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.

Hashing It Out

The Butler has spent the past three days sweeping me off my proverbial feet.  And, true to form, I have spent the past three days begrudgingly trying to keep my feet on the ground.  

It's not that I don't think The Butler is my favorite person in the DC metro area - he for sure is (tied with Coco, that is).  I'm just unaccustomed to this sort of woo-ing and I guess I'm a little rusty.  

What sort of woo-ing am I accustomed to?  Well, my typical repertoire would include meeting a guy on Monday, moving in with him by Wednesday, burning down the apartment by Friday, spending Saturday piss-ass-drunk, and then making Sunday THE FIRST DAY OF THE REST OF MY LIFE.  

But The Butler isn't playing along with my little game and truth be told, I'm a little nervous.  

I'm nervous because I don't just have normal emotional connections with people.  I love people feverishly and intensely.  I have cut people for messing with Chokolate.  I have taken people the fuck out for looking at Dora the wrong way.  It's just how I roll - violently aggressive loyally.  

Ignore the theatrics.  My point is that when I really like somebody, they become part of my entourage.  And when you lose a part of your entourage, it's INTENSE.  It's 3-week drunk intense.  It's call ALL My Gay Husband's at 3am intense.  It's lose your mind and find it in New Mexico 8 days later, no idea how it got there intense.  

In my head, I've got to keep guys at distance because men are genetically inferior to women you never know when they're going to move to China in the middle of the night (yes, that's happened to me); or break up with you on your birthday (yes, that has also happened to me); or pull out the fiance and the baby (oh yes, that's real too).

So here's my plan (because you know I've got a plan):  I'm going to let him be nice to me.  I'm not going to be all bat shit crazy when he's sweet.  I'm not going to google his address to see if he's married (oh wait, I already did that - oh yes, I did)

And you know what?  If he ends up moving to Afghanistan in the middle of the night, then so fucking be it.  I mean, what's the point of all the glorious drugs in the world if there's not any pain to numb?  

Ok, in other news, THIS IS THE FIRST DAY OF THE REST OF MY LIFE, so I'm going to 

a) start playing the mandolin again

b) go to the tanning bed

c) lose 60 pounds

d) eat a bunch of Girl Scout cookies (unrelated to c)

e) sort my life into those ingenious boxes I keep talking about

Also, I know this post is lame.  I'm working on getting my mojo working again.  This involves heavy weed smoking and Grateful Dead - listening.  

Little Boxes Made of Ticky Tacky

I've got my life all sorted out.  Not really, but I'd like to start pretending so. 

Wouldn't it be great if you could sort your life into neat boxes?  Not your everyday life, but the parts of your life that creep up regularly, but not often enough to warrant a spot on your bedside table.  

I'm going to sort my life into boxes.  I've already made a list of all the boxes I'll need:

1. box for jewelry 
2. box for medical records
3. box for cards, letters, etc. - received
4. box for stationery, cards to be sent, stamps, address book, etc.
5. box for anthropology, research ideas, articles of interest, grad schools, etc.
6. box for college stuff, papers, grades, etc.
7. box for random keepsake items
8. box for inspirational tags from my tea bags and beer caps from Magic Hat beer
9. box for bank or financial related bidness
10. box for receipts
11. box for purses, bags, containers
12. box for electronic items, cords, warrantees, etc.
13. box for things in limbo

I should probably go ahead and get some boxes for: 

a) life goals - ignored, neglected 

b) lists - crumpled up, thrown away, etc.

Hail to the Chief

I can't blog today.  Not because I'm dying on the inside or because my mother is trying to censor me ("Remember Michael Phelps, honey."), but because today is our national holiday, aka Coco's birthday.  Festivities for the next 24 hours.  

Back to the Future

So yeah, I neglected my blog for awhile.  Whatever,  it's not like it was a child or something.  

Sometimes I think this whole human interaction thing is just too damn hard.  Besides being laborious, tedious, and emotionally draining, the results are often disappointing.  The world just ain't worth the fucking hassle.  

My Gay Husband keeps insisting this sort of jibbah-jabbah is clinical depression.  However, I am nothing if not obstinately misguided, so I absolutely refuse to seek a pyschopharmacological solution.  He persistently protests that I make no sense at all.  

"But you LOVE drugs!  You are the queen of drugs!  You want to legalize everything!  You literally wrote the book on cooking with drugs!"

All of these statements are true.  Let me sidetrack about the last one.  

I spent the summer after my sophomore year in college writing a recipe book that, at the time, I believed would propel me to both fame and infamy simultaneously.  I vaguely remember that I'd come up with a terribly clever title for it, but neither I nor My Dearest Confidante can recall the specifics.  

Besides containing a compilation of all the best pot recipes I'd ever sampled in my whole entire life*, this book also detailed my more controversial experiments.  During these experiments, my friends became perhaps the world's most eager and enthusiastic guinea pigs.  

"Coffee brewed with cocaine???  I'm there.  Oh, uh, wait.  We don't have to supply our own Coke, right??"

My biggest hit was the "Hypnotic Strawberry Daiquairie" that actually relied heavily on gargantuan doses of Xanax while containing very little alcohol**.  

Alas, this summer did not make me the new Timothy Leary or the new Paula Deen (I'd settle with either).  These few months resulted in nothing but heartache and tears.  I kept the weed recipes, though.  That shit's harmless.  

N-E-Wayzz ... flash back to the present.  

My Gay Husband is one of the most heavily medicated people I know and he claims that the right antidepressant(s) is like being high all the time.  While that sort of imagery does entice me, I'm not quite convinced yet.  I'm going to wait until I do something like shave my head before I take a legal drug.  

My appeal to you?  Please feel free to use this very public forum called the interweb to share your feelings/experiences about this subject.  Which subject, you may ask.  Any of 'em.  

*of 19 whole years

**Because, you see, fatal overdoses of alprazolam rarely occur unless alcohol or other drugs also taken.  That's the sort of knowledge that actually kept me out of jail while experimenting on my friends.  

PS - The Butler is fine.  He sends his regards.

Reversed Diatribe

So I know I haven't posted in approximately 6 years.  

However, only YOU are to blame for my absence as I have received NOT ONE email begging me to come back to blog-o-sphere.  Hell, I haven't even gotten a facebook wall post to that effect.  You couldn't even be bothered to take to your MySpace, head on over to Maggie Garcia's page (as if it existed - MySpace is so lame) and drop your poor nanny a line as to how much you missed her!  No one even inquired as to my whereabouts or health.  So ... shame on YOU.

Did you see how I just did that?  Project my own failures back onto you?  Take note, young mothers - I am a professional and I work for the best.