JUSTIN!!"

Follow all that? Ok, so that may seem immature, but it wasn't because I didn't post what I really felt like saying:

"I'm 22 and I'll kick your ass!"

But, obviously, that seemed somewhat inappropriate. See? I'm a big girl now.

Just a Little FYI

I love creating new email address monikers and then hitting that "check availability!" button.  It just feels nice.  I come up with wacky ones:

mexicannanny.@gmail.com

cannanny?  That's funnunny.  

SugarGarcia.@gmail.com.com

So I'm now at NannyMagnolia.@gmail.com 

or, as I'm sure Dora would prefer:

nAnNymAgNoLiA@gmail.com.  

Either way, your capitalization doesn't impact the destination's address.  

When I Forget How to Talk, I'll Sing

Although I've found that blogging gets in the way of my laying in bed and crying hopelessly studying Swahili, I guess I can't quit this bitch in such an alarmingly abrupt manner.  

It's raining for the gazillionth day in a row, and one of Trixie's krazy friends is coming over here today.  Don't fret, y'all, I have a plan (because I always have a plan).  Using several bed sheets, I'm going to turn the entire basement (the part I don't live in, that is) into a big sheet fort.  

That should hold them over for the entire day, leaving me free to sit in the corner of the fort and pour over the thousands and thousands of lists I make every day.  This part is integral to my plan, as today is THE FIRST DAY OF THE REST OF MY LIFE and this new chapter of my life will be dictated entirely by lists.   

To-Do lists, obsessive lists detailing every piece of food I put in my mouth, lists of all the boxes I need in my life, lists of everything I need to read or have read, plus another huge list of everybody I know that I've been working on for a few days.  Seriously, I make lists like that all the time.  List-making is therapeutic to me so when my life is entirely out of control I make a huge, daunting, list.  This time I'm making a list of every single person I know.  

You may be asking yourself, "Will the neuroses ever stop?"  But no, they won't.  Over the course of 22 years, I have built a complex web of idiosyncrasies to keep me safe from genuine emotional interaction.  It's working pretty well thus far.  

Oh, and that nail biting picture?  Just like every other picture I've ever taken, it looks a thousand times prettier than what I actually look like.  I have been blessed cursed with being extremely photogenic.  I call it my plastic surgery face and it comes on any time a camera is pointed at me.  I wish I could take a picture of myself (like that one), print it out, and then paste it over my real face.  

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Due to much public outcry, I won't be all together abandoning my blog. 

However, I feel compelled to mention that I've recently fallen in love with a man name Rosetta Stone : Swahili, so he's been getting most of my attention lately.  

So I'll still be posting, but meh, not so regularly.  So until my blog gets a good dose of Benefiber, check out one of my blog friends on the right sidebar of this page. 

Lurvs,

Your Favorite Nailbiter (that's my newest title - whattya think??)

Regards and Regrets

Well, y'all, it's been nice, but I'm shutting the blog down.

Thanks for reading,

Nanny Garcia

Campy

One of my friends from college is moving back up here for the summer and I am positively elated.  He's half Italian, half Irish, and 100% awesome.  Not to be racist or anything, but can you think of a better genetic makeup for a bar friend?  I can't make up a blog name any better than his real name, which is identical to that of a notorious Cold War-era Senator.  Therefore, he shall be called The Senator.  

I'm unbelievably excited about The Senator's arrival.  First of all, I'm insanely lonely.  The Butler is constantly being forced to put in overtime to compensate for my lack of friends.  Not only does he have to take me on dates, but in the absence of an acting Gay Husband, he also has to listen to me talk about things like my feelings (and I have a ton of those), my period, my kids - you know, all those things that turn Boyfriends on.  Zexy.  

Having someone to at least party with will take some pressure off The Butler and let him focus on things like writing music and becoming a Famous Teen Heartthrob*.  

N-E-Wayzzz

The Senator and I were discussing our ACTION-PACKED SUMMER OF OH!9, when he mentioned how much (a lot) he was looking forward to camping.  

"Oh yeah, that'll be fun," I told him. "How do you feel about taking five chirrens with us?  Or maybe just les bebes?"

"What's happened to you??  We're packing bongs, not babies."  

That's fine with me, as long as The Senator remembers the munchies.  

5 Little Frogs Sitting On A Hollow Log

I might have mentioned this before, but I'm also a craft teacher at a local (read: owned by Bobby Habibi's mother) ballet studio.  I call my class Nanny Garcia's Crafting Adventures because with 20 little girls, ages 2 to 4, it's always a fucking adventure.  

The class is actually called Mother Goose or something like that.  I pick out a nursery rhyme coloring sheet and then come up with a craft to go along with.  Yesterday's rhyme was 5 Little Frogs.  Here's my sample craft:

Of course, I left this example on the kitchen table.  

The frog seemed like a pretty simple paper craft.  The mass production of it, however, was not.  

The first step was drawing 20 pairs of frog legs and hands ... and then cutting those motherfuckers out.  That took me about 2 hours and my (lack of) artistic skills left those poor frogs looking horribly deformed.  Some of them had seven toes, some only had four.  But whatever.  Most of those girls can't count anyway.  

