The Misadventures of Nanny Garcia

Bake Me a Cake

2009-05-14T17:09:00.003-04:00

Tomorrow is my Nanniversary!!

A year ago, I was tripping acid with some of the greatest friends on Earth. We had to go for a 5-day trip just to make sure I did enough drugs before I became a nanny. I did.

I moved here 5 days after I graduated from college. The weirdest part was there was not one ounce of apprehension in me when I set out on this journey. I think part of that is in my nature - I am forever plunging into one kooky plan after another.

Don't get me wrong - my plans don't always work out. I was going to Africa this summer ... and then I realized I had no money. Whoops. I was going to move to Austin ... and then I looked at a map and realized it's in the middle of buttfucking nowhere, TX. Whoops. I was going to go to medical school ... that one cost me $2000. Major whoops.

But I think the point of my life (I ain't gonna talk about yours) isn't to have every single plan work out. I think my life is more of an exploration, which is helped by the fact that I'm passionate about every idea that pops into my head ... even the ridiculous ones.

You gotta give an idea the chance to bloom before you can call its color.

But this kooky plan worked out wonderfully. I can't imagine life without the Chirrens Garcia and Coco is really one of my dearest friends. (Not to be left out - Bobby Habibi throws great parties.)

N E Wayzzz....

Somebody said something the other day about my tanning bed habit. It pissed me off, mostly because it's so irrational. Nobody says anything about the fact that I'm morbidly obese, or that I alternate between starving myself and stuffing my face on a weekly basis, or that I smoke like a chimney, or that I grossly overmedicate. Nope. It's the fucking tanning bed everyone goes after.

Let me tell you something, I'm going to be dead of heart disease long before any of these freckles turns cancerous. Go get your own fucking parade to rain on.

Change in tone? Change in the weather.

Seriously?

2009-05-09T01:10:00.002-04:00

In addition to being Coco's nanny/sidekick, I also get to work at her office sometimes. I fancy myself something of a catch-all personal assistant, but what I mostly do is just sweep everything off her desk into the garbage can and then pose in front of the freshly "organized" desk saying:

"Voila! All your worries are GONE (never mind to where)! Nanny Garcia can do it all!"

But seriously folks, Coco owns a pretty swanky bidness. So imagine my surprise when a company memo concerning dress code went around and BARE MIDRIFF TOPS were mentioned.

My first inclination was to protest. When secured with a neon scrunchie, "middies" are tasteful and refined, the perfect compliment to a nice denim skort.

But I really just wanted to know who the fuck wore the middie to work. I need to shake their hand. Maybe borrow their glitter chapstick.

You Never Slow Down, You Never Grow Old

2009-05-08T10:00:00.001-04:00

I'm a fucking big ass kid.

For the past few days, Trixie has been climbing on tops of various things and then proclaiming, "Look, Nanny Garcia, I'm so high!!" And, being as mature as I am, I just laugh my ass off (after making her get down to safety, of course). That's so funny to me because as anyone who has ever smoked with me knows, my favorite high thing to say is "I'm so high!" with "I feel like I'm in a movie" coming in at a close second.

But there are some times when I manage to take the high road (pun intended). Last night, for example. Justin had posted something about being hyper on his Facebook status update. Then, some little punk posted commented to the effect of 'nobody likes justin'.

I obviously had to get all up in this mess so I commented:

"Uh, whateva, (name of little punk). Justin is sooo the cool sauce."

And then My Gay Husband, who is also Facebook friends with Justin, commented:

"Yeah, COOL SAUCE."

And then I commented:

"Yeah, we love JUSTIN!!"

Follow all that? Ok, so that may seem immature, but it wasn't because I didn't post what I really felt like saying:

"I'm 22 and I'll kick your ass!"

But, obviously, that seemed somewhat inappropriate. See? I'm a big girl now.

Just a Little FYI

2009-05-06T23:46:00.004-04:00

I love creating new email address monikers and then hitting that "check availability!" button. It just feels nice. I come up with wacky ones:

mexicannanny.@gmail.com

cannanny? That's funnunny.

SugarGarcia.@gmail.com.com

So I'm now at NannyMagnolia.@gmail.com

or, as I'm sure Dora would prefer:

nAnNymAgNoLiA@gmail.com.

Either way, your capitalization doesn't impact the destination's address.

When I Forget How to Talk, I'll Sing

2009-05-04T09:00:00.005-04:00

Although I've found that blogging gets in the way of my ~~laying in bed and crying hopelessly~~ studying Swahili, I guess I can't quit this bitch in such an alarmingly abrupt manner.

It's raining for the gazillionth day in a row, and one of Trixie's krazy friends is coming over here today. Don't fret, y'all, I have a plan (because I always have a plan). Using several bed sheets, I'm going to turn the entire basement (the part I don't live in, that is) into a big sheet fort.

That should hold them over for the entire day, leaving me free to sit in the corner of the fort and pour over the thousands and thousands of lists I make every day. This part is integral to my plan, as today is THE FIRST DAY OF THE REST OF MY LIFE and this new chapter of my life will be dictated entirely by lists.

To-Do lists, obsessive lists detailing every piece of food I put in my mouth, lists of all the boxes I need in my life, lists of everything I need to read or have read, plus another huge list of everybody I know that I've been working on for a few days. Seriously, I make lists like that all the time. List-making is therapeutic to me so when my life is entirely out of control I make a huge, daunting, list. This time I'm making a list of every single person I know.

You may be asking yourself, "Will the neuroses ever stop?" But no, they won't. Over the course of 22 years, I have built a complex web of idiosyncrasies to keep me safe from genuine emotional interaction. It's working pretty well thus far.

Oh, and that nail biting picture? Just like every other picture I've ever taken, it looks a thousand times prettier than what I actually look like. I have been ~~blessed~~ cursed with being extremely photogenic. I call it my plastic surgery face and it comes on any time a camera is pointed at me. I wish I could take a picture of myself (like that one), print it out, and then paste it over my real face.

as;dlfkjagsl

2009-05-02T19:44:00.003-04:00

Due to much public outcry, I won't be all together abandoning my blog.

However, I feel compelled to mention that I've recently fallen in love with a man name Rosetta Stone : Swahili, so he's been getting most of my attention lately.

So I'll still be posting, but meh, not so regularly. So until my blog gets a good dose of Benefiber, check out one of my blog friends on the right sidebar of this page.

Lurvs,

Your Favorite Nailbiter (that's my newest title - whattya think??)

Regards and Regrets

2009-05-01T14:54:00.002-04:00

Well, y'all, it's been nice, but I'm shutting the blog down.

Thanks for reading,

Nanny Garcia

Campy

2009-04-30T11:39:00.003-04:00

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

2009-04-29T08:42:00.004-04:00

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

2009-04-27T12:50:00.003-04:00

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 ...

2009-04-23T11:05:00.004-04:00

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

2009-04-22T11:40:00.005-04:00

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

2009-04-21T11:57:00.005-04:00

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

2009-04-19T12:03:00.004-04:00

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.

2009-04-17T04:18:00.003-04:00

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

2009-04-14T21:59:00.008-04:00

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

2009-04-06T13:53:00.004-04:00

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*

2009-04-03T11:03:00.004-04:00

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 ...

2009-04-02T23:23:00.002-04:00

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

2009-04-02T13:05:00.005-04:00

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.

Crisis

2009-03-31T09:56:00.003-04:00

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

2009-03-30T09:00:00.001-04:00

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

2009-03-29T11:20:00.002-04:00

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 ...

