Wally World

One of the only secrets I've tried to keep from Coco is my deep-seated passion for Wal-Mart.  My hometown has the only Super Wal-Mart in the tri-state area.  For those of you who do not know, a Super Wal-Mart has tons of amenities like a McDonalds, a nail salon, a hair cutting place,  and is open 24/7.  The tri-state area I'm referring to, of course, is that magical intersection of Mississippi, Alabama, and Tennessee - here's a visual aid.  

Dora and I began fostering an unhealthy fascination with the Wal-Mart somewhere around 7th grade.  We would spend the night at the Wal-Mart.  We would sleep outside and jaw about our post-high school pipe dreams which included road-tripping across the entire country, going to concerts and visiting a Wal-Mart in all 50 states.  I swear to fucking God.  That was our big huge dream.  A cross-country tour of Wal-Marts (preferably Super Centers).  

Imagine my chagrin on my first day in Suburbia when Coco drives me past the Wal-Mart and shudders.  "I have to take a shower when I leave that place," she scoffed.  

"Oh, heh, yeah, me too... " I awkwardly replied.  

But I guess there's good reason for Coco's disgust.  The only times she has ever graced The Wal-Mart with her patronage is in pursuit of "throw-away clothes" to send off with the boys to camp.  During one such mission, Dustin and Justin kept horsing around, but in a terrible way.  So at the checkout, Coco grabbed their arms.  Now, in Suburbia, you can't even make angry eyebrows at your kids without somebody calling the police.  So when Dusty shouted out "Oh no, Mommy, please don't hit me again!!!" Coco was petrified.  She froze, awaiting the certain onslaught of concerned stares and possible Child Services personnel.  But, as she was at Wal-Mart, no one even so much as glanced over. 

So this catches us up tonight.  Well, almost.  Y'all, it's fucking freezing here.  And I have spent the last month floundering around in this cold shiz, putting on leg warmers over layers of leggings all under a big brown nanny jumper (usually accented with some stray bolt of brightly-colored fabric).  

NOW we're caught up to tonight.  After yoga I hit the Wal Mart to browse for cheap kiddo presents (I mean, shit, I've got five of them.  You have to buy in bulk.)  And then - our eyes met across the crowded aisle - a bright purple slicky coat that goes to my knees complete with faux fur hood.  All for $40.  I obviously bought that shiz.

And now I'm hiding in my basement, furiously ripping out all the tags so Coco won't tease me in the morning when I go to the bus stop in my purple Wal-Mart coat.  Oh Wal-Mart, thy beauty and fashion sense is too much for this upscale suburban world.  

Last Night ...

... Bobby Habibi and Coco hosted a surprise 70th birthday party for Bobby's mother.  I was initially apprehensive because surprise + 70th bday = ???  but everything turned out really fancy.  Actually, Bobby and Coco are probably the fanciest people I know.  When I went home for Thanksgiving I kept thinking, "Gah, I can't wait to get back to my fancy family with their name-brand peanut butter and refrigerator that has ice and water in the front door of it!"

Coco and Bobby always make a point of inviting me to these things and I'm always like, oh but wouldn't you rather I do something with chirrens that involves more Spongebob and less awkward social mingling?  Seriously, I'm one of the top ten most nervous, anxious, awkward people on earth (other people on the list? My Gay Husband, My Older Man Friend, Dora, and Francois Philippe). That's probably how I ended up with this job - I find children soooo much easier to interact with than adults.  

But the party was actually super fun, I mean, after I'd had one Jack & Diet Coke (I never let my glass get empty so I'm technically always drinking on the same one).  At some point following a few refills, Francois Philippe texted me "I'm upstairs getting a makeover."  WTF?  NannyGarcia clearly must investigate.  What did she find?  Francois Philippe upstairs in Coco's bathroom with his 13yr old buddy and his 15yr old sister .... who had cut FP's jeans and put eyeliner on him.  Then this little pierced punk starts showing me pics of her 16yr old boyfriend ... who is HOT.  This encounter made me feel confused.  On the one hand, I'm thankful because ugh, who wants to be a teenager again??  But I also feel old b/c 16yr old boyfriend is HOT and it's illegal for me to think that.  To add to my confusion, as I'm going off about the stupid cuts in his jeans, I'm sloshing my drink around and slurring my words.  

