Tell Me That You Love Me, Yeah-uhhhh

As you may know, I live in the basement and over the past year, I've grown accustomed to the family's morning pitter patters on the floor above.  This skill has served me well.

For example, if Trixie has eaten a bowl of sugah for breakfast and is running marathons overhead, I know to brace myself as I emerge from the basement since she is likely to pounce as soon as the door is opened.  

The kitchen chairs also make a very distinct sound as the twins scrape them away from the computer.  When I don't hear this sound on a Saturday morning, I know that one of two things is happening: Coco has lost her shit and they're cowering in fear, far away from the computer or they're at a friend's house.  Either way, it's a twinz-free zone for a few hours.  

Or, this morning, for example.  I woke up with Chaka Khan playing on repeat in my head.  But I had to wait about half an hour for the footsteps to subside so I could head to the shower the recording studio to work on my rendition of Tell Me Something Good (I play all the parts - including the synthesizers).  

*Sniff* Ahhhh .... know what that smell is?  

a) Jank - the amazingly flatulent dog

b) the smell of a fart let fly by one's own ass cheeks (see yesterday's post)

c) the sweet smell of the morning dew on the FIRST DAY OF THE REST OF MY LIFE

If you guessed c) Nanny Garcia is neurotic and delusional the sweet smell of the morning dew on the FIRST DAY OF THE REST OF MY LIFE, then you're right! 

The goals I've set for my new life are as follows:

a) Help the Braves win the World Series

b) lose 60 pounds

c) learn - and retain - Kiswahili

d) save the world

e) get into graduate school

f) meet an elephant (for you, Chok)

Ubiquitous Blog About Blogging

I guess I have to start writing again or everyone's going to hate me (I've never been very good in the face of peer pressure).  

I know that if Cat were to walk into our house, she would be able to immediately point out numerous high-larious goings on that would make for fabulous blog fodder.  

Actually, if Cat were to walk in our house, Jank and Juno would immediately begin their monstrously cute baby-dog-on-fucked-up-looking-dog routine, giving Dash and Trixie's precocious 4-yr-old-on-6-yr-old routine a run for its money.  

Our family's favorite pastime is "vying for attention".  

And then I would be like, "Oh, Cat.  Hi.  Uh..."  and it would be awkward because I would see my real life and my cyber life come crashing into each other, but then she would pull out her iTouch and I would be all dazzled and "ooooh, crossword app...." and then she would probably just sit on the couches with me and Coco and balance her laptop on her gut like an old pro.  

My point here (and there's always a point, loyal reader) is that I know there's whacky shit in our house to write about.  But it's not always as simple as looking around the room and exclaiming: "Ah ha! Coco is snarling silently at Bobby Habibi as he gesticulates wildly with a Happy Meal toy while lecturing at the dinner table on the topic of multicultural food staples - I'll write about that!" 

It's sort of like not being able to smell your own farts.  Or, rather, you smell them, but they don't seem so nasty when they're yours.  

Ok, yeah, I'm going with the fart thing.  That's exactly what our house is like.  

Guess What?

It's Monday at 3pm and guess where I'm headed.  

To bed. 

Why?  Because daytime napping is my #1 favorite activity in the whole entire world.  

Plus, I sold my kids to the circus last week and the caravan just picked them up a little while ago.  

A man who is good for excuses is seldom good for anything else.

I know I haven't been blogging much lately, but some days just aren't worth chewing through the leather straps to get over here to my computer.  

No, seriously, our house is just nutz as usual while my social life has taken a drastic turn from nonexistent to flourishing.  

Thursday night I met Thugalicious Homeboy*'s main squeeze, Rhett Butler, at Afterwords.  It was great to gab with a fellow Mississippian and I, of course, drank too much.  We ended the night with plenty of grease and tears, as most Southerners do.  