2009-03-26T19:14:00.006-04:00

... 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

2009-03-26T10:35:00.003-04:00

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

2009-03-24T13:01:00.001-04:00

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

2009-03-22T04:10:00.002-04:00

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

2009-03-22T02:48:00.000-04:00

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

2009-03-21T10:10:00.001-04:00

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

2009-03-20T13:09:00.005-04:00

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

2009-03-20T08:18:00.002-04:00

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

2009-03-18T00:26:00.001-04:00

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

2009-03-17T11:19:00.002-04:00

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

2009-03-14T11:31:00.005-04:00

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

2009-03-14T00:35:00.002-04:00

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

2009-03-13T09:00:00.002-04:00

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

2009-03-11T01:09:00.000-04:00

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

2009-03-09T23:17:00.006-04:00

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

2009-03-06T06:06:00.000-05:00

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:

box for jewelry
box for medical records
box for cards, letters, etc. - received
box for stationery, cards to be sent, stamps, address book, etc.
box for anthropology, research ideas, articles of interest, grad schools, etc.
box for college stuff, papers, grades, etc.
box for random keepsake items
box for inspirational tags from my tea bags and beer caps from Magic Hat beer
box for bank or financial related bidness
box for receipts
box for purses, bags, containers
box for electronic items, cords, warrantees, etc.
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

2009-03-04T23:14:00.002-05:00

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

2009-03-04T09:26:00.002-05:00

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

2009-03-02T22:41:00.003-05:00

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.

Tell Me That You Love Me, Yeah-uhhhh

2009-02-27T09:28:00.004-05:00

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).

2009-02-25T10:11:00.004-05:00

*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

2009-02-24T19:47:00.003-05:00

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?

2009-02-23T15:00:00.001-05:00

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.

2009-02-22T22:13:00.003-05:00

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.

2009-02-20T02:09:00.002-05:00

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

2009-02-18T09:58:00.004-05:00

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

2009-02-18T08:54:00.000-05:00

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

2009-02-15T19:07:00.008-05:00

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

2009-02-14T16:55:00.003-05:00

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

2009-02-12T12:30:00.000-05:00

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

2009-02-11T14:00:00.002-05:00

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

2009-02-11T00:07:00.004-05:00

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

2009-02-10T21:11:00.001-05:00

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

2009-02-09T23:15:00.006-05:00

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!!!

2009-02-09T12:00:00.001-05:00

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

2009-02-07T11:01:00.003-05:00

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

2009-02-06T12:45:00.002-05:00

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.

2009-02-05T21:32:00.003-05:00

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

2009-02-04T10:18:00.000-05:00

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???

2009-02-03T10:36:00.003-05:00

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.

I Don't Think So, Public School System

2009-01-30T19:39:00.005-05:00

People are saying it's going to snow in the next few days and the kids are going to be getting another snow day this week.

Mark my words, those kids are going to school if Coco and I have to shovel all the streets and drive the fucking buses ourselves.*

*Mama Garcia, GD would have fit better than the f-bomb, but please not my respect for your one and only request of me.

Thursday Night Excitement

2009-01-30T10:55:00.000-05:00

I know my last two posts might have been somewhat long, but you have to understand that I envision these things as short stories being written by a poor, unpublishable nanny. However, I know a lot of my audience (My Older Man Friend) have the attention span of les bebes, so I'll go easy on ya today.

I worked late last night, which meant dinner, clean up, reading with les bebes, putting les bebes to bed, then watching TV until the big boys went to bed. BUT because I was on duty, I did this all WITHOUT ALCOHOL. Oh, the sacrifices I make for the safety of my chirrens.

Plus, watching TV until the big boys went to bed wasn't as easy as it might seem. First of all, I had to intermittently strain my voice to yell out, "Yo! Keep it down over there! I can't hear my programs!" while also keeping one eye on the pantry so Francois Philippe couldn't yoink all the Doritos. However, one thing that made this insanely difficult task a little less painful was the three episodes of LOST on our Tivo.

One day last year, I was at my friend Nate's house, baking special cookies for my (hot) geology professor, when I accidentally saw an episode of LOST. I was hooked. My friends were hooked. We spent many a weekend holed up with bongs and several seasons of the show (oh, who am I lying to - we did it on weekdays too - it's not like anyone was going to work or class). But you can only watch so fast. I became desperate to catch up in time for the Season 4 premiere and began reading scripts of the show online. This worked perfectly, except by the time I started watching the show on TV again, I didn't recognize any of the characters. I did, however, recognize their stage directions.

When I moved up here, I identified Francois Phillippe as the most susceptible to the charms of a 21-year old girl and convinced him to watch the show with me on the computer every night. Eventually, Coco and the twins caught wind, and, just like my hippie friends in Mississippi, were hooked. Over the course of about 2 months, we watched all four seasons. I would sometimes come into the living room around midnight, and Coco would be up, watching alone, eyes red, hand clenching the remote, bucket of ice cream on the floor.

What can I say? We're a family of addicts.

Como Se Dice OUTSOURCE En Espanol?

2009-01-30T00:55:00.003-05:00

I know NOTHING about technology. Until Bobby Habibi harassed (he would say 'gently led') me into getting a Mac, I didn't even care about technology. And then my Mac spoke to me in its hushed, white, intuitive, tones and I wanted more. So I'm trying to learn more through my blog. And by that I mean, I read about four sentences on the blogger help page and then my brain shuts off and I go eat ice cream.

However, I did change my template a little. Can you tell? I made the font bigger because I could barely read it, so how could I expect you to? I also changed my link colors from hard-to-see-gray to magenta and hunter green. (Do you detect a pattern of vision problems? Yes. I am 22 and I wear reading glasses. It is embarrassing. Thanks for bringing it up. Geez.)

That's it for tonight though. Whew. That was tough. I had to go to the 'layout' button, and then the 'fonts and colors' button, and then the 'link' button and then BACK to the same menu and save all my changes.

And then I had to wipe the sweat off my brow.

PS- Scheduled post in a few hours! Two-For Friday!!

Dog Crazy (subtitle: The Worst Day Evah)

2009-01-29T10:00:00.000-05:00

Want to know why Nanny Garcia hasn't been able to blog in a hot minute? Please see below.

When I returned from Philadelphia, I was greeted by ... a drug dog. A great big German Shepherd. No, it wasn't there to feast upon Nanny Garcia's special brownies. It was there because Coco had lost her damn mind and adopted it. But of course Bobby told me this after I had dropped my bags and hit the ground running.

Everything Coco does, she does BIG. This past summer, we tried to teach les bebes how to swim. While I tried to focus primarily on the doggy paddle, Coco had them out there in floral swim caps, practicing the synchronized routines she'd choreographed in her spare time.

Apparently Coco read a book about circus animals during the depression and decided to rescue every German Shepherd in Northern Virginia (how these things are related, I do not know). She has undertaken a few raffles and various other fundraisers and, of course, she had to rescue her very own dog as well.

I should take this time to mention that about a month after I moved here, I was viciously attacked by a German Shepherd in the neighborhood. Let's just let that sink in for a moment.

After several weeks of jumping through adoption hoops (did you know dogs have fucking caseworkers?), we got our very own ~~lean, mean, child-eating machine~~ German Shepherd. We named her Shotzi, which is German for little treasure.

Well, Shotzi had issues. Like, more issues than I have. Issues as in Angelina Jolie in Girl, Interrupted kind of issues. The only time she left a certain patch of carpet in the living room was when she was growling at someone, attacking someone, or pretending she didn't notice someone. She seemed to like Coco the best, meaning she pretending to not notice her the most.

Coco kept pointing out that if Shotzi were a small dog, we would pay no mind to its barking. I countered this with pointing out that if her children were waving a potato gun around the house, our reactions would differ greatly from their brandishing a machine gun in the living room.

And now let me introduce the substory. Dash had a stomach bug earlier this week, which he so kindly shared with me. You would think I would be elated at the chance to be all skinny and shiz for my hot date with The Butler, but I was less elated, more queezy. Coco kept insisting I go to sleep, but I didn't take her advice until I puked on the stairs. (Luckily I had one of my drunk bags in my coat pocket.)

Oh yeah, Coco was home on Wednesday after we'd enjoyed a snow storm followed by an ice storm. Let me briefly give you her point of view: trapped inside the house with 5 kids, a neurotic dog, 4-ft of work to be done, and the amazing puking nanny.