After the party I took a little nap on my bathroom floor and eventually crawled to my bed.  

Reflect This

 I went to Francois Philippe's 7th grade band concert tonight.  When I was in 7th grade (10 years ago) I would have totally shown up with my band of friends plus two Zimas stolen from somebody's grandparents' garage and some Jolly Ranchers.  Then we would have beat up all the kids from the trombone section and stolen their lunch money.  

But seriously, as I was sitting in this middle school auditorium, taking stock of my life, I decided this is simultaneously the lamest and the coolest thing I've ever done.  

I'm a nanny, for fuck's sake.  I stay up all night baking instead of binge drinking.  The only drugs I do are Children's Advil and the only strangers in my bed are Trixie's dolls.

But, at the same time, Trixie is a hot-tranny-mess and wore her sunglasses to the band concert.  Her pink, cat-eyed, sparkly sunglasses.  Now that's badass.  This week I started a new phonetic approach to teaching Dash how to read and watching him get it is pretty fucking cool.  It's fun playing frisbee with Justin and Dustin because they're still young enough to want to roll on the grass and put some theatrics in their throws.   It feels good to have a 13yr old be sincere enough to tell you they like being your friend.  

Maybe my college friends will read this and think I'm losing my edge.  I know they all get surprised that my nanny stories are so tame.  But maybe Maggie Garcia isn't nearly as cool as Nanny Garcia.  And I don't think I've lost my edge at all.  You've got to be somewhat of a badass to keep five kidz alive and in line.  I just think The Chirrens Garcia are the coolest damn munchkins on the motherfucking planet and if you disagree I will beat you up and steal your lunch money.  

Still don't believe I'm cool?  Check out my nanny notebook were I keep all of my lists.  

XMas pt. I

Well, the Christmas gods are simply not letting me get through this season without a veritable cornucopia of trials and tribulations.  I have started every day this week with some sort of idyllic Christmas plan for les bebes.  ... and that fickle mistress Fate (in the form of Little Bill) has consistently foiled my festive agenda.  

MONDAY

The plan: Make ornaments for the Christmas tree in the basement using craft supplies and stuff we found around the house.

What actually happened: TMoney calls to say Little Bill is Jones'ing for some playtime with les bebes, so of course I tell her to send him over.  It turns out that Little Bill doesn't want to make Christmas ornaments so he whines until I'm about 3 seconds away from saying "I will cut you"  to a five-year-old.  Les bebes turn against me and I'm left making ornaments by myself.  Crappy snowmen made out of old cork board are cute when a 4yr old makes them.  Less cute when the artist is 22. 

TUESDAY

The plan: Go to the library to pick out Christmas books and movies.  Learn Christmas carols.  

What actually happened: Little Bill comes over to gloat about the AWESOME Christmas ornaments and decorations he made when he went home yesterday.  My eyes scream "What the FUCK??" at him.  I take les bebes + Little Bill to the playground.  We're the only people there so we run around for a couple hours.  I am reliably designated the monster or evil queen.  We pull into the driveway just as The Beatles' "Let It Be" comes on the radio so I make them sit in the car with me and listen to the song.  Little Bill refuses to go home or learn Christmas carols.  I fume at him silently.  

WEDNESDAY

The plan: Decorate the Christmas tree in the living room.  Go to the library to pick out Christmas books and movies.  Learn Christmas carols. 

What actually happened: Somehow, Little Bill winds up at our house again and, after putting on about two Christmas ornaments, decides he is over that shiz and builds a les bebes army to go play in the basement.  I wind up putting up the ornaments while listening to Christmas music ... alone.  

THURSDAY

The plan: Bake Christmas cakes and cupcakes.  Go to the library to pick out Christmas books and movies.  Learn Christmas carols.  

What actually happened: This was the worst of all.  It's a long story, but TMoney whisks les bebes away and I end up making holiday baked goods alone.  Except it is the first time I'd used my new silicone cake molds so I grossly overfilled them.  So I spend the next hour cleaning up my holiday mess and scrubbing the oven.  However, I salvaged one good cake and made it look like this:  

Want to know what's up for tomorrow?