Saturday I had lunch with Goldie - also from Mississippi, one of my sistah's besties - who was, as usual, on her rhetorical A-Game.  After checking out the sales at Urban Outfitters (lame, FYI), I trekked back to the suburbs to fake-study for several hours.  

The Butler and I went to IHOP for a later dinner Saturday night, which was the greatest decision we've ever non-made before.  After that, we watched Matchstick Men twice in a row. (Have I ever mentioned that I am obsessed with Nicholas Cage?? I am.)

Today The Butler, Coco, and I went to les bebes' ice skating lesson and then, after stopping at the house to give the dogs some good, good lovin', we saw Coraline.  Great movie.  I was totally scared.    

Ok, so that's what I've been doing while I've not been blogging.  Judge me if you will.  I can tell no lies (except the two above - can you spot them?)

* So named for his intimate knowledge of every rap song produced between 1995 and 2003.  It's truly a gift.  

It's a long story about what happened tonight.  I could tell it, but let me just get straight to the punch line.  It involved me walking around DC for several hours with a sex whip hanging out of my purse.  

Addendum

I was just drying my hair, staring in the mirror, wishing I hadn't written that post.  I don't like to be so divulging of my personal turmoil, you know.  But Boo Kitty totally channeled me through that mirror (she can do that - she's got those Grateful Dead Voodoo powers) and I know she would tell me to "get out of myself" (ten points if you know where that comes from).  Actually, she would say something like, "It's weird.  It's like I can hear your voice, even though your head is jammed so far up your own ass."  So that's the new plan.  Food for All DC this Saturday morning at a painfully early 9am.  Check out their website here.  

Feck U

Last night I got back from the gym and I could.not.move.  Totally unrelated to the gym though.  I simply could not be motivated to leave my bed.  I laid there for about three hours, telling myself that I needed to shower, or at least wash my face, take out my contacts, etc.  

I normally enjoy my bedtime routine.  First of all, I love Vaseline and Neosporin, which I put all over my arms, my legs, face, hair, all over.  Plus my pm regimen gives me a weird sense of accomplishment, as if I've actually done something (which I haven't).  

But I seriously just couldn't get out of bed.  I had tons of chemistry to study for, so while I had my books and papers strewn about me, I paid them no attention.  

And it was the same thing this morning.  I had lots of reasons to get out of my bed.  I'd spent the entire night dreaming about the Flying Dutchman ghost off of Spongebob Squarepants.  As he and his henchmen could neither feel pain nor die (again), I was scared and very much relieved to wake up back in my bed.  Though it was 7am, and I should have been headed to the gym and/or studying, I just went back to sleep to dream about Andrea Louise putting ads in Polish newspapers.  

After finally convincing myself that I would really, really regret it later if I didn't get out of bed at 9am, I jumped in the shower and reflected upon my past few weeks.  

I'm not one to stick with things for very long.  Don't want to gather any dust or anything, you know.  So I thought I'd just been fighting my typical wanderlust, trying to temper down the urge to pack up my things and head to Jamaica (seriously, this is where my new life in my head was going down).  I should go to New York this weekend and see Dora*, I told myself.  I should go back to Jackson, MS for the St. Patrick's Day parade, I planned.  I should throw a Mardi Gras party at our house and bake a king cake!  Make some hurricanes, throw some beads at the chirrens.  That would really spice things up.  

But oh, clinical depression, I should have recognized your strong embrace.  Like a lot of people, I go through bouts during which life is a constant battle to keep my head above water.  I wait for my day to drift into the next with joyless abandon.  I'm not sad.  I am neurotic and depressed, that doesn't mean that I'm sad.  Actually, sadness would be a welcome alternative.  As I've mentioned, I love to cry; I relish my tears.  But Monday on NPR's Tell Me More, this woman was essentially eulogizing one of her dearest friends and not a tear did fall.  Now that's messed up. 

The absence of tears indicates I'm no longer experience emotions like I LOVE to do (Are you Passionate? and all that Neil Young jazz) as blegh and blah are not official emotions.   