So back to the main story. I woke up from my nauseated sleep to the sound of the dog barking. Francois Philippe was playing Guitar Hero in ~~the basement~~ my quarters, so I asked him what was going on upstairs. "Oh nothing," he replied. "So why is Shotzi barking," I asked. "Oh yeah, she attacked Justin and Dustin."

Of course I ran upstairs to find Coco, Justin and Dustin crying. Shotzi chose this already high-stress day to fuck everything up royally by attacking the twins while Coco had heroically stood between them and punched the dog in the nose.

Now, Justin reacted to this incident by going into the basement, just as Coco and I instructed. Dustin, however, flung himself atop the breakfast table and began to scream about how much he loved Shotzi. What the fuck, right???

Since Shotzi was guarding the kitchen and living room from Dustin, we had to sneak him through the back door into the basement via the nanny door. He did not go willingly.

Coco stayed upstairs with Shotzi and waited for the dog rescue people to come pick her up while I stayed downstairs with the kids. Dustin kept interrupting les bebes and my rousing game of "house" so we integrated him into our story line by pretending he was a crazy man and then calling the cops (Sassy - my half mannequin - and Dash) to come escort him from our property. Then Dustin knocked Sassy over so we started screaming "Officer down!!" and then took her to the hospital. Then we had a funeral after the crazy man followed her into the hospital and shot her through a pillow (a la The Godfather).

But I digress.

After several hours of the entire family beind held hostage in the basement, the dog lady finally arrived to pick up Shotzi (who I'm sure was equally glad to see her). Dustin was not going to let the dog go quietly though and I had to physically restrain him from leaping up the stairs and flinging his body upon the dog. At one point, the dog lady came downstairs to calmly explain that the dog had to leave because if a German Shepherd bites a child, it's straight to Death Row for them. But after Dustin threw an armoir at her, she told me I would have to restrain him and that dogs couldn't be in emotionally unstable environments. Well, shit, she met me and Coco so why'd she give us a dog in the first place? We're about as emotionally unstable as they come.

Then Dusty dashed out the nanny door (barefoot - in the snow) so I had to chase after him (barefoot - in the snow) and then tackle him to the icy ground. And I thought Northern Virginia was a move out of the trailer park.

I was fighting the urge to puke this whole time. AND THEN I had to go to chemistry class, a class that I had to leave 20 minutes into so I could go puke in the bathroom ... and on my shoes. Fortunately I had on snow boots so the vomit wiped right off. But then I had to sit through my three-hour lab. And guess who sat next to me? That's right, the class Smart Ass.

But then I came home, took a TylenolPM (or six of them) and slept until the new day.

Please feel free to send your condolences via cash or check to:

Nanny McCrazy

The House on the Hill

Trailer Park, NOVA

By Kids, I Mean, Adults On Drugs

2009-01-26T21:50:00.007-05:00

As you may have heard, Dora and I recently traveled to Bossy's hometown to visit our dearly beloved friend, Benjamin Franklin, and our newly beloved friend E Darryl (seriously, his first name is a letter) and The Outlaw (to you, I apologize. Dora came up with your blog name). Many bowls were shared, bread was broken, stories told, tears shed. And I recount this all for you now.

The ride there was, um, looooong. I think this might have been because we blasted through all our momentum (namely, The Indigo Girls) before we were even out of Virginia. Plus, I was still in Nanny mode, meaning I was texting Justin and Francois Philippe long into Delaware. But three depressingly long hours later, we arrived at Benjamin Franklin's apartment, which is located in West Philadelphia, what some might call the edgy part of town. And by edgy, I mean, its primary tenants are crackheads, hipsters, and African immigrants. Needless to say, I was ELATED as I absolutely adore all three of these demographic groups. (I'm not being sarcastic. I regularly bring home stray hipsters.)

Dora and I probably should have unloaded our bags before we started passing around beers and bongs. This seemingly effortless task took us a painful hour to complete as we were simply too trashed to cross the street. We were having problems accurately evaluating the distance between us and the cars. We solved this problem by standing on the sidewalk and waiting for ALL headlights to clear out before we could cross the street ... only to find that Dora had left her key in the fucking apartment. Yep, back across ... twice ... before we got it right.

The next morning Dora attended to her Philly bidness while Benjamin Franklin and I walked to a local farmers market. We took this trip partially to check out the produce, but mostly to watch kids play with foam swords in a local park. Oh, and by kids, I mean, adults on drugs.

The rest of the day was mainly spent basking in the grand effulgence that is ~~marijuana~~ Benjamin Franklin and dear sweet E Darryl. But the real fun started up that night when Ben's friend The Outlaw picked us up and we headed to the bar ... and then the other, hopefully more happening, bar ... and then the other, hopefully less crowded, bar. The last bar was really the best. Because when I say best, I mean, provided me with the most blog fodder.

To start off, E Darryl is not 21. Which means he pretended to push The Outlaw's wheelchair into the bar because, you know, who's going to stop and ID the guy pushing the wheelchair?

And then, once inside the club Dora dubbed "Spring Break 09 - Miami," The Outlaw and I fell in love with the two greatest people at the bar: Drunk Guy and Cheetah Girl.

Drunk Guy spent his evening with his eyes rolled back in his head, telling everyone he lived in the "young professional" part of town, slyly groping asses when he thought no one was looking (little did he know that asses and crotches happen to be the mainstays of The Outlaw's line of vision), and, my personal favorite Drunk Guy move: aggressively thrusting his ass into any body part that would stay still long enough. Dora, of course, baited him into dancing with her, whereupon he immediately asked her if "Hey Mickey" was her "favorite dancing tune." He also confided to her that he hated everyone at the bar, including E Darryl because he was so nice -- "a little too nice, if ya know what I mean."

Ahh, and then there was Cheetah Gurl, so named for the print of shirt from which her generous bosom was spilling. There was simply no end to the Cheetah Gurl's antics. One minute she was grinding her crotch into a bouncer, the next she was vomiting on the dance floor. When I saw the mascara running down her face, I literally squealed and grabbed The Outlaw in excitement, who kept asking me, "Oh, what did we do to deserve the honor of this delicate beauty??? Her grace and charm is simply awe-inspiring." (He said that, I promise.)

We eventually left "Spring Break 09 - Miami" because The Outlaw suspected "it was getting too white up in there," which was subsequently confirmed by a Blink-182 song.

I remember telling myself that I was hot and should take off my jacket, but I was still surprised when I awoke on Ben's couch the next morning, one sleeve on, one sleeve off. I was more surprised that Bobby Habibi actually thought his 9am text message was going to be answered in a timely fashion. "Yes, we will be home in time for your Sunday roast, Bobby. And yes we will probably reek of the weekend at the dinner table."

CD Winnahs

2009-01-25T19:21:00.003-05:00

Before I left Friday afternoon, I gave Bobby Habibi and Coco a copy of Philly Phun Mix so they wouldn't miss me so much over the weekend. Therefore, Bobby's comment didn't count towards the contest. *I threw that "therefore" in there to make it seem more like legal jargon.

So that means Cat and ~~The Butler~~ "Ryan" won autographed copies of the CD! Yay!

Check back tomorrow for tales from Philadelphia!

PS - As I write this, Bobby Habibi is standing in the doorway, calling me unfair, and claiming that the third autograph CD (being given to Cat) is going to deflate the value of his CD.

Philly Phun Mix 2-Double OH!-9

2009-01-24T09:00:00.001-05:00

You'll probably miss me a lot this weekend, so I scheduled this post to hold you over. Please enjoy (looking at, not actually listening to) this mix of songs that Dora and I will be jamming to all weekend. This is just a random compilation of some of our favorite songs. Some consider this a follow-up album to our all-time classics mix, FITS 2-Double OH!-2.