 

I started things off by explaining the ancient art of folding a paper plate over and creasing.  Then the green paint came out and the fun really began.  

I kept trying to explain that they should only paint THE FRONT.  Not the inside, not the back, JUST THE FRONT.  As you might imagine, I had several back-of-the-plate paint spots to clean up after class. 

They were wearing big smocks, but within ten minutes, most of my dear angels had at least one green appendage and quite a few had green faces.  Oh, and my little ginger kid decided to fucking eat the paint.  Wonderful.  

My 4yr old class is much better.  I can usually just shoot the shit with them while they work on their craft with considerably less help required.  They're old enough to know I'm totally fucking nutz, but they're young enough to love me for it.  

Blabberings

The temperature's starting to creep into the 90's and I'm relieved. Having survived my first Virginia winter, I have decided that I prefer the oppressive heat to the cold.

My typical nanny uniform is gym shorts, Nanny Jorts or yoga pants paired with a tank top and/or t-shirt. Sometimes I throw in a Nanny Jumper for variety, but all of these clothes are well-suited for sweating. The only time I'm uncomfortable in the heat is when I'm forced to wear normal people clothes, which fortunately doesn't happen very often.

My wardrobe is just one reason I'm naturally inclined towards childcare. The Garcia Chirrens also benefit from my keen ability to mulit-task (I can eat and watch TV at the same time now), my whimsical imagination (I spend about 80% of my waking life fantasizing about The Butler), and my infallible patience (keeping a low level of alchohol in your bloodstream at all times will do that to ya).

The fact that I'm a 10yr old kid trapped in a 22yr old body doesn't hurt either. I try to keep the whining and the temper tantrums to a minimum, but I love making messes, coloring outside the lines, whooping it up at the playground, and telling stories (adults call these "lies").

I'm a big fan of children's programming too. If I'm cleaning my room and there's no baseball on, I turn it on PBSKids or Noggin. My favorite shows include Recess, Calliou, Arthur and any of the old cartoons that come on Boomerang. Have y'all ever seen Calliou? It's weird because the kid is totally bald.

Seriously, the other night I realized I was using my Netflix subscription to watch reruns of Kipper. Sheesh.

A Picture's Worth ... Survey Says ...

The world is becoming increasingly personalized.  I'm not referring to monogrammed tote bags or towels (though I find those equally offensive), I'm talking about making your personal space all about you.  Turning the self-centric into a farce of self-expression.  I mean, come on, you can pop in your ipod on the metro and all of a sudden the world has your own personal soundtrack.  A hastily thrown together, non-thematic soundtrack.  (No offense to those of you Cusack fans who still make mix tapes in your basement.  In fact, I applaud your dedication.)  

N-E-Wayzzz

I open my closet and see a huge "make your own" store.  I wish it was more of a "make your own" burrito place, but sigh.  Just clothes.  But the freedom, if not the fabric, is alluring.  So here's what I picked out for today:

Paired with this fabulous jacket:

These pictures, like pretty much all the pictures you see on my blog, were taken using my Macbook built-in webcam.  Dora is obsessed with webcams.  She pretended to lose her phone one time so everyone would have to Skype her, then she would act like she could only run Skype with the webcam feature turned on.  It was weird.  She was always saying things like, 

"Oh no, Maggie, my craaaazy computer's acting all crazy again, ha ha.  Guess we'll have to turn our webcams on."

Geez, we get it Dora, you love being able to both hear and watch yourself talk.  You can tell because Dora doesn't watch the computer screen (your image) while you're webcamming with her.  Instead, her eyes are glued to the bottom right hand corner of her own screen (her image).  

Though not as enthusiastically, I also enjoy webcams.  Sometimes you get a really candid shot, like this one.  I was obviously trying to take a picture but les bebes kept doing their booty dance off screen, in hopes of distracting me.  They got me, dammit.  

But sometimes webcams can be hazardous to your health.  I call this shit "Falling Backwardz"

Lost in Calculation

Sometimes being a nanny involves complex mathemathic equations.  I'll save you all the details, but through very complicated operations, I equate the energy of an obese deadhead (not naming any names here) with that of a 4-yr old.  And even though this equation never quite works out, I continue to apply it to my job.  

Today, for example, Trixie and I decided to take The Dogz on a walk that would culminate in our arrival at Dash's bus stop.  

What actually happened?  About 3 blocks from the bus stop (and about 3 minutes from the bus' arrival), Trixie totally maxes out her energy.  After much coaxing and cheering, we get another block further when I see that great yellow submarine coming around the corner.  Fortunately, T-Money was smoking relaxing in her driveway so Trixie could stop and rest while I literally sprinted to the bus stop, two crazy dogz in tow.  

I was startled by how fast and hard my legs were moving.  When I started leaping over bushes and knocking baby strollers over, the scene became very Ferris Beuler - esque.  That image was only in my head though and I have no idea what I actually looked like, racing down the hill in my tie-dyed tshirt, curls and dogs flying behind me.  Oh, and did I mention that The Dogz are currently sporting this look: 

This is a pretty common problem for me (the tired bebe, not the cone heads).  Last summer I took les bebes to an amusement park and I somehow ended up having to carry both of them across a 200-degree parking lot. I keep asking myself what step in my equation I'm getting wrong.  

