Gay Husbands Make the World Go Round

I really can't say enough about how important My Gay Husband is to me.  I would not be NannyGarcia without him, considering he dressed me the day Coco and Bobby Habibi interviewed me.  He would have never let me out the house with my tie dye tshirt and dread locks.  He even made me shave my legs!  This was a big deal because I had not shaved my legs in about 4 months, and the hair on my legs was so long that I could feel the breeze blowing through them when I wore shorts jorts.  It sounds gross, but it was an interesting feeling for a girl.  ANYWAY: Gay Husbands intuitively know when to let their fag hags wives look a hot mess (like me, 29 days of the month) and when to put their gay foot down.  

So look at this picture (which I believe is originally from Design Sponge):

I don't know this lady, but she is very pretty and fancy.  But you know what's missing from this picture?  Her Gay Husband.  If she had one, he would have pulled her aside and said: "Gurl, I know it's your wedding day, but your hair is looking fug and you clearly need some help.  But don't you worry, gurl, cuz I am going to take care of you." And then he would have whipped a flat iron out of his murse and fixed that fried thing on top of her head.   

Ok, so if anyone knows this pretty and fancy lady, tell her to get a gay husband before her next wedding. 

Make A Wish

Today is Francois Philippe's 13th birthday.  He's soooo old, but I wish he was older so I could have gotten him his first joint.  (My mom's going to freak when she reads that, by the way. Oh, how I suffer for my art.)  But I'm sure by the time he's 16, that drunkard Bobby Habibi will have already bought him his first pint.  

While writing that last sentence, I ran upstairs to ask Coco and Bobby if "sod" was an endearing term for a drunkard.  "Um ... no."  

Wino? "I mean, yeah, that's affectionate ... if the drunkard in question is homeless."  

Pisshead? "Uh, that's like the opposite of affectionate."  

Alcoholic "Nah ... that's like when you get beat-your-kid drunk."   

We couldn't come up with anything that affectionately refers to someone who drinks a lot.  Then Coco offers, "Well, when I was growing up, I only knew one drunkard and I called her Mom." 

So there's that.  

My oldest chirren is now a teenage boy ... and smells like fucking curry.  I'm serious.  He reeks.  Coco kept telling people to buy him deodorant for his birthday.  Besides the smell, the faux-party with the fam was fun.  Except Francois Philippe totally thought my presents were lame.  I got him The Audacity of Hope and Flowers for Algernon.  And, of course, I wrote a sappy inscription on the title page (Francois Philippe, the times they truly are a-changing and it's an exceptional time to be young and hopeful).  Which he read out loud.  Which was awkward.  And then Coco took a picture of us and I'm all MAGGIE GARCIA'S TRADEMARK HEADTILT + TOOTHY SUPAHMODEL SMILE and Francois Philippe is all YOU FAILED ME, NANNYGARCIA. YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO BE THE ONE WHO GOT ME A REALLY COOL PRESENT, LIKE A BONG, AND THEN YOU HAND ME THIS BAG FROM BORDERS?  WHAT.THE.FUCK??

God, I feel old.  

Showing Off Them Panties

Ok, that title has very little to do with this post, but I am nothing if not salacious, so there ya go. Also, this is a scheduled post, but only because the time on my blogger is all fucked up. So I wrote this forever ago, but when I tried to enter the correct time, it went all crazy and kept yelling at me that they would publish my post when they damn well pleased. Damn you, Blogspot!!! But my fancy friend Vuboq is a big fan of scheduling posts, so that pacified my anger. Now I'm rolling with the scheduling.



The point of all this is ... I recently got off the phone with my friend Georgia, who is a MAJOR.HIPPIE. Seriously, I consider myself to have some hippie tendencies, but this gurl is a true-blue, no-shoe-wearing, dropping-outta-school-to-follow-a-band, using-Jerry-Garcia-as-a-spiritual-advisor (ok, I do this too ... all the time), HIPPIE. And I LOUOUOUVE talking to her, but I had to hang up because I simply couldn't hear her over the racket from the 9 and 10 yr old in the car with her. You might ask why my friend Georgia was travelling at midnight on a Friday with two young chirrens (I sure as hell asked). She and her friend SuzyQ (the mom, another real-life HIPPIE, obviously) were taking the kids on their first crystal-mining experience.

Now, I consider myself a "cool" nanny. And my kids consider me "cool" too (because when they don't I put them in a headlock and tickle them until they fall to the floor in convulsions). But I'm prob not taking The Chirrens Garcia crystal mining anytime soon. I've been doing this hippie schtick for a while now, and I know there are a lot of cool things hippies do in fields at night, but they somehow strike me as less than kid friendly.

Of course, I ain't judging. I don't never judge. And I'm sure that when I have kids that legally belong to me, I'll probably name them all after Grateful Dead songs and take them into fields too. But NannyGarcia just don't play around like that with other folk's chirrens.

In other news, my (allegedly) racist sister just sent me a late night text:

"Remember when I used to make u get me
ice water but wouldn't let u touch the cubes? I made u use a spoon."

I texted back:

"Um, are you fucking kidding me?
Your cruelty haunts my
every
waking moment."

Shoop

Dora is flying into NYC this weekend to stay with Bobbie Jean and, for reasons I'm *not* bitter about, I'm unable to share in this joyous occasion.  But, in honor of two of my dearest friends gathered together in one place (hopefully reading my blog and basically spending the entire weekend discussing how awesome I am and how the sun just doesn't shine as brightly when I'm not there), I'm posting this video: 

And then for reasons that only they will understand, I'm posting this video too:

Okay, so now y'all have to talk about me for at least four minutes.  Good job insinuating yourself into the weekend, Maggie.  