Violent Femmes - Blister in the Sun
Ani DeFranco - Buildings and Bridges
Indigo Girls - Closer to Fine
Phish - Farmhouse
Otis Redding - The Happy Song
Sarah Harmer - I Am Aglow
Taj Mahal - Lovin' In My Baby's Eyes
Beatles - Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds
Curtis Mayfield - Move On Up
Oysterhead - Mr. Oysterhead
G. Love and The Special Sauce - My Baby's Got Sauce
Blind Melon - No Rain
Bob Dylan - On A Night Like This
Grateful Dead - Scarlet Begonias
Sublime - Scarlet Begonias
Ben Harper - Sexual Healing
Talking Heads - Naive Melody
Old Crow Medicine Show - Wagon Wheel
Widespread Panic - The Waker

PS - The first two people to comment get an autographed copy of Philly Phun mix. (Except Chocolate, who can't play, because I'm not mailing that shit to Albania, Boo.) I would have made it the first five, but usually only one or two people comment anyway. It's actually just a matter of who besides Cat is getting one.

Karma Police

2009-01-23T10:00:00.003-05:00

I must have racked up a lot of good energy points because I am being rewarded this weekend with the presence of two of my absolute favorite people in the universe (My Older Man Friend and My Uncle Ted are up there too). Not only is Dora coming to visit (TODAY! SHE ARRIVES TODAY!!!), but we are going to spend the weekend in Philadelphia with our childhood friend Benjamin Franklin.

Y'all know all about Dora, so let me tell ya a little somethin' somethin' about Benjamin Franklin. He is gorgeous. Additionally, he is the most genuinely kind person I know. He's spent about the last bajillion years working at Boys and Girls Clubs, then he worked on the Obama campaign for free for six months. After that, he was promoted to Chief Fancy Pants for the Obama campaign and now he is a Big Fancy Campaign Manager for Big Fancy People in Philadelphia.

I don't really care about his fabulous political titles, but he is one of the dearest friends I've ever had and I love him so very much (awwww....). He has come to visit me a few times, but I never get to really sit down and have a beer with him because he has the knack of visiting at my busiest, most stressful times. So this weekend, I'm taking it easy, enjoying my time with my three best friends (Dora, Thomas Jefferson, and Mary Jane, that is), and not fixing one damn sandwich or putting anyone in time out.

Here's to mini-vacations!

Cold: My Anti-Drug

2009-01-22T18:00:00.001-05:00

You might have heard about the inauguration of Barack Obama recently. Well, all of DC and Nova were shut down this week, including all of my chirrens' school. So I've been cooped up with all five of them this week. Can you imagine?

Maybe not, but I am absolutely wiped out. It's 7pm, Trixie is screaming upstairs, Justin in playing the piano, and Francois Philippe is playing Guitar Hero. All I want to do is smoke a cig and go to bed. Which brings me to this post.

It is unnaturally cold here. Hippies have an inherent aversion to cold anyway, coupled with the fact that I'm from Mississippi, where we enjoy seasons comparable to those in Africa and other lush deserts. The other day, I tried to rebel and go to Dash's karate class in my short brown nanny/mental patient jumper with flip flops. After slipping on ice and freezing my thighs off, I reluctantly retreated inside to at least put on tights and Birkenstocks. Seriously, this weather is enough to make me wanna quit my smokes since I have to fucking suit up every time I step outside the NannyDoor. Here I am in my smoking gear. The first one was obviously not the picture I meant to take, but it's funny to me because I am very seriously concentrating on setting up my webcam. And as y'all know, I rarely do anything seriously.

Addendum

2009-01-21T19:56:00.001-05:00

Ok, so my layout cut off a part of that cartoon (see post below). The important part is FUCK THAT SHIT. But you can check out the original cartoon in all its glory here.

Censorshit

2009-01-21T12:16:00.000-05:00

I rarely censor myself. I adhere only to the following self-imposed guidelines:

a) If I know it will greatly hurt one of my friends. Like, I would never write about this one thing of Dora's that's she's very sensitive about. Its initials are FB.

b) If it greatly violates someone's privacy. Like, I would never write about this one thing of Dora's that's she's very secretive about. Its initials are MM.

c) If it would offend my mom. Which is why I don't use GD or bitch on my blog. These things offend her.

Anyway, I love this cartoon strip, xkcd. This is my favorite cartoon from their series because I hear about my "future employers" all.the.time. Check it out here. I heard about the series from Mr. Lady.

Dancer For Money

2009-01-20T10:50:00.001-05:00

I just got off a very busy and important phone call with my dear friend Joella DeVille, during which time Joella and I discussed the merits of the song Private Dancer by Tina Turner. And by discuss, I mean we crooned snippets of the song back and forth to each other for several minutes while Joella was walking to work on Beale Street. Music on Beale Street is nothing new, but I guess since we sounded less like Tina Turner, more like the Cookie Monster, Joella got some stares. Or I assume someone was staring at him because he suddenly interrupted our crude duet to yell: "Boo, I ain't yo mirror!"

In addition to easy listening hits of the 80s, Joella called to announce he and his significant other are moving to Seattle April 15th (they are obviously running from the IRS - though they could have chosen a less conspicuous departure date). Now, Joella and I know what it's like to be broke. Hell, I'm a domestic servant. I mean, a greatly glorified domestic servant, but I still live in some else's basement. And Joella, having no car, rollerblades around Memphis. We're eccentric homeless people.

But our mutual BFF, Georgia (the hippie), knows nothing of this, as her parents are flying her out to Denver next week, to look for furnished apartments. The first time she met Joella's significant other, she kept going on and on about how no matter how hard she tried, she just couldn't get broke. She would spend money like water, and her parents would just keep filling her bank account back up.

Now, Joella and I are used to this sort of shit. It sounds bitchy, but Georgia's wealth is actually very endearing because, despite all the money she has, she still spends it like a poor person (or a child). Examples: kites that she flies in the WalMart parking lot at 4am, 200lb bags of cheese popcorn, hammocks for all of her friends (not lying - this happened freshman year - then we realized they didn't fit in our dorm rooms and they just got tossed out).

However, Joella's significant other just wasn't used to this sort of talk so he replies, "Georgia, I'm not trying to be rude because I just met you and all, but shut the fuck up."

What? You thought I'd post about the inauguration? Fuck that, I'm a leader, not a follower.

PS - Check out Joella's significant other's blog here.

Desperation Laundry

2009-01-17T11:33:00.001-05:00

Well, I'm down to the bottom of the barrel. I have exactly zero (0) pairs of clean underwear, my shirts all smell like patchouli and doritos (a hippie nanny's trademark smell, of course), and I've been stealing socks from Justin and Dustin. I really don't want to start laundry at 2am (and I'm sure Coco and Bobby Habibi, whose bedroom is next to the laundry room, don't want me to either).

I could have done this all earlier while everyone else was at a family friend's house, but I took that opportunity to smoke cigarettes, eat veg chili with sour cream and jalepenos (it's lasted me about five days, since no one else has ate a damn drop), and then watched a Cheaters marathon on G4. I really love everything about that show, but my favorite part is the creepy way that Joey Greco always promise to "take care" of the "nice young ladies" that they dudes are caught cheating with. Like "Let's get this nice young lady a ride home ... to my ~~house~~ pants."

Oh, and thanks to everyone who phoned in tips (even the anonymous ones) as to the whereabouts of My Older Man Friend. I found him over at Catherinette's. But don't worry, I'm on the phone to Joey Greco already.

Let Downs

2009-01-16T10:00:00.001-05:00

As you know, I've been bettering myself over at the community college. I like my class, but I have to admit I was a little disappointed.

One of the things that excited me about the community college was the diverse student population. Okay, okay. I was less concerned about diversity, more concerned about finding a new (hot) foreign boyfriend to replace The Moroccan.

No romantic prospects in the class. And, as lame as it sounds, I wanted to be friends with everyone too. When class ends, I dawdle, putting my books in my bag veeerrry slooooowly, giving everyone ample time to approach me and start up a friendship. And then everyone silently files out of the room, leaving me standing there like, "Ok, guys, see ya next week!"