Perhaps I shouldn't have reacted to Trixie's complaints of being cold by encouraging her to run the first two blocks.  Maybe I shouldn't have let her wear her sparkly heels without socks.  Or maybe I shouldn't base my equation on a stereotype that, like 80% of the clothes in my closet, doesn't quite fit me anymore.  

Today

I returned from Fauxcation yesterday morning, but was unable to blog due to the religious holiday (420).  

Fauxcation was absolutely fabulous.

Tonight The Butler and I are going to see(hear) Headlights play at Iota, so Trixie has spent all day in my closet, picking out an outfit.  Some might scoff at my 4-yr old stylist, but we have a very similar aesthetic: mismatched and LOUD.  

Fauxcation

The Butler and I are on fake vacation this weekend.  Fauxcation, if you will.  Here's what I'm doing:

Yep, that's my special Red Drank.

I'm also trying to figure out why my font is suddenly blue and underlined, but that activity is unpictured.  

And here's The Butler:

He's also humming.  

All our best men are laughed at in this nightmare land.

It's 4am and I just had a nightmare.  I woke up and literally had both feet out of bed (which is no small task, considering my faux-diabetes restricts my circulation) and was on my way to my parents' bedroom before I realized that bed is 1000 miles away.   

I would tell you about my dream, except I can't relive that shit right now.  Instead I'm going to watch infomercials in an attempt to focus away from the gaping loneliness an uncomforted nightmare leaves.  

Judge me, if you will, for continuing to sleep in my parents' bed past the age of 20.  That shit is comfortable.  Sometimes I'll camp out in their closet until somebody vacates their spot so I can creep in.  I do this even if it's just a midnight bathroom break.  If they seem firmly planted, I start on my Momz's side of the bed and gradually scoot until my presence has been duly accommodated.  I show no mercy.  

Reason #189

That My Momz Is Da Shiz

That's a shot of my black pair of MediPeds, the diabetic socks my Momz brought me a few weeks ago.  Now, I actually only have faux diabetes, onset by my rampant hypochondria.  But my Momz is always pretty good about humoring me.  Kind of like that Christmas she bought me a stained glass Hanukah box after I'd spent the whole year insisting I was a Jewish*.  

I should add that this generous gift of diabetic socks was made in addition to the gift of the green wig.  *Sigh*

I was driving home from the gym today, incredibly sweaty and feeling totally obese (I accidentally looked in the big wall mirror while working out) when I spotted two cutie pie high school hipsters in black leggings and flannel shirts walking down the road, touting a bag of KFC, and waving to people as they skip along the busy road.  

I immediately broke into a huge grin, rolled down my window and waved back.   Then I'm positively euphoric the rest of the way home. 

You know why?  Because I fucking love weirdos.  I'm a huge weirdo myself, and that self-awareness is probably a reason why I'm so fond of other eccentrics.  

People don't even have to be the same kind of weirdo I am in order to tickle my fancy; they just have to exhibit a commitment to rejecting the norm and a dedication to individuality.  I should save that sentence for the "Mission Statement" of the self-sufficient preschool co-operative I'm going to open up on a deserted island one day.  

N-E-Wayzzz

My Momz is a lot tamer than I am, but we're the same type of weirdo.  The Butler, however, is of a different ilk of misfits.  

Last night, for example, we went out for coffee and The Butler, who had attended the Nationals game earlier in the day, pulled out baseball stat sheets and started filling them in with little symbols and numbers.  I gazed across the table at my RainMan-esque boyfriend.  I love that he does weird shit like that.**  

In other newz, today is Jackie Robinson Day, but it's also Tax Day.  Coincidence?  I think not.  Of course they make the black dude's special day fall on what is also the shittiest day in U.S. federal law (especially in this economy).  

And see? That one parenthetical comment makes me politically relevant.  

*I wanted to be Jewish not because of any particular religious convictions, but because being persecuted for my faith seemed glamorous at the time.  Also, because if you call someone a Jew, it sounds inappropriate for some reason and I felt my own Judaism would give me license to call everyone Jews.  Turns out it doesn't.  Lame sauce.  

**Ten more minutes of his ignoring me to copy down baseball stats was considerably less endearing.   

Blog Names Are Never Pretty

Nanny Garcia's Mississippi Homecoming has been going swimmingly. Swimmingly as in swimming in alcohol.

On Saturday night, my whole fam got all polished up for the big engagement bash for my sister Rotel and her fiance Diego. It was pretty classy - which means I couldn't find the hard liquor. Fortunately, I had a handle of whiskey in my nanny-sized pursed.

Several of my home friends, including Bobbie Jean, were in attendance, which made the whole mingling-with-your-parents-friends thing considerably less awkward. Not content to leave the party only half trashed, the younger half of the part made our way to the after party at Oldest Sister's house.