Rat-a-tat-tat

It seems to me that one of the great injustices in life is that we are given just one freshman year in college.  My only comfort is knowing that I lived my freshman year to the fullest.  I'm reminded of this fact every day when I look at my tattoo.  Actually, my tattoo is on my right foot and I don't get down there that much, but I guess I look at it every time I put on socks.  

I spent several nights of my freshman year sitting in my friend Georgia's SUV, parked in our dorm's lot, with her and our boyfriend.  The three of us would be in there for hours, listening to hippie music and tinkering with herbal remedies.  On one of these nights, we were listening to Widespread Panic's song, The Waker (listen to it here), in which a verse goes:

My name is Treetop

And I'm higher than you'll ever be.

I'm married to my roots here

Still I feel like I am free.

We all looked at each other like, "Man, that's fucking deep.  That's like, uh, poetry."  So off to the tattoo parlor where I wrote this in Sharpie and they traced it onto all of our right feet.  Well, Georgia doesn't come around so much anymore, and our boyfriend moved to China w/o telling us (it's a long story), but since it was my handwriting, I like to think I leave my mark on people.  Anyway, my tat has been gradually fading for the last three years until it looked like this last week:

 

But I recently had it restored to its original glory and I LOVE IT all over again.  My foot looks much cleaner too.  

So here's to freshman years ... 

Blegh

I'm sick.  I think I caught something from Little Bill, but I don't have any proof of that  ... yet.  

My mom assures me that I only have a cold, but I always get incredibly paranoid when I'm ill.  Okay, actually, I spend much of my day fretting over my faux-diabetes and all the other diseases ravaging my poor body.  Of course, WebMD doesn't help my hypochondria at all.  So when I knew I had a fever last night, of course I freaked.  It took everything I had to avoid the internet.  I can only imagine what horrible things a fever signifies.  Instead, I just repeatedly called my mom, going "Ughhhhh .... I'm in so much paaaaaaiiiiinnnnnnnn ... are you suuuuuuuuure I'm not dyyyyyyyyinggggg?'  I realize I might sound like a big baby, but I don't care how old you are, when you're sick, you just want your mama.  

Have You Heard The News??

As many of you may have heard, there's this hip cat named O.Ba.Ma who was trying to do a little thing called become President of the United States.  Fab-o-lous, right?  Except he's black.  Oh yeah, and a little bitty libby.  And our country is still racist.  So, in case you didn't know, this was a BIG. FUCKING. DEAL.  And despite a couple of whatever the opposite of a silver lining is, yesterday was a joyous occasion.  

I have been talking with Dash and Trixie about the election for several weeks and they entirely get it.  Dash has been rooting for The Blue Team ever since Kids Picked the Prez.  Trixie pointed out Obama on the cover of a black power mag in the grocery store (it wasn't Ebony - I got a subscription to that shiz).   And then they got all excited about voting yesterday while Coco and I made last-ditch efforts to smoke the Republican out of Bobby Habibi (...aaaand I'm going to get an email denying this in 3, 2, 1...).  

Since they were out of school for Election Day (which is redonkulous), I took les bebes up to the polls to check it out for themselves.  Luckily for us, the nerdy teenager working the door was charmed by my 3-day dirty nanny jorts and gave us a tour of the entire voting station, complete with I VOTED stickers.  I also picked up a sample Democratic ballot for a kiddy keepsake.  When we got the car, I immediately started lecturing about the historical significance of this election, saying things like, "When you're older, you can look back at this important election and know that you were part of it," while choking back tears at a) how cute my chirrens are, b) how awesome Obama is, and c) what a great nanny I am (duh - you didn't see that coming?).  I valiantly brushed my tears away and turned around to help with a seatbelt and presumably gaze into hopeful, patriotic eyes ........ and Trixie was chewing up her "I Voted" sticker.  And then Dash goes, "So ... we were really good in that place.  You think we could go to Target?"

When all the major news networks agreed that Obama had won, I was lolling about in my bed.  But I GOT UP OUT OF MY BED and literally jumped while thrusting my fists in the air.  And I immediately missed my friend Chocolate.  She's in Albania, but we had made plans (or so I thought we had) to stay connected via the webz.  It was only logical, as Chocolate and I spent much of our college career single-handedly double-fistedly solving racial injustice.  Well, Chocolate did more of the actual programs and stuff while I just got really red-faced and yelled at everyone who didn't agree with us.  Anyway, Chocolate was too busy being coquettish with a guy named Black Moses over in Eastern Europe, so I didn't get to talk to her until this morning. 

But of course I wanted to share this moment with someone, so I called my mother, Mama Garcia, because she's pretty sweet and I knew she and my kook of a father would be watching.  So while I'm jumping around, my female parental figure goes, "Well, you know, JFK was the first Catholic president and that's not really a big deal anymore."  WHAT. THE. FUCK?  This is my first cognizant historical event and my own mother is belittling it.  I get it.  She's a little bit the opposite of young, so she has already seen a bunch of crazy shit.  But I've spent my entire life in Mississippi and I'm still a little baby so this is HUGE to me.  But when I related my discontent, she totally played along, which made me feel better.  And then I called My Gay Husband, and he was crying, which made me feel a lot better (it's all about the hype with me).  

And then this news reporter thought it would be funny to narc some folks out.  That's very bad weed karma, dude.  Remember that next time you're toking in your dorm room and the RA comes a'knocking. You brought this on yourself.  

I've got a lot more to say about this election, so I'm officially back to the blogosphere.  But in other really exciting news, Amy Winehouse's hubby Blake is out of the Pokey.  This is basically the posthumous reunion of Romeo and Juliet.