I know my last two posts might have been somewhat long, but you have to understand that I envision these things as short stories being written by a poor, unpublishable nanny. However, I know a lot of my audience (My Older Man Friend) have the attention span of les bebes, so I'll go easy on ya today.
I worked late last night, which meant dinner, clean up, reading with les bebes, putting les bebes to bed, then watching TV until the big boys went to bed. BUT because I was on duty, I did this all WITHOUT ALCOHOL. Oh, the sacrifices I make for the safety of my chirrens.
Plus, watching TV until the big boys went to bed wasn't as easy as it might seem. First of all, I had to intermittently strain my voice to yell out, "Yo! Keep it down over there! I can't hear my programs!" while also keeping one eye on the pantry so Francois Philippe couldn't yoink all the Doritos. However, one thing that made this insanely difficult task a little less painful was the three episodes of LOST on our Tivo.
One day last year, I was at my friend Nate's house, baking special cookies for my (hot) geology professor, when I accidentally saw an episode of LOST. I was hooked. My friends were hooked. We spent many a weekend holed up with bongs and several seasons of the show (oh, who am I lying to - we did it on weekdays too - it's not like anyone was going to work or class). But you can only watch so fast. I became desperate to catch up in time for the Season 4 premiere and began reading scripts of the show online. This worked perfectly, except by the time I started watching the show on TV again, I didn't recognize any of the characters. I did, however, recognize their stage directions.
When I moved up here, I identified Francois Phillippe as the most susceptible to the charms of a 21-year old girl and convinced him to watch the show with me on the computer every night. Eventually, Coco and the twins caught wind, and, just like my hippie friends in Mississippi, were hooked. Over the course of about 2 months, we watched all four seasons. I would sometimes come into the living room around midnight, and Coco would be up, watching alone, eyes red, hand clenching the remote, bucket of ice cream on the floor.
I know NOTHING about technology. Until Bobby Habibi harassed (he would say 'gently led') me into getting a Mac, I didn't even care about technology. And then my Mac spoke to me in its hushed, white, intuitive, tones and I wanted more. So I'm trying to learn more through my blog. And by that I mean, I read about four sentences on the blogger help page and then my brain shuts off and I go eat ice cream.
However, I did change my template a little. Can you tell? I made the font bigger because I could barely read it, so how could I expect you to? I also changed my link colors from hard-to-see-gray to magenta and hunter green. (Do you detect a pattern of vision problems? Yes. I am 22 and I wear reading glasses. It is embarrassing. Thanks for bringing it up. Geez.)
That's it for tonight though. Whew. That was tough. I had to go to the 'layout' button, and then the 'fonts and colors' button, and then the 'link' button and then BACK to the same menu and save all my changes.
And then I had to wipe the sweat off my brow.
PS- Scheduled post in a few hours! Two-For Friday!!
Want to know why Nanny Garcia hasn't been able to blog in a hot minute? Please see below.
When I returned from Philadelphia, I was greeted by ... a drug dog. A great big German Shepherd. No, it wasn't there to feast upon Nanny Garcia's special brownies. It was there because Coco had lost her damn mind and adopted it. But of course Bobby told me this after I had dropped my bags and hit the ground running.
Everything Coco does, she does BIG. This past summer, we tried to teach les bebes how to swim. While I tried to focus primarily on the doggy paddle, Coco had them out there in floral swim caps, practicing the synchronized routines she'd choreographed in her spare time.
Apparently Coco read a book about circus animals during the depression and decided to rescue every German Shepherd in Northern Virginia (how these things are related, I do not know). She has undertaken a few raffles and various other fundraisers and, of course, she had to rescue her very own dog as well.
I should take this time to mention that about a month after I moved here, I was viciously attacked by a German Shepherd in the neighborhood. Let's just let that sink in for a moment.
After several weeks of jumping through adoption hoops (did you know dogs have fucking caseworkers?), we got our very own lean, mean, child-eating machine German Shepherd. We named her Shotzi, which is German for little treasure.
Well, Shotzi had issues. Like, more issues than I have. Issues as in Angelina Jolie in Girl, Interrupted kind of issues. The only time she left a certain patch of carpet in the living room was when she was growling at someone, attacking someone, or pretending she didn't notice someone. She seemed to like Coco the best, meaning she pretending to not notice her the most.
Coco kept pointing out that if Shotzi were a small dog, we would pay no mind to its barking. I countered this with pointing out that if her children were waving a potato gun around the house, our reactions would differ greatly from their brandishing a machine gun in the living room.
