Campy

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

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

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

N-E-Wayzzz

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

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

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

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

5 Little Frogs Sitting On A Hollow Log

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

Blabberings

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

N-E-Wayzzz

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

Paired with this fabulous jacket:

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

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

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

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

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

Lost in Calculation

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

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

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

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

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

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

Today

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

Fauxcation was absolutely fabulous.

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

Fauxcation

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

Yep, that's my special Red Drank.

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

And here's The Butler:

He's also humming.  

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

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

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

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

Reason #189

That My Momz Is Da Shiz

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

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

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

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

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

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

N-E-Wayzzz

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

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

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

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

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

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

Blog Names Are Never Pretty

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

I'm en route to Mississippi!!!  

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

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

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

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

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

1. I just am.

2. I'm a genius.

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

4. I know more big words than you.  

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

6. I will cut you.  

7. I have a Mac. 

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

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

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

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

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

Kill Me ...

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

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

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

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

***LIZZING = LAUGHING + WHIZZING!!!

16 Days Till Fake Vacation

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

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

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

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