Typically, Chokolate, My Older Man Friend, and Boo Kitty would have pulled me out of this funk with ease.  But, alas, they're in Albania, Mississippi, and Alabama, respectively.  So my new plan (because you know I always have a plan) is to start a blog ... oh wait, already tried that one?  Well, maybe I'll get a box of herbs from the hippie sister and just ride this thing out.  

* She's there for a job interview. 

Obligatory Valentine's Post

I guess an obligatory Valentine's Day post should happen on or before VDay, but whatever.  Like Trixie playing Candy Land, I make the rules up as I go.  

I'm supposed to have some bitterly cynical remark about the commercialization of a thinly-veiled Catholic holiday, but I don't.  I just want to share some stories with y'all.  

During my freshman year of college, my boyfriend and I had been secretly dating for a few months and wanted to do something secretly awesome for Valentine's Day.  We ended up spending the day writing our favorite memories on Parliament Light cigarettes.  Here's an example:

No, that's not one of the originals*.  We lived desperate lives back then.  One by one, we smoked up all those memories.  

This year, The Butler was blessed with the honor of being my Valentine.  He doesn't smoke PFunks and we don't have that many memories though.  We made some inglorious Dupont Circle plans, but ended up watching Kung Fu Panda with Coco and the kids and then playing Guitar Hero with Francois Philippe.  We made FP go upstairs later so The Butler could listen to me make my typically insane comments while watching TV.  ("I LOVE this furniture commercial."  -2 seconds later- "Oh wait, no, I HATE it!  It's boring me!  It's boring me!!!)

But I actually had fun doing all this and the only real let down of this holiday was that The Butler didn't buy me any fucking candy.  Has he met me?  Candy is always a good idea with me.  Candy, crushed red pepper, and cheese.  All of these are like E-Z-Passes to my heart.  Fortunately for him, I'd already bought myself lovey-dovey candy earlier in the week, gorged myself on it, and subsequently lost interest (the story of my life, eh?).  

But The Butler MORE than made up for this minor faux pas with the CD he brought over.  It was filled with recordings of ... himself.  I don't know a whole lot about the type of music he plays, so I can only vaguely describe it as Radiohead-ish.  But that's besides the point.  The point is: I'm dating a rockstar.  

Before hearing him play, I was all, "I like you but I'm keeping you at an emotional arm's length so you won't break my heart." and now I'm all, "Uh, you sound like a real rockstar so you can break my heart all you want to just as long as I get to go on tour with you."  I've never been morally rigid.  

Of course, after hearing his songs, I kept insisting that I was going to make him famous.  He claims to have tried in vain to get his music career off the ground in the past (hence the current butler gig), but he's never had Nanny Garcia (and Coco) in his corner. 

I kept telling him, "My team never loses, Butler.  We may not always win, but we sure as hell never lose."  

We may have played a Saturday Night Live drinking game too long (take a shot of whiskey every time you find a skit genuinely funny) and The Butler may not have been able to drive home.  I did, however, make him move his car from in front of our house to around the corner.  Then, after we woke up at noon, I made him sneak out the nanny door, pull his car back up to our house, ring the doorbell, and pretend like he was there anew to pick me up for a hangover brunch.  

I thought this was an ingenious plan, but he was convinced we weren't fooling anyone.  His evidence:

a) His car seemed invisible when we drunkenly moved it in the dead of night.  In the light of day, however, it was painfully obvious, even from the front window of our house.

b) Escaping from the nanny door requires a dense fog to be really successful as you still have to work past the entire wall of windows on the side of the house.  

But I think we still got away with it, mainly because our target audience was the most oblivious and self-absorbed people in the house: Francois Philippe and the twins.  I don't need to hide anything from Coco and les bebes are still young enough to accept an innocent sleepover as just that.  It's those filthy teenage minds I'm trying to avoid.  