And now let me introduce the substory. Dash had a stomach bug earlier this week, which he so kindly shared with me. You would think I would be elated at the chance to be all skinny and shiz for my hot date with The Butler, but I was less elated, more queezy. Coco kept insisting I go to sleep, but I didn't take her advice until I puked on the stairs. (Luckily I had one of my drunk bags in my coat pocket.)
Oh yeah, Coco was home on Wednesday after we'd enjoyed a snow storm followed by an ice storm. Let me briefly give you her point of view: trapped inside the house with 5 kids, a neurotic dog, 4-ft of work to be done, and the amazing puking nanny.
So back to the main story. I woke up from my nauseated sleep to the sound of the dog barking. Francois Philippe was playing Guitar Hero in the basement my quarters, so I asked him what was going on upstairs. "Oh nothing," he replied. "So why is Shotzi barking," I asked. "Oh yeah, she attacked Justin and Dustin."
Of course I ran upstairs to find Coco, Justin and Dustin crying. Shotzi chose this already high-stress day to fuck everything up royally by attacking the twins while Coco had heroically stood between them and punched the dog in the nose.
Now, Justin reacted to this incident by going into the basement, just as Coco and I instructed. Dustin, however, flung himself atop the breakfast table and began to scream about how much he loved Shotzi. What the fuck, right???
Since Shotzi was guarding the kitchen and living room from Dustin, we had to sneak him through the back door into the basement via the nanny door. He did not go willingly.
Coco stayed upstairs with Shotzi and waited for the dog rescue people to come pick her up while I stayed downstairs with the kids. Dustin kept interrupting les bebes and my rousing game of "house" so we integrated him into our story line by pretending he was a crazy man and then calling the cops (Sassy - my half mannequin - and Dash) to come escort him from our property. Then Dustin knocked Sassy over so we started screaming "Officer down!!" and then took her to the hospital. Then we had a funeral after the crazy man followed her into the hospital and shot her through a pillow (a la The Godfather).
But I digress.
After several hours of the entire family beind held hostage in the basement, the dog lady finally arrived to pick up Shotzi (who I'm sure was equally glad to see her). Dustin was not going to let the dog go quietly though and I had to physically restrain him from leaping up the stairs and flinging his body upon the dog. At one point, the dog lady came downstairs to calmly explain that the dog had to leave because if a German Shepherd bites a child, it's straight to Death Row for them. But after Dustin threw an armoir at her, she told me I would have to restrain him and that dogs couldn't be in emotionally unstable environments. Well, shit, she met me and Coco so why'd she give us a dog in the first place? We're about as emotionally unstable as they come.
Then Dusty dashed out the nanny door (barefoot - in the snow) so I had to chase after him (barefoot - in the snow) and then tackle him to the icy ground. And I thought Northern Virginia was a move out of the trailer park.
I was fighting the urge to puke this whole time. AND THEN I had to go to chemistry class, a class that I had to leave 20 minutes into so I could go puke in the bathroom ... and on my shoes. Fortunately I had on snow boots so the vomit wiped right off. But then I had to sit through my three-hour lab. And guess who sat next to me? That's right, the class Smart Ass.
But then I came home, took a TylenolPM (or six of them) and slept until the new day.
Please feel free to send your condolences via cash or check to:
As you may have heard, Dora and I recently traveled to Bossy's hometown to visit our dearly beloved friend, Benjamin Franklin, and our newly beloved friend E Darryl (seriously, his first name is a letter) and The Outlaw (to you, I apologize. Dora came up with your blog name). Many bowls were shared, bread was broken, stories told, tears shed. And I recount this all for you now.
The ride there was, um, looooong. I think this might have been because we blasted through all our momentum (namely, The Indigo Girls) before we were even out of Virginia. Plus, I was still in Nanny mode, meaning I was texting Justin and Francois Philippe long into Delaware. But three depressingly long hours later, we arrived at Benjamin Franklin's apartment, which is located in West Philadelphia, what some might call the edgy part of town. And by edgy, I mean, its primary tenants are crackheads, hipsters, and African immigrants. Needless to say, I was ELATED as I absolutely adore all three of these demographic groups. (I'm not being sarcastic. I regularly bring home stray hipsters.)
Dora and I probably should have unloaded our bags before we started passing around beers and bongs. This seemingly effortless task took us a painful hour to complete as we were simply too trashed to cross the street. We were having problems accurately evaluating the distance between us and the cars. We solved this problem by standing on the sidewalk and waiting for ALL headlights to clear out before we could cross the street ... only to find that Dora had left her key in the fucking apartment. Yep, back across ... twice ... before we got it right.