But the worst part is this one smart ass who sits in the front. I don't mean smart ass in that he knows all the answers, I mean smart ass who interrupts class to ask if he can go to the bathroom, who tells the teacher her exercises are irrelevant, and whispers in class to a kid who looks suspiciously like a football player (have I ever told you about my vendetta against college athletes - that's a whole 'nother story).

It's unfortunate that SmartAss (ahh, and another blog name is born) is in my class because I am going to have to put him in his place. Not only that, but I have to do it at exactly the right moment to maximize the effects, which means I'm going to spend the next several weeks taking notes on all his classroom fuckery.

Crouched, waiting to pounce.

Prince Ali, Fabulous He

2009-01-15T12:30:00.000-05:00

Today Dash and Trixie watched Aladdin on the TV set. Which is actually a banging movie, as far as Disney flixxx go.

When Aladdin and Jasmine get all snuggly on the magic carpet and sing "A Whole New World," Trixie stared up at me with her big ol' doe eyes and goes, "Oh, NannyGarcia, they like each other! It's a happy ending!"

So of course I turned it off right then so she didn't have to through all the emotional turmoil of a fully-developed plot line. I know they end up together, but there's all those messy trials and tribulations they have to go through and life shouldn't have to be so oogly and hard for a 4-yr old.

But speaking of Aladdin ... did you know NannyGarcia dated him? Well, I dated the guy who played him at Disney World. It's a real long story as to how our love came to be, but it did. He came to visit me up here one time. And, unfortunately, My Original Gay Husband (who is even sassier than the current version) met him many moons ago. I have yet to live it down. He at least had the decency to wait until The Moroccan (as he is now known) was in the bathroom to ask, "Where the hell did you get this immigrant and when are you returning him?"

Many of my friends were kind though. I mean, he was pretty hot and wore tight pants and he was fucking Moroccan. Know what city he was from? Casa-motherfucking-blanca. I shit you not. To be quite honest, he wasn't the strangest thing I'd ever brought home. The first time he came to Mississippi, we went on a double date with My Gay Husband and his then-love interest. Awkward, to say the least.

Ok, so now you know about The Moroccan, which primes you for tomorrow's story.

**I would also like to publicly add that I totally wanted to marry The Moroccan, and totally would have, if I wasn't on my diddy's kick-ass health insurance until I'm married.

She Was a Fool, and So Was I

2009-01-13T18:53:00.001-05:00

Dora babysits for two kids, as well as their grandmother who suffers from dementia. If you've never known anyone with dementia, it's old people doing shit that would be high-larious if they were a drunk college kid. But since it's an elderly person who is neither drunk nor an asshole who deserves to bust their lip on a sink, it's less funny, more heartbreaking. So Dora and I made a pact to kill each other in case of dementia. But, in retrospect, the only way that Dora and I could be any more fun is if we both had dementia, so maybe we should just force our children into a different pact, vowing to videotape our highjinks. Gah, being an adult is going to be awesome.

I was very upfront when I interviewed and made sure I told Bobby Habibi very loudly that I cannot cook. They hired me anyway. (That sentence has been uttered many-a-time in the past year.) Sometimes, though, I feel guilty about throwing frozen pizza, chicken nuggets, and hamburgers at my kids day after day. So sometimes I like to do something a little crazy: cook.

Tonight I made vegetarian chili, using this recipe from Whole Foods. I think Vuboq would have liked this, since word on the Beltway is that he spends the majority of his unemployment checks at Whole Foods. *burn*

So after I'd given myself carpal tunnel from opening cans and stirring, guess who ate that shit. Me. Only me. Francois Phillipe had a hotdog sandwich, the twins had a banana, Dash had meat (his favorite food), and Trixie had string cheese. I sat at the head of the table, very calmly eating my chili, luxuriating in the halluhpeenyuhs and sour cream, pretending like FP's hotdog sandwich wasn't a fucking slap in my ruddy face (my face is actually ruddy, I'm not just looking for funny adjectives).

And Cat complained because one of her kids didn't like croutons. Geez.

PS - If any faithful readers see my My Older Man Friend wandering around My Alma Mater, tell him to drop his favorite nanny(me) a line. I ain't heard from that boo in a hot minute.

Doctah, Doctah, Gimme the Newz

2009-01-12T12:54:00.001-05:00

I am waiting for my friends Elsa and Lupe to finish mopping the kitchen so I can go make some delectable rice concoction*. So you have my attention until then. Lupe doesn't speak any English at all, so I had to call Dora (who has a degree in Spanish) to ask her como se dice "I like your ponytail" en espanol.

If you've been keeping up with your favorite childcare provider (me), then you know I've been jumping through medical hoops. And guess what? Fucking nothing. I did get some new pillz that the doc keeps reiterating are NOT diet pillz, but will make me lose wait. Uh, sounds like a motherfucking diet pill to me. Or magic. Either way, I'm fine with it.

I like this doctor. I think he has OCD, but he hasn't asked my opinion on the matter yet. I picked him off the internetz because his first name is Farhad, which is my favorite Persian name. But when he tries to explain things to me, his ramblings seem too circitous to follow. And then afterwards my mom will ask me what he said to which I can only reply "Pancreas".

So I'm pretty sure he was saying everything is A-OK, but who cares? I really only have three questions for any doctor.

1) Is this going to kill me any faster than my booze and cigarettes?

2) Is this going to make me fatter?

3) Does this in any way qualify me for a medical marijuana license?

If the answer to all three of those questions is no, then I just stop listening and walk out the door.

* I have two rice concoction recipes. My favorite is rice, dark red kidney beans, 1 can tuna, 1 tbsp Miracle Whip Light, several tbsp fat free plain yogurt, crushed red pepper. My other recipe is rice, lima beans, dill weed, lemon juice, fat free plain yogurt, and black pepper. My father calls this "Creative Cooking".

Friday Night Lite

2009-01-09T22:55:00.000-05:00

As I mentioned, tonight me + the gals went out for Andrea Louise & The Sistah-in-Law's birthdays. (Coco's Sistah-in-Law, not mine, I should mention. I am forever appropriating Coco's family members.) However, it was not the shit-show I had anticipated. I was especially disappointed in Andrea Louise, who did not take off one single item of clothing. Not even her cheetah-trimmed vest. In fact, it was so tame that I came home to edit Dora's job application essays (it's not a burden - I love correcting other people's mistakes).

Last year, my roommate Lois and I had several dark reality-show secrets, including Rock of Love and Sunset Tan (who can resist a show about "LA's most chichi tanning salon"??) as well as E!'s Daily Ten news show, where we got all of our essential celeb gossip. But other than that, I used my TV more as a bong stand than a source of entertainment (that's what the lava lamp was for). Now that I've got my degree from a college whose football conference was considered "The Nerdy Nine," I feel like I can let my brain rot a little and indulge in this television box I have heard so much about.

But I am honestly alarmed by the sensationalism I consistently see on my tv box. "10 TON MOM!" followed by "10 TON TEEN!" followed by "10 MOST HORRIFYING PLACES ON EARTH!" I am beginning to suspect that TV caters primarily to extremely de-sensitized citizens and when somebody like me wanders out of the library, the natural reaction is, "Whoah, whoah, turn down the volume and why are all these graphics flying at my face???"

However, I am really looking forward to watching "Dark Days in Monkey City" on Animal Planet. I also like their "Planet Earth" series. I'm watching one about the jungle right now and y'all, the jungle is fucking NUTZ! Tons of tiny bugs and fungi and other miniscule things that prompted my mother to send 32 pairs of socks with me to Africa. I am especially captivated by this CRAZY plant with a neon green/pink pitcher-like bulb. Inside the bulb is a liquid that emits an enticing scent. Curious ants wander down to investigate and find only their watery graves. On the cusp of the bulb permanently lives some crazy ass spider who preys upon the ants that drown inside. THEN the corpses of these ants are digested by the enzymes in the bulb liquid, which nourishes the plant.