After we carried out our escape plans, I was dragged into the outside world to face the eyes of the world.  I was initially wearing my purple wig because my hair was all greezy and shiz, but after about 5 minutes of standing in Angst's place of employment, I yanked that shiz off my head faster than a crack whore on Jerry Springer.  The world is cruel and unapologetic. 

Seriously, I don't know why he keeps insisting on making me go out in public.  I spend the whole time avoiding eye contact with him as I am far too busy watching other people.  Every time he tries to talk to me, I have to shush him so I can eavesdrop on the people at the table next to us.  An anthropologist's work is never done.  

* This one says, "I love the way you open and close my window for me." 

Dance Floor

Know what my favorite part of my basement dwelling is?  

Nope, not the key board.  The big empty space in front of it.  

Hump De Bump

Whew, Wednesday is ovah, which is truly my hump day.  

First of all, on Tuesdays we have 3 hours of ballet, plus Tae Kwon Do sparring.  As if Tae Kwon Do in general isn't violent enough, they dedicate one day of the week entirely to learning how to kick ass (not in a cool way; in an abusive way).   

Then on Wednesdays I have a 2-hour class followed by a 3-hour lab.  Even when I'm not puking all over my shoes, this class can get pretty long.  Usually I write limericks* about my kids to pass the time.  Here's one from tonight:

There once was a boy named Dustin,

whose mouth just kept on crustin'. 

I gave him some gloss,

which he chucked with a scoff.

So the skin on his lips started bustin'.

Moral of the limerick?  Take the nanny's home remedies.  

Les bebes and I don't have to do shit on Thursdays and Fridays so we can just kick it and have fun.  And by fun, I mean, do the 40 bajillion love-inspired crafts we have planned for the week. (Oh, and did I mention that on his way out of the country, Bobby Habibi volunteered us to bring  finger sandwiches to Trixie's class party? Chokran.)

In other Nanny Garcia news, The Butler was trying to be all swavey** by planning a fancy concert date.  It totally worked, and the next day I was on the phone with Dora and my mom, trying to convince them that this isn't like the 50,000 other times I've been swept off my proverbial feet.  

But this is all besides the point.  The point is that I'm a simple kind of gal.  You don't have to plan fancy dates for me.  Mostly, I just want to smoke your weed and play the crossword puzzle app on your ipod touch.  I think the first time I checked out his ipod touch (no euphemism there, Catherinette), I was really high sleepy so I fell back into my natural state and said something like, "I'm gonna have to get me one of these things."  

Anyway, Cat wants one of these iphone things, but in my opinion (because, you know, it matters) she should opt for the ipod touch.  Just as good, less sign-your-soul-away.  I might have let her down in reference to online gaming, but I won't lead her astray this time.   

*Actually, writing limericks is one of my favorite pastimes in general, not just in class.  

** You might choose to spell this as suave, but I prefer to spell phonetically at random.  I feel it makes my blog read more smoovly.  

Paintist

I stumbled upon a quote from our nation's father, the OG*, George Washington: "Make the most of the Indian hemp seed and sow it everywhere."  

This quote combines two of my greatest loves: weed and indigenous peoples.  

So I'm laying in bed, envisioning a piece of art based on this uber-inspiring quote and, amidst reveries of various shades of green, comes the revolutionary idea to somehow cook weed into the paint so that the piece of art would get you high both physically and mentally, with each feeding into each other.  

And then I remembered that I've actually had this seemingly avante-garde idea before.  

Several years ago, I spent a good bit of time producing ridiculous folk art.  Ok, some of it was "good" or however people judge art.  This is how I rate it: I liked looking at that shit.  My favorite was stolen by my sister, so I guess that's a good rating.  But then I got all kooky and wanted to do some "experimental pieces" which included "multimedia works."  This is what I mean by multi-media.  My friend Amanda Tulips and I raided a Little Debbie truck and stole about 2 cases of Zebra Cakes.  Later, we smoked a bunch of weed and ate about 40 of those cakes while listening to The Flaming Lip's Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robot.  So what did this "piece of art" turn out as: a bunch of "abstract" robots covered in bits of zebra cake with a painted wrapper superglued to the canvas.  