FRIDAY

The plan: Hide from the housekeeper by eating at Subway and going to the library to pick out Christmas books and movies.  And then lock les bebes in the car (parked in the garage) to practice Christmas carols so no one (Little Bill) can call us, come to the door, or see us in the driveway.  

What actually happens: Little Bill rains on her Christmas parade once again and Nanny Garcia goes all batshit and is found the next morning frozen solid, wearing a holiday sweater and clutching sheet music for "Away In A Manger". 

Whoops

... sorry about that whole not-blogging-for-a-week thing.  I've been very busy making lists, which always gives me a false sense of control over my life.  My to-do lists are absolutely massive because I like to put stuff like wake up and change underwear so that i have several things I can easily mark through, thus making me feel more productive.  My mama always told me that everyone lives in their own reality (yeah, she's a hippie too) and in my own reality, I am hard-working and productive (and skinny).    

N-E-Wayzzz

Does anybody still remember that tired old Thanksgiving shiz we pulled last week?  If you haven't already moved on to Christmas, I am happy to report that I had a gay old time (only less gay, more old) in Smalltown, Mississippi.  I went to The Wal-Mart one day and this is what I saw in the parking lot:

Oh yeah, that's right.  And then I walked inside The Wal-Mart and saw this:

... and I thought how good it was to be home.  I can't even find a ham hock to make decent green beans up here (just kidding ... I don't cook.  But if I did, I wouldn't be able to find a ham hock)

But I mostly spent my T-Day with My Little Thug Baby Nephew.  I had to wear a mask when I first met him just to get past his security detail (apparently The Chirrens Garcia are little germ farms):

... but I didn't care.  Hell, I should probably wear a mask all the time to protect the world from my foul mouth.  

And then my brother-in-law brought me Thanksgiving lunch a day early and it was awesome.  You could taste the butter in every bite (which actually is how I cook on the rare occasions I do):

And over the course of Nanny Garcia's Mississippi Homecoming, I was able to force feed My Little Thug Baby Nephew enough formula that he got his first (of many, hopefully) baby double chin!!!!!  Please see below and then write obligatory comments about how cute he is.  Thanks, The Management. 

North American Genocide

I'm not celebrating Thanksgiving today.  I'm commemorating the genocide of Native Americans.  Both Dora and Bobbie Jean hate that I'm saying this because they think I'm being a "downer".  Yeah, that's true.  Genocide is always a little glum ... especially people who get smallpox blankets from their "friendly" pilgrim neighbors.

This has been a common dilemma for me since graduating college.  I'm always trying to poke, prod, and lure people into meaningful discourse. But nobody ever wants to talk about murder at breakfast.  

Radio Show

Yo yo yo. This is your gurl Magic Garcia coming atcha LIVE from Da Dirty Dirty!! We're doing it BIG in the Crooked Letter Hump Back state, getting down with our little thug baby (more about him later).

I have always wanted my own radio show. Growing up, one of my sisters and I would talk into the whirring blades of a hand fan (I realize this sounds weird, but try it out and you will see that it sounds like you're on the radio!! Just don't get your lip too close to the blades. We still call my sister Slingblade behind her back.)

And when I was in college I dated this guy who was a tad on the quiet side (can you imagine????) so to fill the silent air, I spent many a Saturday afternoon taking bong rips and "broadcasting live" from our dorm room. The Boyfriend's contribution to my imaginary radio show was pulling his car up to the parking spot nearest our dorm, opening all the doors, and blaring music in between my shoutouts (because y'all know we didn't own any other radio at the time).

The Skydiver recently revealed that, in addition to a PhD in Electrical Engineering, the equivalent of a 5th degree black belt in skydiving, a private pilot license, and a nasty divorce, he also has his amateur radio license. After much research (meaning I bombarded The Skydiver with questions for approximately 10 minutes) I have discovered that this means he can broadcast on a frequency that is somewhere between Rick Dees and late night trucker conversation lines (Breaker, breaker, 1-9, this is Sweet Judy Blue, looking for love in all the wrong places, somewhere along I-10, any rest stop buddies this evening??).

So my newest endeavor is going to be getting a radio show on one of these frequencies. In between Grateful Dead and gangstah rap I will be answering y'all's questions about y'all's chirrens. Email them in at nannygarcia@live.com.