How amazing is all that shiz?? I bet that cusp-dwelling spider is one sneaky motherfucker. The ants crawl right past him and he is all like, "There's some freaky shit down there, yo." Then he alludes to something sexy and the ant gets all excited and rushes down, only to drown, while the spider hangs on the cusp with his stupid silk, peering down at the ant, laughing. (Did all that just happen in my head or what?)

In other news, there's a show on PBS right now called "Sandwiches You Will Like". I am tempted to watch this out of love for PBS, but I'm stuck on animal planet because I don't like people telling me what to do or what sandwiches to favor.

Domestic Servants Have to Stick Together

2009-01-09T12:43:00.001-05:00

Yesterday les bebes and I stormed the cuhmoooonity college to get me into my chem class. People kept complimenting me on my well-behaved children and telling les bebes how cute they were. Dash and Trixie just soak it up. They are total pros. Trixie, especially, will turn up her doe eyes, flip her hair, twirl her skirt, all to get a grin from a receptionist or check out clerk. After episodes like this, Dash usually says something like, "I counted 14 people who said we were good and I think it only takes 12 compliments to go to Target!!"

Speaking of les bebes, they're finishing up their lunch now so I have to return to making escape pods for action figures, which is what they think I've been doing this whole time.

Tonight Coco and I are going out for Andrea Louise and Coco's sister-in-law's birthdays. This should be a total shit show - or at least I hope it is. I will be in rare form since my plans for tomorrow include sleeping until 1pm, going to the gym, taking a shower, and then napping from about 4pm to 6pm. This will all possibly be followed by an outing with a local butler. Domestic servants have to stick together!!!

Medicalaments

2009-01-08T11:28:00.001-05:00

I have been blessed with the gift of perspective (My Older Man Friend is saying, "Blessed?? Blessed by ME, you mean!"). What this means to me is that, in any given situation, I have the ability to remove my head from deep within the recesses of my own nether regions and ask, "What hilarity is going on right now? Or, better yet, "What would this look like in a movie??" Such questions were asked today at the radiology office.

An unfortunately skinny woman (meaning it was very unfortunate that she is skinny and I am not) with sad eyes led me to a "dressing room" and directed me to gown up and subsequently make my way to the "patient lounge". Patient lounge? In my head, my gowned peers and I enjoyed a leisurely smoke, sharing some quiet laughs over our drinks. In reality, it was a smaller version of the waiting room with a phone. And my only companion, a middle aged woman who had selected the beige gown rather than the grey (grey's in now, FYI), was too busy sealing and resealing the plastic bag that held her "personal effects" to make idle lounge talk with me.

After I'd seen el doctoro, I was essentially abandoned in the exam room. After several minutes, I de-gowned and peeked my head outside. Fuck, humorless skinny girl again. But I did my best. "So uh, should i just cut outta here or swing back by the patient lounge for a cig??" "Ms. Garcia, you can follow the corridor to the right back to the reception area."

Is that how people talk in doctor offices now? When I was growing up, my doctor was my friend Nagrom's dad. This meant my doctor visits usually started off with something like, "Yo yo, Doctah Bill, how's it hanging, thug???" After he'd finished interrogating me about his dwindling liquor supply at his house, he'd get down to non-medicating me and prescribed only that I stop skipping Tech Discovery class for mysterious ailments that disappeared by 5th period.

This was the same doctor who, after his daughter and I were BUSTED skipping class, refused to write us notes and instead allowed us to languish in In-School-Suspension for a whole day.

N-E-Way ... I never know how to end these things. So - The End.

You Know, The Lady Who Lives in Your Basement

2009-01-07T18:39:00.000-05:00

Sometimes, I am terribly immature. Like, just a second ago when Francois Phillippe was refusing to read the Jack Kerouac book I was throwing at him. I kept screaming "This book changed my life!! His literary style was, at the time, absolutely unorthodox!! Unorthodox, I'm telling ya!!" This episode ended with me stomping off muttering, "Fine. If you don't want to grow up to be as cool as me (you know, the lady who lives in your basement), then don't read Jack Kerouac. Just keep watching Spongebob while your brain rots."

Geez, I gotta stop letting these chirrens get to me!!

Oooh, a Video! Oh wait, It's of Skin.

2009-01-06T10:37:00.000-05:00

I had more bloodywerk done this morning. Fortunately, my Caribbean friend was there and I was done in about 10 minutes. His ethnicity is actually a mystery to me, but every time I see him his accent sounds a little bit different. So today he was Caribbean. That's really how anthropology works - guessing and then half-heartedly publishing, knowing someone younger and more attractive is just waiting to reguess everything you just guessed.

Oh, I kid, I kid. Anthropology is very scientifical.

Last time I visited my South African friend, my arm was a total bruised up mess. Coco gave me the side eyes when she asked what happened to my arm, as if I might be sneaking out the nanny door after bedtime to shoot up on street corners (My Older Man Friend wants to say something like "If the bruises fit" right now).

But no. I think the real reason my arm is a hot mess is because they fucking duct tape the gauze to my arm! So as I was yanking earlier, I thought, "Why not record this and put it on the internet??" (Which is sort of what I think about, uh, everything.) So enjoy. If you listen real close you can hear me breathing heavy (the story of my life) and my skin weeping as only industrial-strength adhesive will make it do.

Actually, I just watched the video and it's pretty boring. You should skip it.

Blind Alleys

2009-01-05T17:52:00.001-05:00

I don't even feel like blogging because I'm so depressed because I can't register for classes at the community (pronounced cuh-moooo-nity) college until I have my transcript from my alma mater. I went in there with my degree, like, "Uh, I have a bachelor's. Can't you just naturally infer that I, at some point before I graduated, took English and Math 101 and sign me into this motherfucking advanced Chem class??????"

But didn't nobody want to help a sistah out today so now I'm just glumming around my room. I even went to Borders with my 40% off coupon and bought Jack Kerouac's Wake Up: A Life of the Buddha but even that didn't cheer me up. I think if I go to the gym and ~~cry~~ run on the treadmill I should perk up though.

As you all know, La Henna and My Gay Husband paid me a lengthy visit this past week. I'm too tired to write about all of it, but here is one of my favorite parts.

My Gay Husband was dead-set on hitting the gay bars. I tried to explain to him that people don't always go out in DC on Thursday nights that drop below 20 degrees, but he would not be persuaded. I foolishly followed his direction for awhile ... into what was obviously the wrong side of town. Now, I am pretty ~~irresponsible with my own safety~~ adventurous so when I was clutching wildly at his coat (he may be gay, but he's buff) and begging him to get back on the Metro, you have to know it was a pretty rough area. He finally dragged me to a horrible, horrible gay bar (for those of you in the DC - area: Apex). I looooove gay bars so I am not using the word horrible lightly here. There were about 19 people on the dance floor, which also happened to be their average age (18+ bars suck, as a general rule).

But my favorite part of the night was on the Metro back into the VA suburbs when some guy asked if My Gay Husband was the hot gay and I was his fairy princess (which is nice for fag hag). Afterwards, My Gay Husband turns to me and says, "I told you I'd get called hot before the night was over."

To which I replied: "Uh, yeah, but that gay was a crackhead with a black eye and braces!!!"

La Henna Esta Famosa

2009-01-01T13:18:00.001-05:00

My Gay Husband arrived Monday night and headed over to the Metro station Kiss-N-Ride with me to pick up La Henna. Everything was going great. La Henna had been carrying a torn cardboard box with her the entire time, which I just naturally assumed held her clothes and toiletries. MUCH BETTER THAN THAT. La Henna brought me a gift:

That's a mannequin, no legs, one arm, dressed like a flight attendant. Dash took one look at her and named her Sassy.

My excitement over my superb gift was dampened by my dead NannyMobile in the parking lot. Yep, totally dead. I stood there for a second, letting La Henna and My Gay Husband pretend to try and then we all smoked cigarettes and stared at it. None of that worked. We ended up waiting an hour and a half for the roadside assistance guy to come jump us off (which always sounds dirty to me).