During this experimental time, I came up with the idea of the paintist** tripping on acid, while using a paint made out of LSD that would get the viewer high.  I couldn't really work out the science-y details, maybe it would involve some licking or something like that.  I was just the visionary. Someone else would need to actually make this shit happen.  

Flash back to tonight.  Is this awful? I'm scheming up the SAME whacked-out tie-dyed plans.  Shouldn't I have grown out of this sort of thing?  Admittedly, these ideas have evolved from LSD to weed, which I believe is a shift towards more mainstream endeavors, but still.  Geez.  Or, as My Older Man Friend would say: Sheesh.  

*That's Original Gangstah, for my mom.

**paintist: noun, refers to one of who paints solely while on drugs; etymology: Maggie Garcia

Confession of a Lazy Bloggess

Blegh, Katy called me on my bloggy laziness last night.  See, what had happened wuz ... 

I was fooling with the action figure's rat tail and it snapped off in my hand, and I was talking to Coco and all of a sudden I'm like, "Aw shit, I broke this dude's rat tail."  and then I'm all, "What the fuck did I just say?" 

I, of course, instantly recognized this as blog fodder but, alas, my amazing farting dog has been poisoning me all night (maybe it's time to open my door), so I couldn't think straight enough to weave the snap-off rat tail into a full, coherent blog.  Hence the pictures and lack of info.  

Oh, geez, I really have to go open my door now.  Jank's flatulence is positively noxious.  

PS - new post scheduled for 2pm on Wednesday.  I'm feeling slightly prolific today.  

Guessing Game

Know what this is?

It's this guy's rat tail:

So this is my life now.  I no longer rummage through the carpet looking for dregs of drugs - I'm searching for action figure rat tails.  Gross.  

For Your Viewing Pleasure

Due to popular demand, here is a picture of Juno, aka The Baby Dog: 

And here's a pic of my little baby nefew:

Here he is, with my Diddy (aka My Kook of a Father) tickling him:
And here he is with my momz:

Join Us This Week As Our Guests Are A Dog And A Baby Dog!!!

Remember our dog fiasco of last week?  We hadn't had the thing out of the house 24 hours before Coco got on the computer looking for more.  Initially, I thought she was crazy.  

I should clarify.  I thought she was crazier.  I would walk past her as she furiously thumbed through pages in an encyclopedia of dogs, and I would shake my head sadly, imagining her inevitable committal, the subsequent willing of the chirrens to me, and the Lifetime movie they'd make of the whole thing.  Then I spent my laundry time composing a letter to Bette Midler, offering her the role of Nanny Garcia in the biopic.  

Saturday, when Coco announced she was carting us all out to the Fairfax County Human Society FARM, I was all, "Ho Hum, wonder which kid's going to slip in the mud and which kid's going to fling themselves at a dog we can't get?"  

I guess FOR ONCE I was wrong because after we'd successfully navigated up the muddy hill (with no accidents, I should boast), we came face-to-face with the most fucked up looking dog ever - a Bassador - half Basset Hound, half Labrador.  This dog, which we named Jank (because, you know, he looks all janked up and shiz), has the 50-lb head of a Lab and the 3-inch legs of a Basset Hound.  

The dog was clearly made for our family.  Besides his wacky appearance, this dog is a big ole whore.  He can hardly stand not to be petted or cuddled at all times, which is entirely fine with our emotionally needy family.  

But even after we'd secured the 3-year old Jank, their was still a hole in our collective heart ... a hole that, as Octuplet Lady will confirm, can only be filled with a baby.  