It was a pretty successful night. I kept it all classy by pouring myself a wine glass full of whiskey and then following it up with an even bigger wine glass filled with whiskey and water (I start the evening out with momentum and then slow it down as my hand-eye coordination starts to fail). The latter concoction was pretty nasty, but no one agreed with that more than Oldest Sister who, mistaking it for iced tea, gulped it down and subsequently threw it back up. Whoops.

I vaguely remember passing out on Oldest Sister's couch after Dora's Oldest Brother left, sometime around 1 or 2 am. The next thing I remember? Puking and showering at 6am.

A few hours later, we were up again, this time to get to church for Little Thug Baby Nephew's Baptism. After which the drinking started up again at my mother's Baptism brunch. I knew I was in the South because everybody kept calling The Baby's Baptismal gown "gay". After ten or eleven mimosas, though, I was too wasted sleepy to defend cross dressers anymore and had to pass out take a nap.

But I had to start drinking again just a few hours later so I could celebrate the Braves beating the shit out of the Phillies for Opening Day of the 2009 MLB season. Whoop. It was my thug baby nephew's first baseball game EVAH so I was thrilled he got to see his team win.


N-E-Wayzz ... tomorrow I'm taking Rotel and Diego to the airport and then spending the day with My Sister That's Closest To Me In Age (aka MSTCTMIA) and then the next day I'm driving into the county with Bobbie Jean to buy some cheese from the Mennonites that live out there. So I'll post when I can, but if you miss me terribly just look at this picture My Little Thug Baby Nephew and My Kook Of A Father and rest knowing there'll be oh-so-many more to follow when I get back to a place with real Wi Fi.

You're Not The Only One Who Could Qualify For Mensa*

I'm en route to Mississippi!!!  

I'm currently in people watching paradise aka the Greensboro, NC airport.  Only this airport sort of sucks because A) I can't find the plexi glass death room smoking section, B) it's really fucking quiet at my gate so I feel like I can't jibbah jabbah on my phone the whole time, C) I had to buy the internet, and D) somewhere faint in the background, a Shinedown song is playing on repeat.  

But this post isn't about the guy sitting four seats to my right.  It's about The Butler.  

So did y'all know that The Butler is considerably older than I am?  Which is FINE with me, but he apparently can't handle having a young, vivacious girlfriend.  Do you know what he said to me today?  He said, and I'm pretty much quoting here: "Yeah, I remember what it's like to be 22 and think I'm right all the time."  

Well, guess what, Butler?  I am right all the time.  

Top Ten Reasons Why I'm Right All The Time (not that I have to give you any):

1. I just am.

2. I'm a genius.

3. I gave myself a nickname ... and it stuck.  

4. I know more big words than you.  

5. I take care of 5 kids every damn day and that alone makes me tougher and craftier than you could ever imagine.  

6. I will cut you.  

7. I have a Mac. 

8. I have a stupid tattoo.  You'd be amazed at the lessons you'll learn from that.  

9. I'm double jointed in all the right places.  

10. My Older Man Friend carries a gun and he is always on my side.  

That being said, you're my favorite domestic servant in the whole world, Boo.

* The Butler does actually qualify for Mensa and was a member for two years, but then stopped paying dues.  If he were an active member, I could write him off as pretentious.  But the fact that he refuses to pay $52 a year to have someone else validate his intelligence is fucking brilliant.  

Kill Me ...

I'm watching a movie called Baby Snatcher on the Lifetime Movie Network.  Description:

Baby Snatcher - (1992) A desperate wife fakes her own pregnancy and kidnaps a baby to pass of as hers.  

It's wild.  And by that, I mean WONDERFUL.

UPDATE: AND IT'S STARRING A VERY YOUNG DAVID DUCHOVNY IN A LEATHAH JACKET AND THAT GIRL THAT PLAYED JO ON THE FACTS OF LIFE!!!  I'M LIZZING***

***LIZZING = LAUGHING + WHIZZING!!!

16 Days Till Fake Vacation

Tomorrow I'm heading down South.  Not to the fake South I livein now, but the real one that Cat lives in.  

So today I've been insanely busy.  Laundry, changing sheets, playdates, yelling at teenagers, etc. 

Tomorrow I'll be sneaking off an airplane in Memphis so I don't have to fly two more hours to Jackson THEN drive four hours to Corinth.  Wish me luck in hoodwinking the airlines - they typically don't take too kindly to shenanigans.   

Here's a picture of Jank, wearing my headband and looking like the perfect kooky complement to our fam. 

Crisis

Yesterday morning I came upstairs.  But as I reached to nuke some water for my green tea, Coco stopped me.  

"That shiz is busted yo."

"Oh, no," I replied.  "This just has to be fixed.  There's no question about it."

When I interviewed for this job, I was entirely honest about my (lack of) cooking skills.  I told them I could cook chicken and I certainly can.  I have one chicken dish that I can make and I'm pretty sure that I could throw chicken breasts in a pan if I had to (I've never actually tried that though, so don't quote me on anything).  

Because of this ineptitude, Bobby Habibi cooks most of our dinners and he usually cooks in bulk so I can re-schlep it on the table for les bebes' lunches.  So yesterday I'm staring at a huge container of leftover chicken and rice and I'm all: "Okay, how would the pilgrims have cooked this?"