The next morning Dora attended to her Philly bidness while Benjamin Franklin and I walked to a local farmers market. We took this trip partially to check out the produce, but mostly to watch kids play with foam swords in a local park. Oh, and by kids, I mean, adults on drugs.
The rest of the day was mainly spent basking in the grand effulgence that is marijuana Benjamin Franklin and dear sweet E Darryl. But the real fun started up that night when Ben's friend The Outlaw picked us up and we headed to the bar ... and then the other, hopefully more happening, bar ... and then the other, hopefully less crowded, bar. The last bar was really the best. Because when I say best, I mean, provided me with the most blog fodder.
To start off, E Darryl is not 21. Which means he pretended to push The Outlaw's wheelchair into the bar because, you know, who's going to stop and ID the guy pushing the wheelchair?
And then, once inside the club Dora dubbed "Spring Break 09 - Miami," The Outlaw and I fell in love with the two greatest people at the bar: Drunk Guy and Cheetah Girl.
Drunk Guy spent his evening with his eyes rolled back in his head, telling everyone he lived in the "young professional" part of town, slyly groping asses when he thought no one was looking (little did he know that asses and crotches happen to be the mainstays of The Outlaw's line of vision), and, my personal favorite Drunk Guy move: aggressively thrusting his ass into any body part that would stay still long enough. Dora, of course, baited him into dancing with her, whereupon he immediately asked her if "Hey Mickey" was her "favorite dancing tune." He also confided to her that he hated everyone at the bar, including E Darryl because he was so nice -- "a little too nice, if ya know what I mean."
Ahh, and then there was Cheetah Gurl, so named for the print of shirt from which her generous bosom was spilling. There was simply no end to the Cheetah Gurl's antics. One minute she was grinding her crotch into a bouncer, the next she was vomiting on the dance floor. When I saw the mascara running down her face, I literally squealed and grabbed The Outlaw in excitement, who kept asking me, "Oh, what did we do to deserve the honor of this delicate beauty??? Her grace and charm is simply awe-inspiring." (He said that, I promise.)
We eventually left "Spring Break 09 - Miami" because The Outlaw suspected "it was getting too white up in there," which was subsequently confirmed by a Blink-182 song.
I remember telling myself that I was hot and should take off my jacket, but I was still surprised when I awoke on Ben's couch the next morning, one sleeve on, one sleeve off. I was more surprised that Bobby Habibi actually thought his 9am text message was going to be answered in a timely fashion. "Yes, we will be home in time for your Sunday roast, Bobby. And yes we will probably reek of the weekend at the dinner table."
Before I left Friday afternoon, I gave Bobby Habibi and Coco a copy of Philly Phun Mix so they wouldn't miss me so much over the weekend. Therefore, Bobby's comment didn't count towards the contest. *I threw that "therefore" in there to make it seem more like legal jargon.
So that means Cat and The Butler "Ryan" won autographed copies of the CD! Yay!
Check back tomorrow for tales from Philadelphia!
PS - As I write this, Bobby Habibi is standing in the doorway, calling me unfair, and claiming that the third autograph CD (being given to Cat) is going to deflate the value of his CD.
You'll probably miss me a lot this weekend, so I scheduled this post to hold you over. Please enjoy (looking at, not actually listening to) this mix of songs that Dora and I will be jamming to all weekend. This is just a random compilation of some of our favorite songs. Some consider this a follow-up album to our all-time classics mix, FITS 2-Double OH!-2.
Violent Femmes - Blister in the Sun
Ani DeFranco - Buildings and Bridges
Indigo Girls - Closer to Fine
Phish - Farmhouse
Otis Redding - The Happy Song
Sarah Harmer - I Am Aglow
Taj Mahal - Lovin' In My Baby's Eyes
Beatles - Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds
Curtis Mayfield - Move On Up
Oysterhead - Mr. Oysterhead
G. Love and The Special Sauce - My Baby's Got Sauce
Blind Melon - No Rain
Bob Dylan - On A Night Like This
Grateful Dead - Scarlet Begonias
Sublime - Scarlet Begonias
Ben Harper - Sexual Healing
Talking Heads - Naive Melody
Old Crow Medicine Show - Wagon Wheel
Widespread Panic - The Waker
PS - The first two people to comment get an autographed copy of Philly Phun mix. (Except Chocolate, who can't play, because I'm not mailing that shit to Albania, Boo.) I would have made it the first five, but usually only one or two people comment anyway. It's actually just a matter of who besides Cat is getting one.