Yep, that's right folks ... we got a dog and a baby dog!!!  The lucky puppy is a mutt - a mix between something Shepherd-y and a bear.  Seriously, a bear.  That's why he named him Juno.  But we're just calling him Baby Dog for now.  

I don't really know what convinced me and Coco that the house wasn't already full enough.  Let's review the cast of characters at this point now:

• Coco Roshambo
  
• Nanny McCrazy (and between Coco and me, we've already hit our crazy limit)
  
• Bobby Habibi
  
• An emo teenager 
  
• The twins
  
• Les bebes
  
• Rapscallion (guinea pig)
  
• Independence Hall (cat)
  
• Jank (dog)
  
• Juno (baby dog)
  

That's just twelve sentient beings under the same roof, but hopefully we've hit our maximum capacity.  Unless, of course, you have an elephant or something we could take in.  

Chokran and Yella

Last Sunday, Bobby Habibi took the kids to the grocery store and let them get whatever they wanted.  $200 later, they came back with:

Oreos

six different kinds of chips

four different types of cereal (all with sugar as the main ingredient)

grape Fanta

orange Fanta

root beer

hot dogs

rotel and velveeta (ok, that was really from my list)

three types of Pop Tarts

beer

coffee filters

That's just Bobby's way of saying, "Daddy's home, y'all."  

This week, I am excitedly anticipating Bobby Habibi's return from the oil fields, and not for the velveeta. 

Last night, I asked Francois Philippe if he wanted to go to the movies with me.  I thought this would be an excellent opportunity for us to kick it and, you know, bond.  Francois Philippe, however, preferred to sit on the computer playing World of Warcraft all night.  After I spent a few minutes sobbing into my pillow, "How am I not cool anymore???!!!!,"  Coco and I decided to economize and get a movie off the TV box.  

This movie was Traitor, starring Don Cheadle, which is set in the Middle East and follows Islamic terrorist organizations operating within the US.  So, everyone attractive to me speaks Arabic.  As an anthropologist, I spent the entire movie daydreaming about learning Arabic, running away with Omar (Don Cheadle's vaguely Middle Eastern, vaguely Hispanic best friend), and starting a new life somewhere over there.  

And that's where Bobby Habibi, who speaks Arabic, comes in.  Maybe my paychecks will start coming in the form of Arabic lessons.  So far, I know how to say "thank you" (which I learned from The Moroccan) and "hurry up" (which I learned from Coco).  I'm certain I could pretty far with these words, right??

We Gotta Do Something About This

In December, Dora joined the ranks of unemployed college graduates.  Her most promising job offer thus far has been a management position at Wal-Mart.  Yes, Wal-Mart.  She said they expressed interest in her because she has a Spanish degree and they needed a Spanish-speaker, to which I replied: "Dora!  They're going to have you out there beating Mexicans!!!  That's what Wal-Mart managers do!!!"

I can't stand idly by while my best friend languishes as a Wal-Mart employee in Knoxville, TN.  So, if you or a loved one has any tips for a fluent Spanish speaker that doesn't involve manual labor and/or harassing immigrants, please email me at nannygarcia@live.com.  

Cliche, Perhaps. Uninspired, No.

• septic-safe wipes to clean runny diarrhea off the bathroom floor on Thursday: $3.49. 
  
• mop to clean urine out of the Burger King play place tubes on Friday: $12.99
  
• sponge to scrub vomit out of the carpet on Saturday night: $1.09

realizing you aren't grossed out by anything anymore: priceless

There are some things in life money can't buy; for everything else, there's therapy.  

(This was based on events that actually happened last week - you know, the week when a sea of ginger ale, puke, and dog food ran through our house.) 

My Two Families

For the first 21 years of my life, I lived either in my parents' house or within swatting distance of them (you know what I'm talking about - the range of your arm).  

Being a nanny up here meant living 1000 miles away from everyone I knew and for the first time in my life, I was homesick, momentarily.  And then I realized all the merits of living so far from your family.  