The worst part was that La Henna had arrived on one of the last trains of the night. So all the cars had slowly trickled out of the parking lot, the taxi cabs off to find fares elsewhere. But we made the most of what little fodder was left. A cop car drove around the lot slowly a couple times, then dropped off a girl from the back of his car. She went to sit at one of the bus benches ... but no more buses were running that night!!!!!! Clearly, a prostitute. We spent most of our time watching her. One lone cabbie tried to solicit her services but then some guy walked up and ruined the whole thing.

We were so tired when we got back that, after we had eaten every leftover in the house and imbibed a ~~lot~~ little, I was so tired I didn't even force My Gay Husband to snuggle with me. And if you know how needy and sad I am, then you know that's pretty damn tired.

Bittersweet Arrivals

2008-12-30T10:32:00.000-05:00

As I reported yesterday, My Gay Husband and La Henna arrived last night.

The past twenty-four hours have been INSANE, and I've only slept for three of them, so check me out in about eight more.

China Town Bus

2008-12-29T09:55:00.000-05:00

Yesterday I got home from the grocery store only to discover that Francois Philippe had a friend over. This meant he, Justin, Dustin, and the friend were running around ~~the basement~~ my quarters, screaming, hitting, and shooting each other with various projectile objects. The Skydiver asked me to come over immediately after I'd fallen victim to the Nerf gun. Of course I said YES, PLEASE, HOW SOON CAN I COME OVER? LIKE NOW? GREAT!!!!

But this evening, while enjoyably awkward (as only The Skydiver can do), left me woefully unprepared for the FABULOUS duo of guests arriving today: My Gay Husband and La Henna. You might remember La Henna from this post. And you might remember My Gay Husband as pretty much every other sentence I write involves him in some way. In true La Henna fashion, she called me this morning AS she was boarding the China Town bus from Boston to DC.

Have you ever ridden the China Town bus? I have. This bus systems runs all over the Northeast. Boston, DC, Philly, Baltimore, New York, etc. The picks ups and drop offs are all in the China Town districts of each of these cities. This means that you have to just walk around China Town and hope you're in the right place at the right time. You'll see a throng of non-Asians, usually indicating a fast-encroaching pick up. Thirty minutes later, a bus will back into an alley and everyone will rush forward. The first time I rode from DC to Philly, it was packed. People were standing in the aisles and, if memory serves, there was a chicken involved somewhere along the line. When you reach your destination, the bus just stops in another alley and tells everyone to get off.

Needless to say, it's the only way I travel. And it's perfectly suited for La Henna, who is the definition of sketchy. She never has a phone, so she'll just call you one day (like today) from a pay phone somewhere, telling you she'll be there in 10 hours.

In other news, Dash and Trixie are currently pretending to eat baby angels. I swear I don't know where they got an idea like that.

Chrimah

2008-12-28T08:00:00.000-05:00

I thought all the bloggers would be taking a break over Christmas, but it seems the holidays have only made everyone more prolific so now I'm feeling intense pressure to get caught up (the story of my life!). I feel ashamed when I don't blog for long periods of time and I end up avoiding my blogger dashboard and blogs like Cat's and Catherinette's. I pulled this same sort of shiz in college. If I fell behind in my classes, I would avoid that class (and professor) like the plague.

N-E-Wayzzz I'm back in class today.

Did you know that all five Chirrens Garcia have been home since Monday? I was initially excited; I had all these idyllic Christmas plans up my proverbial sleeves. And then, well, there was reality, ready to donkey punch me in the teeth.

One day les bebes and I went to a fancy (read: free) movie day at the library. They were showing The Muppets Christmas Carol, one of my personal favorites. As you might expect, we were the raggediest bunch there. First of all, I had all five Chirrens plus one of Dustin and Justin's raucous friends. Second of all, the movie started at 2pm, and they shut the doors and don't let anyone interrupt once it starts!

This meant I had to feed the six of them and then politely recommend that the friend's dad come pick him up after lunch. Then I had to rush out to Coco's office to drop off Francois Philippe and the twins so Bobby Habibi could take them to the shooting range (yep). Ok, so it's 1:30pm at this point and we're doing good. OH NO! We don't have any snacks and this event is strictly BYOSnaxxx. So we dash into the grocery store near Coco's office and I tell them to grab something Christmassy - they get 2ft tall Christmas tree cookies (they tasted good though, I can't lie). We also grab a bottle of Sprite, which I would never ever allow under normal circumstances because I'm a ~~bitch~~ good nanny.

1:40pm. We're doing good. We get in the car. NO GAS. 1:50pm. I'm literally biting my tongue, I think. 1:58pm. Dash and I are holding hands while I've got Trixie turned sideways on my hip like a football, sprinting through the library parking lot. WE MAKE IT!!!!!!!

Inside the movie room, other kids are lounging on their monogrammed fleecies and coordinated throw pillows. My kids are sprawled out on my purple Wal-Mart coat. As if this isn't bad enough, I can feel all the other parents judging me for the Sprite (it was diet, sheesh). My kids are totally oblivious to these condescending stares and are having fun passing it back and forth like a frothy mug of beer. ... and then Dash spilled it on the movie room carpet. It was one of those things that happens in slow motion too.

Honestly though, I wrote about this solely because I recognize it is a humorous string of events with which lots of people will be able to empathize. But my day was far from ruined - I could not have had a better time with les bebes. We love pretending we have a deadline and screaming at red lights "We're not gonna make itttttt!!!!!!!!!" Like they wouldn't let me in? Puh-leeze. And I couldn't care less what those granola soccer moms think about my sprite and sugar cookies. My kids were the cutest, funniest kids in the movie room and we ended the film with a dog pile tickle fight.

So there. Our team never loses.

Awwww

2008-12-24T08:44:00.000-05:00

I have so many things to write about today, but until I get them all finished (because I'm totally the type to write 40 incomplete posts instead of one complete), here's a picture of my nephew. I look at this about 30 times an hour. I mean this picture really has it all. Sleepy smile, baby tie-dye, and protruding belly. Oh wait, I guess you could say I've got all those things too. I never realized how unbelievably cute I am!! They should put me on calendars!!!

Blegh

2008-12-22T02:47:00.000-05:00

It's 2:30am and I just threw up. Blegh. Why is this blog-worthy? Let me start at the beginning.

Coco, Coco's mother (who is just as fabulous, if you can imagine), and I went to a party at our friend Andrea Louise's house tonight. As promised, there was plenty of Jack Daniels & Diet Coke. After the three of us were eventually kicked out, I honestly think I passed out in the nanny-mobile, sprawled out over Dash's booster seat. I remember summoning everything within me and briefly perking up when Coco's mother says something like, "You have to catch a fox with a cage."

"Wait, what?? How do you even know that??" ... but then I was out again before I heard any story. I'm sure it involved a fox, a cage, and a subsequent stole though.

So flash forward to 2am. I know I'm going to vomit, it's just a matter of when at this point. When we got home a few hours earlier, I was able to at least partially get into pj's. What this means is that my boots, dress, and bra are off, but my spanx and tights are still around my calves. I peel those off and I'm down to just an oversized tee-shirt and my underpants. Which is totally acceptable for pajamas ... if you're staying in your room, which I'm not.

It is quickly apparent to me that I am not going to be able to just grip my pillows tight and get through this from the comfort of my bed. So first I lay on my bathroom floor for awhile. Then I get one of Trixie's small person chairs and just sit in front of my commode, waiting for the magic to happen. I remember thinking this was a much less shameful position than head actually in commode, hands desperately gripping the sides. My first foray out of ~~the basement~~ my quarters is sprinting upstairs to get a glass of water and a trash bag. But all that sprinting makes me sicker so then I have to lie down in the guest bathroom upstairs.

Now, on a typical night I would probably rest assured that I'm going to be roaming the house, hoping to vomit, in relative privacy. However, I know that tonight Bobby Habibi is getting home from a recent oil-excavating trip so he is potentially a problem.