Needless to say, it was not pretty.  

So last night The Chirrens Garcia had rotisserie chicken and tonight we're going out.  Today for lunch les bebes are having Nanny Garcia's Super Duper Sandwich (the THC-free version), which is a hangover from my own ridiculous childhood.  

Speaking of my own ridiculous childhood ... guess what Friday is?  

NANNY GARCIA'S MISSISSIPPI HOMECOMING (but not the death-related kind of homecoming that the Baptists try to push on ya) !!!!

It should be pretty awesome.  I have lots of activities planned.  

1)   First up, we have my hippie sister's engagement party.  My future brother-in-law has plans for us to hide in a corner and drink from a flask all evening.  And while I would do that at a party of my peers, these are most certainly not my peers.  They're more like my parents' peers and I've fucking embarrassed my parents enough.  I'll be on my best behavior -- which is to say, not hiding in a corner.  That's really all I can promise though.

2) OPENING DAY of baseball.  The Butler and I are both really disheartened by the fact that we won't be spending this special day together.   Or, well, I feel that way.  The Butler is probably secretly relieved that his special day of baseball won't be interrupted every 30 seconds by "Do you see how fucking loose these pants are??  What is baseball coming to?  I can't even see the pitcher's junk!  I hate these uniforms.  Do you think Chipper Jones looks bloated and gross now?  I'd still do him, obviously, but geez, Chipper, lay of the whatever's making you look like that."  Instead, I will be spending Opening Day with my brother-in-law (fellow Braves fan), my future brother-in-law (Dodgers fan), and lots and lots of beer.  

3) FAT BABY HOLDING - in case you don't remember, here's my nephew:

Hammer Time

Like my mother, no matter how long or how often I smoke, I will never identify as a smoker.

Also like my mother, I have paper nails.  

Another nanny quick fact is that I have big bear claws for hands, but this is all besides the subject.  The subject is my nails - which are awful weak.  

Have you heard of a fancy company called Butter London - "butter" as in "buttah," of course.  This week, I am the guinea pig for one of their products - Horsetail Nail Fertilizer.  Their claim is that in just seven days, you'll have noticeably stronger and longer nails.  

Well, we'll just see about that, won't we?  I've been taken prenatal vitamins for about a year now, for this very same reason.  And? Results are varied.  My hair is growing about 50% longer (which is to say, not at all), but my nails are still immobile.  Oh, and I bite them to the quick about once a week anyway, regardless of how close to the quick they already were.  

Anyway, here's the Day 1 shot of my nails, before treatment (ignore the bear claw hands):

And here they are today on Day 4:

They look like I glued Skittles to my fingers - which actually sounds like a delicious idea.  

Tis the Season

It's Sunday, I ain't got shit to do, there's baseball on the TV box, so why not drink hard liquor in the afternoon?  

Last night The Butler and I went to IHOP for the eleventy billionth time (he has a pretty serious breakfast addiction) and then watched The Braves lose a spring training game.  

Today, however, we went to a Mexican restaurant, drowned ourselves in strong Margaritas, and then watched The Braves lose another spring training game. Ok, well, I drowned myself in strong Margaritas, but hey - The Braves are my team.  

Fortunately, The Butler and I both love baseball.  Unfortunately, he's a Mets fan.  He's got so much else going for him though - I'm willing to overlook it.  We're both going to be very busy this season between our teams' games plus all the extra shiz that comes on the MLB network.  

Anyway, between baseball, the classes The Butler's going to be taking this summer, and the work he already does, there will be no time for me.  Therefore, I'm currently accepting applications for the position of My Gay Boyfriend.  You'll probably have to contend with My Gay Husband's rabid jealousy, but the benefit of my undying friendship will more than make up for it.

Applicants in the DC/Nova area may send their resumes to nannygarcia@live.com  

The Thomas Crown Affair is ...

... my favorite spy movie.  

The Butler and I both had Monday off.  I begged him to take me to the Holocaust Museum, but he didn't think it was a great date venue.  We opted for the Spy Museum instead and decided to dress the part.  

You obviously agree that we looked fucking delicious.  But it was a little awkward when we walked to the bus stop that morning to pick up Dash.  The moms thought we were cute, but then asked which of the Chirrens Garcia were going with us.  

... at which point I awkwardly explained that we weren't taking any of the kids with us.

You see, children (unlike equally eccentric boyfriends) are a free pass to be fucking nutz.  I am a nanny primarily because I can't fit into any other peer group besides young children and other less-evolved primates.  

Inspired by the Spy Museum, I had a little Spy Day here at the house with les bebes and Little Bill.  My favorite part of the day was busting out my military issue binoculars and spying on the neighbors.  Usually I have to wait until darkness falls to peer into windows and collect neighborhood gossip.  Today, however, I felt totally confident in my snooping, knowing that if caught, my kids would make me seem like a quirky nanny, not a nosy neighbor - though the rest of us know that I am actually both.  

23 Days Till Fake Vacation

Have I really not posted all week??  I guess not.  Well, I have about a thousand stories to share with y'all.  