I must have racked up a lot of good energy points because I am being rewarded this weekend with the presence of two of my absolute favorite people in the universe (My Older Man Friend and My Uncle Ted are up there too). Not only is Dora coming to visit (TODAY! SHE ARRIVES TODAY!!!), but we are going to spend the weekend in Philadelphia with our childhood friend Benjamin Franklin.
Y'all know all about Dora, so let me tell ya a little somethin' somethin' about Benjamin Franklin. He is gorgeous. Additionally, he is the most genuinely kind person I know. He's spent about the last bajillion years working at Boys and Girls Clubs, then he worked on the Obama campaign for free for six months. After that, he was promoted to Chief Fancy Pants for the Obama campaign and now he is a Big Fancy Campaign Manager for Big Fancy People in Philadelphia.
I don't really care about his fabulous political titles, but he is one of the dearest friends I've ever had and I love him so very much (awwww....). He has come to visit me a few times, but I never get to really sit down and have a beer with him because he has the knack of visiting at my busiest, most stressful times. So this weekend, I'm taking it easy, enjoying my time with my three best friends (Dora, Thomas Jefferson, and Mary Jane, that is), and not fixing one damn sandwich or putting anyone in time out.
You might have heard about the inauguration of Barack Obama recently. Well, all of DC and Nova were shut down this week, including all of my chirrens' school. So I've been cooped up with all five of them this week. Can you imagine?
Maybe not, but I am absolutely wiped out. It's 7pm, Trixie is screaming upstairs, Justin in playing the piano, and Francois Philippe is playing Guitar Hero. All I want to do is smoke a cig and go to bed. Which brings me to this post.
It is unnaturally cold here. Hippies have an inherent aversion to cold anyway, coupled with the fact that I'm from Mississippi, where we enjoy seasons comparable to those in Africa and other lush deserts. The other day, I tried to rebel and go to Dash's karate class in my short brown nanny/mental patient jumper with flip flops. After slipping on ice and freezing my thighs off, I reluctantly retreated inside to at least put on tights and Birkenstocks. Seriously, this weather is enough to make me wanna quit my smokes since I have to fucking suit up every time I step outside the NannyDoor. Here I am in my smoking gear. The first one was obviously not the picture I meant to take, but it's funny to me because I am very seriously concentrating on setting up my webcam. And as y'all know, I rarely do anything seriously.
I rarely censor myself. I adhere only to the following self-imposed guidelines:
a) If I know it will greatly hurt one of my friends. Like, I would never write about this one thing of Dora's that's she's very sensitive about. Its initials are FB.
b) If it greatly violates someone's privacy. Like, I would never write about this one thing of Dora's that's she's very secretive about. Its initials are MM.
c) If it would offend my mom. Which is why I don't use GD or bitch on my blog. These things offend her.
Anyway, I love this cartoon strip, xkcd. This is my favorite cartoon from their series because I hear about my "future employers" all.the.time. Check it out here. I heard about the series from Mr. Lady.
I just got off a very busy and important phone call with my dear friend Joella DeVille, during which time Joella and I discussed the merits of the song Private Dancer by Tina Turner. And by discuss, I mean we crooned snippets of the song back and forth to each other for several minutes while Joella was walking to work on Beale Street. Music on Beale Street is nothing new, but I guess since we sounded less like Tina Turner, more like the Cookie Monster, Joella got some stares. Or I assume someone was staring at him because he suddenly interrupted our crude duet to yell: "Boo, I ain't yo mirror!"
In addition to easy listening hits of the 80s, Joella called to announce he and his significant other are moving to Seattle April 15th (they are obviously running from the IRS - though they could have chosen a less conspicuous departure date). Now, Joella and I know what it's like to be broke. Hell, I'm a domestic servant. I mean, a greatly glorified domestic servant, but I still live in some else's basement. And Joella, having no car, rollerblades around Memphis. We're eccentric homeless people.
But our mutual BFF, Georgia (the hippie), knows nothing of this, as her parents are flying her out to Denver next week, to look for furnished apartments. The first time she met Joella's significant other, she kept going on and on about how no matter how hard she tried, she just couldn't get broke. She would spend money like water, and her parents would just keep filling her bank account back up.
Now, Joella and I are used to this sort of shit. It sounds bitchy, but Georgia's wealth is actually very endearing because, despite all the money she has, she still spends it like a poor person (or a child). Examples: kites that she flies in the WalMart parking lot at 4am, 200lb bags of cheese popcorn, hammocks for all of her friends (not lying - this happened freshman year - then we realized they didn't fit in our dorm rooms and they just got tossed out).