First of all, you could conceivably live with your boyfriend without getting busted (not that I could - having not a boyfriend and a live-in position with the Roshambo's, but you get the picture).  You could also ride around town all day, smoking joints and not worrying about whether or not your parents were about to roll onto campus (not that I could - having not my own car and usually 5 chirrens in whatever vehicle I am driving, but you get my point.  Perhaps the advantage I can most enjoy is that my family just gets more and more awesome - in my head. 

The way your dad farts all day long in the kitchen?  Gone.  The way your mom wakes you up by singing "wake up, little rosebud" every.single.morning?  Totally cute and endearing.  The way your sisters steal all your best shit, eat all the best shit in the kitchen, and then yell at you for leaving a boy in their bed?  Never again, my friends. Never again.  

Since relocating, I'll spend all day telling everyone how awesome my mom is.  Then she'll call me and remind me to do something like brush my hair and all of a sudden I'm all, "Who are you???  Put my idealized mother back on the phone!"

How Do YOU Feel About That???

Thankfully, my chirrens are in school today and I start my new job as craft teacher at Trixie's ballet class.  

For some of you, this sounds lame, but I anticipate "craft teacher" to be the coolest job ever.  It accentuates all the things I love about my job - instead of making escape pods out of toilet paper rolls with two kids, I get to do it with twenty little girls (who are all dressed in cute little baby leotards, I should add).  And this job minimizes the unfortunate aspects of my job - you know, time outs, taking away cell phones, cooking uneaten rice concoctions or anything else that makes The Chirrens Garcia unhappy.  

This ballet studio is run by Bobby Habibi's kooky mother, who I LOVE.  I loved her the first time I met her.  She's British and she's done crazy ballerina shiz all over the world.  I also love her because her house is like an international trinket museum and I covet everything in there.  Oh yeah, and her hair is purple (just like mine!).  So basically, we are best friends, except all the friendly feelings emanate from my end of the relationship.  I even have a framed headshot of her on my bedside table (Coco gave it to me - I promise).  

Things went swimmingly on my hot date with The Butler.  Well, except for the fact that we were out in public.  You might not know this, but one of the reasons I'm so well-suited for my job is that it occurs almost entirely from the safety of inside the Rochambo house.  I simply cannot be held responsible for my actions in public, though.  It's such a weird, irrational place out there.  We went to see a movie and I spent the entire time consumed with the idiosyncrasies of others.  Example: "Do you think she likes walking under his arm the whole way through the ticket line, then into the movie? That has to be awkward for someone. Do you think he's abusive and she's scared to push his arm off?  Maybe she has a balance problem and needs his support?  What do you think?  How do you feel about this situation"**  And then I inevitably do something awful like ask the woman how she feels about this situation and then all hell breaks loose.   

We went out again last night which inevitably devolved into another "let's all be held captive by Maggie's eccentricities" night.  We were going to dinner until it started snowing, whereupon I freaked the fuck out and made him pull into the closest parking lot, which happened to be Borders.  True, the snow wasn't actually accumulating and The Butler kept insisting that he was from the North and had seen snow before and could most certainly drive in the kind that melts on contact, but you know I wasn't falling for that shit.  Not only am I from Mississippi where "snow" means the powder that your trailer park cousin slings on the weekend, but I am also a very nervous driver/passenger.  It was relaxing to go to Philly because my friend Benjamin Franklin is one of the very few people I 100% trust not to kill me, so I didn't have to spend the entire time in the car mentally preparing to die (I just had to survive the trip there and back with Dora).  

So N-E-Wayzzz.  Back to the Hot Date II.  We had to pretend not to be hungry and just go get coffee from Borders.  Then I kept talking about how much fun Guitar Hero with Francois Philippe is so I could return to the safety of the basement my quarters.  

So there you have it, readers.  I am insane.  

**Those of you who know me know this is exactly how I talk.  I have to know how everyone feels about everything at all times.