BUT today is Spy Day with les bebes and Little Bill, so I have to go hide a bunch of shit around the house before I pick up Dash from the bus stop.  

Pissed?  I would be too.  

Sowwy

I have many, many things to share with you, my adoring public. But today I have a very busy day with the chirrens, so check back tomorrow (or at like, 3am, if you're up).

But The Heartburn Is Killing Me

It's 4am Saturday night / Sunday morning and I'm up because The Butler just left, ending our fabulous date.  

Oooh, la la, you might be saying.  But no.  Allow me to explain.  

After we ate a disgusting amount of pizza, we came back to the house, where Bobby Habibi proceeded to explain to me how the internetz works.  And y'all, it's fucking terrifying.  I can't remember what all he said, but the gist of it was GOOGLE IS STALKING YOU.  

So at all of 10pm, we headed into the basement my quarters to watch an SNL rerun on E!  

And then somewhere around midnight, we fell asleep while watching Venezuela vs Korea* in the World Baseball Classic.  I know.

What woke us up?  I was dreamily trying to tell him to stop using the word "sexy" in front of les bebes.  

This shiz writes itself.  

*Venezuela had their asses handed to them, by the way.  It was pretty brutal.  

Blerb

Dora is considerably more cautious than I.  But one day, she calls me up about making a big fancy life decision, so I give her this gem of advice: "Just do whatever the fuck you want to do and deal with the outcome when it comes out."  

I feel you could replace "do" with "eat" and it would be a little more crass, but just as wise.  

Shameless Plug

Remember how I mentioned I was going to watch The Butler play guitar and I was bringing crossword puzzles so I wouldn't have to interact with people?  Well, I didn't even need those puzzles because I got wasted instead.  

My frugalista plan (because I always have a plan) was not to eat all day, so I could save $$ on alcohol.  Obviously, I didn't pull off this plan entirely, as I had to eat a bunch of Doritos off les bebes' plates for lunch.  But after five strong whiskey drinks in about 2 hours, it didn't make any difference.  The Butler drove through McDonalds on the way home and got me an ice cream cone.  

Under normal circumstances, McDonalds ice cream cones are one of my favorite things in the world.  Chokolate and I have been known to drive for hours in the middle of the night to find an open Micky D's for our soft serve fix.  

But I was pretty wasted, so I was all, "Oh no, this shiz is in a cone!  That I have to hold!!!  With my hand!!"  I couldn't handle the pressure.  All I wanted to do was fall asleep in The Butler's front seat.  So I did what seemed most logical at the time, which was throw the ice cream out the window.  

Needless to say, I came home and immediately passed out in my floor, barf bag somewhere near my head.  I'm pretty good about keeping the basement door closed so the dogs don't sneak down there and pee all over everything, but I guess in my drunky state, I might have left it cracked because as I stumbled into the bathroom the next morning, I slid in this:

Gross, huh?  My saving grace in this dog debacle is PetZyme because this shiz really works.  It really does get rid of pet stains and odors.  Stay away from Nature's Miracle.  We have a bottle of PetZyme on all three floors of the house, plus a big refill bottle under the sink.  So here I am, visibly hung over, posing with my favorite pet-related product. 

Waiting in Inhale

It's deceptively sunny here today as it's still about 40 degrees. I just bundled up les bebes and we took the dogs on an hour-long walk.  Now, everyone is egg-zausted.  Seriously, all four of them are in some variation of a horizontal position.

Here's The Baby Dog, being all cute and furry and shiz:

 And here's Jank.  I know he looks like a pretty normal lab, but those legs he's resting on are about 4 inches long.  

I'm egg-zausted too, but more from this past insano week than walking the dogs.  As you know, Bobby and Coco were gone for three full days.  As you probably don't know, Francois Philippe saw this as an opportunity to set the house on fire.  

Okay, not really.  He did, however, stuff a bunch of balloons in Coco's shower, sprayed Axe body spray all over them, and lit all that shiz on fire.  Stupid, right?  In his defense, he's 13, so his hormones are pretty much forcing him to be a major, major dumbass.  But the best part is how all this unfolded.  

It was Sunday afternoon and I was rocking a migraine.  My head was hurting so bad I couldn't even drive, so my momz, les bebes and I were watching a movie or some shiz like that.  I was laying on the couch and I heard Francois Philippe creep down the stairs.  I raised my head just in time to see him headed back up the stairs with 409 and paper towels. 

Obviously, I followed him.  What smelled like an incinerated 8th grade locker room led me to Coco's shower, where FP was desperately scrubbing a thick black tar.  Every surface was covered in burned black powder and FP had his shirt off, the black goop all over his stomach and hands.  

Now here's the best part.  Francois Philippe jumped up, looked me in the eye, and said, "Oh!  I don't know what happened in here!  I was just walking by, saw this big mess, and started cleaning up."  

Okay, now first of all, if that had happened, he would have yelled downstairs for me to come clean it up.  It never would have occurred to him to clean it up himself.  Then there's the obvious problem of him being the only person upstairs when a mysterious black tar chose to coat the bathroom.  