However, Joella's significant other just wasn't used to this sort of talk so he replies, "Georgia, I'm not trying to be rude because I just met you and all, but shut the fuck up."
What? You thought I'd post about the inauguration? Fuck that, I'm a leader, not a follower.
PS - Check out Joella's significant other's blog here.
Well, I'm down to the bottom of the barrel. I have exactly zero (0) pairs of clean underwear, my shirts all smell like patchouli and doritos (a hippie nanny's trademark smell, of course), and I've been stealing socks from Justin and Dustin. I really don't want to start laundry at 2am (and I'm sure Coco and Bobby Habibi, whose bedroom is next to the laundry room, don't want me to either).
I could have done this all earlier while everyone else was at a family friend's house, but I took that opportunity to smoke cigarettes, eat veg chili with sour cream and jalepenos (it's lasted me about five days, since no one else has ate a damn drop), and then watched a Cheaters marathon on G4. I really love everything about that show, but my favorite part is the creepy way that Joey Greco always promise to "take care" of the "nice young ladies" that they dudes are caught cheating with. Like "Let's get this nice young lady a ride home ... to my house pants."
Oh, and thanks to everyone who phoned in tips (even the anonymous ones) as to the whereabouts of My Older Man Friend. I found him over at Catherinette's. But don't worry, I'm on the phone to Joey Greco already.
As you know, I've been bettering myself over at the community college. I like my class, but I have to admit I was a little disappointed.
One of the things that excited me about the community college was the diverse student population. Okay, okay. I was less concerned about diversity, more concerned about finding a new (hot) foreign boyfriend to replace The Moroccan.
No romantic prospects in the class. And, as lame as it sounds, I wanted to be friends with everyone too. When class ends, I dawdle, putting my books in my bag veeerrry slooooowly, giving everyone ample time to approach me and start up a friendship. And then everyone silently files out of the room, leaving me standing there like, "Ok, guys, see ya next week!"
But the worst part is this one smart ass who sits in the front. I don't mean smart ass in that he knows all the answers, I mean smart ass who interrupts class to ask if he can go to the bathroom, who tells the teacher her exercises are irrelevant, and whispers in class to a kid who looks suspiciously like a football player (have I ever told you about my vendetta against college athletes - that's a whole 'nother story).
It's unfortunate that SmartAss (ahh, and another blog name is born) is in my class because I am going to have to put him in his place. Not only that, but I have to do it at exactly the right moment to maximize the effects, which means I'm going to spend the next several weeks taking notes on all his classroom fuckery.
Today Dash and Trixie watched Aladdin on the TV set. Which is actually a banging movie, as far as Disney flixxx go.
When Aladdin and Jasmine get all snuggly on the magic carpet and sing "A Whole New World," Trixie stared up at me with her big ol' doe eyes and goes, "Oh, NannyGarcia, they like each other! It's a happy ending!"
So of course I turned it off right then so she didn't have to through all the emotional turmoil of a fully-developed plot line. I know they end up together, but there's all those messy trials and tribulations they have to go through and life shouldn't have to be so oogly and hard for a 4-yr old.
But speaking of Aladdin ... did you know NannyGarcia dated him? Well, I dated the guy who played him at Disney World. It's a real long story as to how our love came to be, but it did. He came to visit me up here one time. And, unfortunately, My Original Gay Husband (who is even sassier than the current version) met him many moons ago. I have yet to live it down. He at least had the decency to wait until The Moroccan (as he is now known) was in the bathroom to ask, "Where the hell did you get this immigrant and when are you returning him?"
Many of my friends were kind though. I mean, he was pretty hot and wore tight pants and he was fucking Moroccan. Know what city he was from? Casa-motherfucking-blanca. I shit you not. To be quite honest, he wasn't the strangest thing I'd ever brought home. The first time he came to Mississippi, we went on a double date with My Gay Husband and his then-love interest. Awkward, to say the least.
Ok, so now you know about The Moroccan, which primes you for tomorrow's story.
**I would also like to publicly add that I totally wanted to marry The Moroccan, and totally would have, if I wasn't on my diddy's kick-ass health insurance until I'm married.