But I get through this excursion Bobby-free, so now I'm just laying in my bed with the trash bag tied to my side table. This comes in handy after about 20 more minutes of me crying and moaning "Maaammmmmaaaaa....." (even if my mother is 1000 miles out of earshot, it makes me feel better). I finally puke.

And here's where it gets really good. Since I've done the deed in a garbage sack, I have to get rid of it immediately as I obviously can't let it sit anywhere. But since Monday is garbage day, our big garbage cans are not in the garage, but out by the street already.

After several minutes deliberation, I head outside in my snow boots, underwear, tee shirt and giant purple wal-mart coat. Picture it.

Happy Monday, y'all.

**Incidentally, today's use of the word commode is in honor of my mother, who I believe is one of the last people on earth to use such terminology.

Where The Fuck Is Her Nanny?

2008-12-21T01:31:00.000-05:00

Can I just say that this is why my job is recession-proof?? You know what Trixie and Dash learned today? This Little Light of Mine, not how to commodify their infant bodies. Do I sound uptight? I'm not. I can admit this is cute. But when you have kids (moms, back me up) you are gripped by this daily fear that every action, every word, every look, will have a profound effect on your child. If I give in and let him eat that cookie, will I establish a pattern of disobedience and unhealthy eating habits?? If I don't give him that cookie will he be a lower middle class factory worker because he confuses following the rules with not thinking for himself?? I'm serious, sometimes I am paralyzed with such concerns.

Anyway, enjoy watching a kid you're not responsible for.

Birthdays are for Peoples

2008-12-19T07:58:00.000-05:00

Happy Birthday to Cat!!!

I have a really hard time figuring out how old people are because I always think of people as falling into three age groups: too young to smoke weed, able to smoke weed, and too old to smoke weed (I know, I know, you're never too old to smoke weed - that's why they have vaporizers). I also call these: kids, the-category-I'm-in, and adults. Numerically, these translate as: under 20, 20-60, 60+. But there's a lot of leniency in all of those categories. It all depends on the person.

For example, my number one favorite person that has ever or will ever walk the face of this earth is my Uncle Ted (who is not my uncle at all, incidentally). He's only 52, but I put him in the adult category (which the one just above the category I'm in) because he's more a role model/savior than a drinking buddy.

And then there's my second favorite person that has ever or will ever walk the face of this earth, My Older Man Friend, who is 42. Or 43? But he falls into the-category-I'm-in. And while I'm actually closer to age to Francois Philippe than I am to Coco, FP is definitely a kid while Coco and I are still in the same category.

Anyway, happy birthday to my oldest (but still not old, thanks to ~~Botox~~ good genes) sister and my cyber sister Cat.

Today's Legit To-Do List

2008-12-18T10:37:00.000-05:00

We gots to get surious about this to-do shiz, y'all!!!!

My to-do lists are mostly things I would do anyway such as sleep and eat and put on lotion so as to avoid being called ashy by ~~all my friends~~ Dora.

However, today I have legitimate shiz that needs to get done!! Today's legit to-do list:

Clean my room (yeah, the one I was supposed to clean last week)

Clean my bathroom

Collect urine for the next 24 hours (I ain't no perv - see yesterday's post)

Finish Christmas cards

Become a Virginia resident

Send my family's Christmas box to Mississippi (tears for my Holiday absence)

Lose 60 pounds

To further add to the frenetics (I think I made that word up. In my head, it means frantic-ness), I have to get all this done by 10:30pm, my newly self-imposed bedtime. I should add that to my to-do list too.

**and yes, today's use of legit was in honor of my new best friend (don't be jealous, Dora, My Gay Husband, CoCo and Chocolate), The Other Maggie Garcia**

Blood Werkz

2008-12-17T17:00:00.000-05:00

I got blood drawn today, which ended up being a two-hour process. I made the mistake of grabbing a Woman's Day off the mag rack. I teared up at every single story in there. There were several about helping other people at holiday times. Those always get me. Anything about the army gets me too. The one that really sent me over the edge: a dad AND daughter deployed to Iraq this holiday season. So here I am, so beyond tearing up, now legitimately crying in the doctor's office, clutching my Woman's Day.

My soft spot for holiday stories began years ago when my sister and I were working at a Christian book store (yep). One of the (many) Pentecostal ladies who worked with us had been listening to Talk Radio again and heard a story she just had to tell us about. Two poor (White Republican Christian was the subtext, if memory serves me) have a really sick kid on Christmas Eve. They take him to the ER and get turned away, the doctors saying he just needs some OTC loving. The next morning, the parents find the little 3-yr old curled up under the Christmas tree ... dead.

It's not even that this kid dies. It's that he's this little kid and you know how your body just aches so bad when you have the flu? Don't you imagine this itty bitty kid crawling under the Christmas tree, hoping Mr. Nutcracker or Santa or maybe the angel on top of his tree will provide some relief? Gah, that's what always gets me. And my sister and I talked about that story for years. We still do, actually (hence this post).

But the best part of my day wasn't the umpteen billion tests they ran today. It was my door prize. This:

What is that? It's the bio-hazard jug I get to store my urine in for the next 24 hours. The worst part? I have to keep it in the fridge. So, instead of trying to warn Dustin and Justin (who I suspect have a secret lab somewhere in this house) about the hazardous acids they put in to react with the urine, I'm just sticking a post it on the top that says "Nanny's Pee".

Just so Dora will stop checking ...

2008-12-17T12:58:00.000-05:00

I'm working on a blog right now, but I have to do it in between, you know, actually nannying and shiz. So more to come ... just after Tae Kwon Do probably.

Blegh

2008-12-15T23:10:00.000-05:00

Migraine today. Posting tomorrow.

You're Bleeding All Over Our Xmas Cookies!!!

2008-12-12T14:39:00.000-05:00

As I was sawing through frozen burger patties for lunch today, I accidentally sawed through my left thumb with this:

I sort of love this kind of stuff. I love looking at blood and especially scabs. Francois Philippe had these scaly white bumps all around his mouth last week and I kept following him around with my high-powered flashlight, begging him to stay still so I could examine them.

This was one of those gaping cuts, where the skin doesn't naturally reclose (like a slit cut would), so it bleeds way more (coooooool). My initial reaction was to suck air through my teeth and then run to show Dash. He's a boy, he's going to love this, right? Wrong. Dash turned pale and started yelling, "Help! We gotta call somebody! We have to go to the hospital!!!" Okay, okay, maybe I shouldn't have gone over there with blood running down to my elbow.

The thing about this sort of cut is that they take awhile to heal. It keeps spurting just a tiny bit every few minutes. It's bled through all the paper towels and gauze I've wrapped around it so now I'm just letting it air out for a little while.

... which is making the royal red icing I'm making for our Christmas cookies a little extra special.

Advice You Didn't Ask For ...

2008-12-12T00:39:00.001-05:00

... the best kind.

I recently saw Four Christmases. It was good enough that I watched the entire thing, but it was bad enough that if I hadn't been able to pirate the whole thing, I'd be okay with it too.

I also saw Madagascar 2: Return to Africa. Blegh. First of all, I am of the generation that doesn't believe I have to pay for electronic media. We only pay for things we respect and/or want to compliment. I was okay with paying to see The Dark Knight three times in a row. I was okay with buying a Dave Matthews CD. But I am not okay with paying $24.50 for les bebes and I to go to a fucking matinee showing of a movie made up almost entirely of crude unfunny cliches. And it was racist, which is like, the worst thing adjective I can mete out.

However, I do have some good news. Role Models was kick ass. Seriously, it was so hilarious that I didn't start making out with The Skydiver until like 3 quarters of the way through.

Also, Transsiberian was good. Really thrilling. Plus, Ben Kingsley. Need I say more?

In typical NannyGarcia fashion, the movies I've semi-reviewed are not even new, but hopefully I've saved you (or someone you know) a little heartache.