After about 30 minutes of my momz and I playing the good cop / bad cop routine (I was the bad cop, of course), Francois Philippe finally admitted what he'd done.  

At which point I really lost my shit.

I yelled, I threatened to send him to boot camp, I raided his room for anything flammable, I took all his money, I took his phone, I took the TV out of his room, and I promised that he'd be sleeping on the floor of my room for the rest of his life.  And so on.  For the next three days.  

That sleepover part only lasted half a night because Francois Philippe was breathing all heavy and shiz, but you know, it was good dramatic effect.  

Dramatic effect is crucial because parenting is all about putting on a big show.  You hide your vices, assuming the role of a character who doesn't smoke cigarettes or weed.  You read from a script, reciting dialogue that isn't laced with four-letter words.  You perform your stage directions, cooking meals that don't include cheese puffs as an ingredient - even though there's a huge bowl of them waiting for you back stage.  And sometimes, your kids do something fucking stupid and you get to put on a HUGE show.  I'm talking spectacle.  Fireworks, loud noise, tears, the whole thing.

Being a parent isn't supposed to be calm, easy, or boring.  If your audience isn't laughing and/or crying on a daily basis, then you've got some work to do.  

Bed Tripping

Trixie does not have school today, thanks to the super superfluous preschool teacher "workday".  All those finger paintings aren't going to grade themselves, you know.  

No, no, I'm just joking.  Preschool teachers = heroes with hearts of gold, etc.

In terms of Nanny Garcia, preschool teacher workdays mean waking up three hours earlier.  Do you know how much dreaming I could do in three hours? 

But instead of having some psychedelic dreams, I've come up with something almost as good and convinced Trixie to lay in bed with me and listen to Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.  

Meaningful Meanderings

I am a badass and I know this to be true.  But holy fucking shit, y'all.  The crushing responsibility of five chirrens, two dogs, and one cat almost got me.  Almost.    

Okay, actually, I can't even include our cat Independence Hall in that list of responsibilities because I have recently realized that cats are such a great deal.  They can fill an emotional void just as well as a dog, but without projecting their own neediness.  Plus, clean up is so easy with a cat.   

Cats are just one more wonderful thing (in addition to 90210 - the original, Over The Rhine, and IHOP) that The Butler has shared with me.  In return, I have offered him the joys of Guitar Hero, extreme paranoia, and tortoise shell shoes.  

The bad news of this blog is that my momz is leaving in the morning. While I enjoyed spending time with her, I mainly wanted her to come visit because she always boosts my street cred.  Pretty much everyone in the free world likes my mom more than they like me.  Which is fine with me, because I'm mostly scared of everyone in the free world.  

Because I'm mostly scared of everyone in the free world, I will be taking a New York Times crossword puzzle to a bar tomorrow night.  Lame?  I don't think so.  The Butler is (hopefully) playing his gee-tar there and I will for sure be in attendance.  But as my debilitating neuroses prevent me from interacting with most humans, I'm planning on burying myself in Tuesday and Wednesday puzzles.  

Okay, that's all I got, homies.  

Weekend Update

Okay, I survived Coco and Bobby's business trip with only one house fire, so I guess that's pretty good.  Today my momz and I are going to get my bridesmaid dress (gag) for my sister's wedding.   Here's my momz, modeling the lovely gift she brought me:

The Hills Are Alive

Bobby and Coco are both in Dubai this weekend, exploring some new oil excavation options so I'm here with all five chirrens and the two dogs.  Francois Phillipe kept me up all night scraping the computer chair across my ceiling.  I eventually got tired of running up and down the stairs, so at 1am I texted him:

GO TO BED.  IF YOU WAKE ME UP ONE MORE TIME, YOU SHALL TRULY UNDERSTAND THE WRATH OF NANNY GARCIA.

Five hours later, I was up to sleepily start my day.  After removing the Diet Coke IV from my arm, I was UP UP UP so I went ahead and stripped all the chirren's beds, changed their sheets, did two loads of laundry, and yelled at one teenager.  

Actually, I handled Francois Phillippe surprisingly calmly this morning, especially considering I had to get him off to a Bar Mitzvah.  Of course, he had no dress shoes that fit, and his pants were simultaneously too long and too tight.  AND THEN we realized that neither of us knows how to tie a tie.  

We had to walk across the street ask a neighbor lady to tie his tie for us.  Yep, it was as embarrassing as it sounds.  And I guess my sweatpants, hoodie, and disheveled hair were sending off distress signals because the neighbor lady asked me how I was doing holding down the fort.  

I assured her that everything was going swimmingly, but all I could think was, "Shit, Bobby and Coco have only been gone three hours and the neighbors are already trying to call Child Services on me!"  

But since I've gotten the moody teenager out of the house, things are starting to look up.  Justin and Dustin are getting ready for their afternoon birthday party and Trixie, Dash, and I are watching The Sound of Music.  

When I was younger, my dad would imprison my sisters and me and force us to watch his favorite movies, including The Sound of Music.  Back then, I was far too busy eating crayons and cutting my hair to notice what a badass nanny Maria is.  