Dora babysits for two kids, as well as their grandmother who suffers from dementia. If you've never known anyone with dementia, it's old people doing shit that would be high-larious if they were a drunk college kid. But since it's an elderly person who is neither drunk nor an asshole who deserves to bust their lip on a sink, it's less funny, more heartbreaking. So Dora and I made a pact to kill each other in case of dementia. But, in retrospect, the only way that Dora and I could be any more fun is if we both had dementia, so maybe we should just force our children into a different pact, vowing to videotape our highjinks. Gah, being an adult is going to be awesome.
I was very upfront when I interviewed and made sure I told Bobby Habibi very loudly that I cannot cook. They hired me anyway. (That sentence has been uttered many-a-time in the past year.) Sometimes, though, I feel guilty about throwing frozen pizza, chicken nuggets, and hamburgers at my kids day after day. So sometimes I like to do something a little crazy: cook.
Tonight I made vegetarian chili, using this recipe from Whole Foods. I think Vuboq would have liked this, since word on the Beltway is that he spends the majority of his unemployment checks at Whole Foods. *burn*
So after I'd given myself carpal tunnel from opening cans and stirring, guess who ate that shit. Me. Only me. Francois Phillipe had a hotdog sandwich, the twins had a banana, Dash had meat (his favorite food), and Trixie had string cheese. I sat at the head of the table, very calmly eating my chili, luxuriating in the halluhpeenyuhs and sour cream, pretending like FP's hotdog sandwich wasn't a fucking slap in my ruddy face (my face is actually ruddy, I'm not just looking for funny adjectives).
And Cat complained because one of her kids didn't like croutons. Geez.
PS - If any faithful readers see my My Older Man Friend wandering around My Alma Mater, tell him to drop his favorite nanny(me) a line. I ain't heard from that boo in a hot minute.
I am waiting for my friends Elsa and Lupe to finish mopping the kitchen so I can go make some delectable rice concoction*. So you have my attention until then. Lupe doesn't speak any English at all, so I had to call Dora (who has a degree in Spanish) to ask her como se dice "I like your ponytail" en espanol.
If you've been keeping up with your favorite childcare provider (me), then you know I've been jumping through medical hoops. And guess what? Fucking nothing. I did get some new pillz that the doc keeps reiterating are NOT diet pillz, but will make me lose wait. Uh, sounds like a motherfucking diet pill to me. Or magic. Either way, I'm fine with it.
I like this doctor. I think he has OCD, but he hasn't asked my opinion on the matter yet. I picked him off the internetz because his first name is Farhad, which is my favorite Persian name. But when he tries to explain things to me, his ramblings seem too circitous to follow. And then afterwards my mom will ask me what he said to which I can only reply "Pancreas".
So I'm pretty sure he was saying everything is A-OK, but who cares? I really only have three questions for any doctor.
1) Is this going to kill me any faster than my booze and cigarettes?
2) Is this going to make me fatter?
3) Does this in any way qualify me for a medical marijuana license?
If the answer to all three of those questions is no, then I just stop listening and walk out the door.
* I have two rice concoction recipes. My favorite is rice, dark red kidney beans, 1 can tuna, 1 tbsp Miracle Whip Light, several tbsp fat free plain yogurt, crushed red pepper. My other recipe is rice, lima beans, dill weed, lemon juice, fat free plain yogurt, and black pepper. My father calls this "Creative Cooking".
As I mentioned, tonight me + the gals went out for Andrea Louise & The Sistah-in-Law's birthdays. (Coco's Sistah-in-Law, not mine, I should mention. I am forever appropriating Coco's family members.) However, it was not the shit-show I had anticipated. I was especially disappointed in Andrea Louise, who did not take off one single item of clothing. Not even her cheetah-trimmed vest. In fact, it was so tame that I came home to edit Dora's job application essays (it's not a burden - I love correcting other people's mistakes).
Last year, my roommate Lois and I had several dark reality-show secrets, including Rock of Love and Sunset Tan (who can resist a show about "LA's most chichi tanning salon"??) as well as E!'s Daily Ten news show, where we got all of our essential celeb gossip. But other than that, I used my TV more as a bong stand than a source of entertainment (that's what the lava lamp was for). Now that I've got my degree from a college whose football conference was considered "The Nerdy Nine," I feel like I can let my brain rot a little and indulge in this television box I have heard so much about.
But I am honestly alarmed by the sensationalism I consistently see on my tv box. "10 TON MOM!" followed by "10 TON TEEN!" followed by "10 MOST HORRIFYING PLACES ON EARTH!" I am beginning to suspect that TV caters primarily to extremely de-sensitized citizens and when somebody like me wanders out of the library, the natural reaction is, "Whoah, whoah, turn down the volume and why are all these graphics flying at my face???"