If I think of myself in terms of Julie Andrews roles (which I do often), I am much more like Maria than Mary Poppins.  Mary Poppins was sort of a tight ass and had all of her shit on lock.  But Maria is just a big ole hippie mess.  

First of all, she walks into the mansion wearing a fugly grey dress.  When the Captain asks her to change, she's call, "Oh, but I gave all my clothes to the poor.  Sorry I don't have anything else to wear yet - I make my own clothes!"

Then, she meets the chirrens and she's all, "Oh, ok, just go ahead and try to fuck with me.  I smoked a joint walking up your two-mile driveway and I'm keeping my cool."

Not to mention all the traipsing around the countryside with a guitar. 

So now I'm all, "Oh, hello, Rodgers and Hammerstein?  This is Nanny Garcia and I think you've been looking for me for your next musical!!" 

Update

Okay, so episode 5 of season 1 reveals that Brendan is a fucking racist.  I feel rocked to the core, y'all. 

Anyway, this show is like crack.  I keep calling Dora to tell her to start watching this shiz immediately.  She spends hours and hours watching ABC Family - her favorites are relics of our past: Full House, Saved by the Bell, and Night of the Twisters - a made-for-TV movie starring Devon Sawa.  

But 90210 is like all those shows - but better.  A thousand times better.  

Randomly Reoccurring Reference

I need to start writing more about The Butler as he's been testing well with my core audience.  I've enjoyed a pretty steady influx of emails and facebook activity concerning my blog* - most of it directed at or about The Butler.  My friend Benjamin Franklin texted me yesterday: "So this butler guy knows about your blog, right?  And he's okay with what you say on there, right?"

Relax, Founding Father.  Or is Fore Father more appropriate?  Fore Father just somehow sounds dirty.  

The Butler loves this blog - or at least he pretends to.  

So while some of my favorite blogs have such clever features as Ten Word Tuesdays or Just The Tip Tuesdays (are Tuesdays slow or what?), I'm going to implement something more my style:

The Randomly Reoccurring Reference.  

The Butler had a lapse in judgement recently and introduced me to Beverly Hills 90210 - the old one.  With my extremely addictive personality, I am now locked into a 10-season relationship with these people on Netflix.  Seriously, I just finished the first episode and y'all, it's pretty damn intense.  Just off the top of my head, I know there were lots of parental issues with Dylan, Brenda and Brendan saved a girl from drowning, and then it turned out that girl was from the Valley and had a drinking problem.  It was all really crazy.  

Please direct any complaints about my new "other-life" to:

The Butler 

Down in the Basement

The Mansion on the Hill

Suburbia, VA 90210

Well, I hope you've enjoyed this Randomly Reoccurring Reference.  In other news, MY MOMZ is flying in tomorrow.  Get excited!

*As a result, my blog is very worried.  

An Exercise in Parenthetical Expressions

A few things have been lifting my spirits lately.  First of all, I've been visiting the tanning bed.  

Now before all you judgers can get all crazy and self-righteous on my (tan) ass, just let me say something first. I totally put SPF30 on my face every single morning.  Plus I'm only laying for 5 minutes - with my face lamp off.  So guess what?  I'm NOT going to look like an old leathah hand bag in the face in 30 years.  Oh.  You were worried about cancer?  Psssh.  That shiz ain't real.  Only what you look like is real.

I've also recently acquired what I like to call an "other-life," as interpreted by the cast and crew of NBC's 30ROCK.  Seriously, if you took a tiny pinch of me and several pinches of My Sister That's Closest To Me In Age (that's too long - MSTCTMIA), and then mixed us up, we would come out as Liz Lemon (as played by Tina Fey).  I can't describe Liz Lemon to you.  If you know MSTCTMIA, then you get this description.  If not, Netflix that shiz.  

I can officially use the phrase "Netflix that shiz" now because, you see, I am now a Netflix-er.  You might remember that last Thursday was our official holiday in this house - Coco's birthday.  I'm not sure exactly what happened, but I know I woke up the next morning with the contents of my purse dumped onto my bed, my credit card wrenched from my wallet.  A few hours later I checked my email, only to find several welcoming emails, congratulating me on my new Netflix account. 

I shit you not, dear reader.  I apparently awoke sometime around 3am in a drunken haze, feverishly scouring the internetz for Nicholas Cage movies.  Desperate, I signed up for Netflix, queued up Bangkok Dangerous, and then sat by my mailbox for 48 hours or less.  

Ok, I am shitting you about the mailbox part.  But the rest of the story is true!  Please see exhibit A.  

Not only does this picture confirm my Netflix account, but it also backs up its newness.  As an amateur (as well as a rabid Nick Cage fan), I tore into my first red envelope, damaging both the individual white sleeve and the red return envelope.  

This torn red envelope should also convey to you the depths to which my actual life has sunk.  Hence my refuge in 30ROCK.  I'm not just spending every waking moment Netflix-ing every single episode (two seasons in as many days, baby!!), I'm also integrating into my personal conversations short antecdotes detailing those hilarious highjinks of the characters on the show.

I'm not sure if The Butler has noticed yet, but if he has, he hasn't said anything.