However, I am really looking forward to watching "Dark Days in Monkey City" on Animal Planet. I also like their "Planet Earth" series. I'm watching one about the jungle right now and y'all, the jungle is fucking NUTZ! Tons of tiny bugs and fungi and other miniscule things that prompted my mother to send 32 pairs of socks with me to Africa. I am especially captivated by this CRAZY plant with a neon green/pink pitcher-like bulb. Inside the bulb is a liquid that emits an enticing scent. Curious ants wander down to investigate and find only their watery graves. On the cusp of the bulb permanently lives some crazy ass spider who preys upon the ants that drown inside. THEN the corpses of these ants are digested by the enzymes in the bulb liquid, which nourishes the plant.
How amazing is all that shiz?? I bet that cusp-dwelling spider is one sneaky motherfucker. The ants crawl right past him and he is all like, "There's some freaky shit down there, yo." Then he alludes to something sexy and the ant gets all excited and rushes down, only to drown, while the spider hangs on the cusp with his stupid silk, peering down at the ant, laughing. (Did all that just happen in my head or what?)
In other news, there's a show on PBS right now called "Sandwiches You Will Like". I am tempted to watch this out of love for PBS, but I'm stuck on animal planet because I don't like people telling me what to do or what sandwiches to favor.
Yesterday les bebes and I stormed the cuhmoooonity college to get me into my chem class. People kept complimenting me on my well-behaved children and telling les bebes how cute they were. Dash and Trixie just soak it up. They are total pros. Trixie, especially, will turn up her doe eyes, flip her hair, twirl her skirt, all to get a grin from a receptionist or check out clerk. After episodes like this, Dash usually says something like, "I counted 14 people who said we were good and I think it only takes 12 compliments to go to Target!!"
Speaking of les bebes, they're finishing up their lunch now so I have to return to making escape pods for action figures, which is what they think I've been doing this whole time.
Tonight Coco and I are going out for Andrea Louise and Coco's sister-in-law's birthdays. This should be a total shit show - or at least I hope it is. I will be in rare form since my plans for tomorrow include sleeping until 1pm, going to the gym, taking a shower, and then napping from about 4pm to 6pm. This will all possibly be followed by an outing with a local butler. Domestic servants have to stick together!!!
I have been blessed with the gift of perspective (My Older Man Friend is saying, "Blessed?? Blessed by ME, you mean!"). What this means to me is that, in any given situation, I have the ability to remove my head from deep within the recesses of my own nether regions and ask, "What hilarity is going on right now? Or, better yet, "What would this look like in a movie??" Such questions were asked today at the radiology office.
An unfortunately skinny woman (meaning it was very unfortunate that she is skinny and I am not) with sad eyes led me to a "dressing room" and directed me to gown up and subsequently make my way to the "patient lounge". Patient lounge? In my head, my gowned peers and I enjoyed a leisurely smoke, sharing some quiet laughs over our drinks. In reality, it was a smaller version of the waiting room with a phone. And my only companion, a middle aged woman who had selected the beige gown rather than the grey (grey's in now, FYI), was too busy sealing and resealing the plastic bag that held her "personal effects" to make idle lounge talk with me.
After I'd seen el doctoro, I was essentially abandoned in the exam room. After several minutes, I de-gowned and peeked my head outside. Fuck, humorless skinny girl again. But I did my best. "So uh, should i just cut outta here or swing back by the patient lounge for a cig??" "Ms. Garcia, you can follow the corridor to the right back to the reception area."
Is that how people talk in doctor offices now? When I was growing up, my doctor was my friend Nagrom's dad. This meant my doctor visits usually started off with something like, "Yo yo, Doctah Bill, how's it hanging, thug???" After he'd finished interrogating me about his dwindling liquor supply at his house, he'd get down to non-medicating me and prescribed only that I stop skipping Tech Discovery class for mysterious ailments that disappeared by 5th period.
This was the same doctor who, after his daughter and I were BUSTED skipping class, refused to write us notes and instead allowed us to languish in In-School-Suspension for a whole day.
N-E-Way ... I never know how to end these things. So - The End.
Sometimes, I am terribly immature. Like, just a second ago when Francois Phillippe was refusing to read the Jack Kerouac book I was throwing at him. I kept screaming "This book changed my life!! His literary style was, at the time, absolutely unorthodox!! Unorthodox, I'm telling ya!!" This episode ended with me stomping off muttering, "Fine. If you don't want to grow up to be as cool as me (you know, the lady who lives in your basement), then don't read Jack Kerouac. Just keep watching Spongebob while your brain rots."
Geez, I gotta stop letting these chirrens get to me!!
I had more bloodywerk done this morning. Fortunately, my Caribbean friend was there and I was done in about 10 minutes. His ethnicity is actually a mystery to me, but every time I see him his accent sounds a little bit different. So today he was Caribbean. That's really how anthropology works - guessing and then half-heartedly publishing, knowing someone younger and more attractive is just waiting to reguess everything you just guessed.
Oh, I kid, I kid. Anthropology is very scientifical.
Last time I visited my South African friend, my arm was a total bruised up mess. Coco gave me the side eyes when she asked what happened to my arm, as if I might be sneaking out the nanny door after bedtime to shoot up on street corners (My Older Man Friend wants to say something like "If the bruises fit" right now).
But no. I think the real reason my arm is a hot mess is because they fucking duct tape the gauze to my arm! So as I was yanking earlier, I thought, "Why not record this and put it on the internet??" (Which is sort of what I think about, uh, everything.) So enjoy. If you listen real close you can hear me breathing heavy (the story of my life) and my skin weeping as only industrial-strength adhesive will make it do.
Actually, I just watched the video and it's pretty boring. You should skip it.
I don't even feel like blogging because I'm so depressed because I can't register for classes at the community (pronounced cuh-moooo-nity) college until I have my transcript from my alma mater. I went in there with my degree, like, "Uh, I have a bachelor's. Can't you just naturally infer that I, at some point before I graduated, took English and Math 101 and sign me into this motherfucking advanced Chem class??????"
But didn't nobody want to help a sistah out today so now I'm just glumming around my room. I even went to Borders with my 40% off coupon and bought Jack Kerouac's Wake Up: A Life of the Buddha but even that didn't cheer me up. I think if I go to the gym and cry run on the treadmill I should perk up though.
As you all know, La Henna and My Gay Husband paid me a lengthy visit this past week. I'm too tired to write about all of it, but here is one of my favorite parts.
My Gay Husband was dead-set on hitting the gay bars. I tried to explain to him that people don't always go out in DC on Thursday nights that drop below 20 degrees, but he would not be persuaded. I foolishly followed his direction for awhile ... into what was obviously the wrong side of town. Now, I am pretty irresponsible with my own safety adventurous so when I was clutching wildly at his coat (he may be gay, but he's buff) and begging him to get back on the Metro, you have to know it was a pretty rough area. He finally dragged me to a horrible, horrible gay bar (for those of you in the DC - area: Apex). I looooove gay bars so I am not using the word horrible lightly here. There were about 19 people on the dance floor, which also happened to be their average age (18+ bars suck, as a general rule).
But my favorite part of the night was on the Metro back into the VA suburbs when some guy asked if My Gay Husband was the hot gay and I was his fairy princess (which is nice for fag hag). Afterwards, My Gay Husband turns to me and says, "I told you I'd get called hot before the night was over."
To which I replied: "Uh, yeah, but that gay was a crackhead with a black eye and braces!!!"
My Gay Husband arrived Monday night and headed over to the Metro station Kiss-N-Ride with me to pick up La Henna. Everything was going great. La Henna had been carrying a torn cardboard box with her the entire time, which I just naturally assumed held her clothes and toiletries. MUCH BETTER THAN THAT. La Henna brought me a gift:
That's a mannequin, no legs, one arm, dressed like a flight attendant. Dash took one look at her and named her Sassy.
My excitement over my superb gift was dampened by my dead NannyMobile in the parking lot. Yep, totally dead. I stood there for a second, letting La Henna and My Gay Husband pretend to try and then we all smoked cigarettes and stared at it. None of that worked. We ended up waiting an hour and a half for the roadside assistance guy to come jump us off (which always sounds dirty to me).
The worst part was that La Henna had arrived on one of the last trains of the night. So all the cars had slowly trickled out of the parking lot, the taxi cabs off to find fares elsewhere. But we made the most of what little fodder was left. A cop car drove around the lot slowly a couple times, then dropped off a girl from the back of his car. She went to sit at one of the bus benches ... but no more buses were running that night!!!!!! Clearly, a prostitute. We spent most of our time watching her. One lone cabbie tried to solicit her services but then some guy walked up and ruined the whole thing.
We were so tired when we got back that, after we had eaten every leftover in the house and imbibed a lot little, I was so tired I didn't even force My Gay Husband to snuggle with me. And if you know how needy and sad I am, then you know that's pretty damn tired.
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.